He Was A Good Man

I wrote before about the Driveway Math Incident, when #5 covered our driveway (and part of the neighbor’s) with the powers of ten, in chalk.

Once #4 also treated us to a driveway makeover.

We pulled into the driveway and our headlights caught a flash of chalk lines. I always like it when the kids hit the driveway with chalk. They’re so creative. I got out of the car and took a closer look.

I was reminded of that bit in the Matrix where the camera shot pulls back and you suddenly understand that the part you were looking at before was only a tiny, tiny piece, and now you’re seeing how vast the creepiness is, like there’s no end to it.

Our driveway was covered in chalk-drawn tombstones. Covered. Complete with names, dates, those horrid Rest In Peace abbreviations, and epitaphs. It was not near Halloween, and at this time we did not live close to the cemetery. I was entirely baffled as to what #4’s motivation was for such an . . . undertaking.

1973-1999 RIP John Fred Stone. He was a good man.

1880-1945 RIP Bob David Thomas. He liked to ride bikes.

1965-2000 RIP Ryan Scott Jones. He failed third grade.

Et cetera, et cetera, on every available inch of the driveway.

I very briefly tried to get #4 to give up a little of her inspiration for this project. She didn’t have much to say except to confirm that none of these were people she actually knew.

Which I guess is a good thing.

I was struck by the facts in these imaginary people’s lives that she deemed worthy to include in an epitaph. Now that we live across the street from the cemetery and walk our dogs there every day, and I’ve gotten more up close views of what people actually do have put on their tombstones, I think maybe I like her ideas better.

CC and I talk about this often when we’re walking the dogs. On tombstones in our (New Jersey) cemetery, there are several Frank Sinatra quotes, many clichés, and a few sports references. There are likenesses of the deceased rendered in granite, along with images of their favorite past times: guitars, cars, deer, more sports. He’s mainly appalled by all these modern trends, so of course I threaten him with what I’ll do if he goes first.

Me: How about, “I had them bury me upside down so the world can kiss my ass?”

CC: Very funny.

Me: How about, “I Did It My Way?”

CC: Only as long as I’m next to one of the other guys that has that.

Me: “He fought the good fight. . . and lost!”

CC: I’m sorry, did you say something?

Me: All of the New York and New Jersey pro sports team logos in a circle?

CC: {silence}

Me: “He fell into a burning ring of fire?”

CC: I hope you go first.

Me: You know, if I get you an obelisk with six sides these would all fit on it. One for each side.

CC: An obelisk, by definition, has four sides. And I don’t think you had six things anyway.

Me: “He was a loner, he kept to himself.” There, that’s six. I win.

In actuality, I will probably have #4 come up with something along the lines of He made delicious pie or He loved meat. And if I do go first, I can only hope he chooses something that would have made me laugh, and perhaps gives some indication to dog walkers that it’s okay if their dog takes a whiz on my plot.

You should check out Clay Morgan’s post on pop culture tombstones at eduClaytion.

What will they put on your tombstone?

They Start Young

When the kids first came to live with us, we lived in an impressively tiny three-bedroom apartment. As small as you can get and still have three areas where there are beds surrounded by walls.

There was one bathroom.

It was so small that when I moved in, I only unpacked my clothes, and not even all of those.

The main area was a living room that ran into the kitchen, all open together, and the kitchen floor was another place for the kids to hang out (because the bedrooms were so small, this was one of exactly three places they could hang out, unless you count the outside, in which case there were four).

One day I was in the kitchen pretending to make dinner and #5 was spinning around on the floor. He was four years old. Suddenly, he started screaming, “Owie, owie owie!!!” and grabbed his head. Because I didn’t see him hit his head and had been a parent for about nine days, I knew that he was having either a stroke or an aneurysm and would be dead within seconds, and I bent down and grabbed him in a blind panic.

“What’s wrong buddy? Can you wiggle your toes? Blink if you can hear me!”

He stopped crying long enough to reach up and grab the zipper on my sweater. Let me clarify that: he grabbed the zipper of my cardigan, underneath which I was wearing nothing (and I mean nothing) and yanked it down, and thus, wide open.

Then he snickered.

And that’s the story of how #5 faked a head injury in order to look down (around? through?) my shirt.

He went on to successfully perform variations of this trick on my mother, one of his cousins, several well-endowed babysitters, and probably a few people I don’t know about.

Here’s another post about him getting a head start: Confidence Is Everything.

Grace

Eight years ago today my nephew Mark was born.

I can’t think about Mark now without also thinking about my niece Colby, who was born in January of 2010. Both of them were born with different, fatal birth defects.

Mark had Anencephaly: A congenital absence of the brain and cranial vault, with the cerebral hemispheres completely missing or greatly reduced in size.

Colby had Trisomy-18: A genetic disorder in which a person has a third copy of genetic material from chromosome 18, instead of the usual two copies.

Years before Mark was born, I became aware that the way babies are allotted here on earth can at times seem remarkably unfair. I’ve known people desperate to conceive, who can’t; much-wanted babies who stayed only a short time; people completely unable to care for a child who do conceive despite precautions. It seemed to me that whoever was in charge of assigning the babies was either heartless or incompetent. I called bullshit on the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Mark and Colby taught me that there may be a greater hand at work.

Unless you have, or someone close to you has, experienced problems in pregnancy, you’re not thinking much about the possibility of problems, which is as it should be. You’re certainly not expecting to go in for an ultrasound to learn that your baby has a fatal birth defect.

Discovering there’s a problem is only the first step in what lies before you. Because then? You have to make a decision. Carry to term, or terminate? You have to weigh your decision against the cost to your soul.

Then you have to follow through on your decision. All the way.

What I know is nobody can make a decision about your baby for you. I also know that if you question the decision you made about your baby, it means you’re human.

In both of these cases, my sister and sister-in-law carried to term. They dealt with strangers coming up to them, patting their bellies, and making small talk about the baby. All the while, they didn’t know if their babies would be born alive, and if so, how much time they would get together. They dealt with the endless appointments and astronomical medical expenses. They dealt with their own fear while soothing that of their other children. They still deal with their own grief.

As far as that greater hand at work goes.

Mark and Colby pushed aside all of my preconceived ideas about The Way Things Should Be With Babies. What’s a lifetime? What’s a success? What is beautiful?

If you hold tightly to your idea of how you think things ought to be, you can miss out on the greatest things happening right in front of you:

Mark and Colby were both born alive. Many babies with these defects aren’t.
They both were born with hair! And itty bitty feet.
They got to be held and loved.
They brought the family together in unexpected ways.
Their brief lives were welcomed and celebrated.

We’re all left with many questions unanswered. Lots of Why’s. But if all our questions were answered in life, what would be the point of seeking? What would be the point of anything? Rarely is there an immediate answer to any Why. Why gets answered later, in its own time.

I’ve heard that grace is when god does for you what you can’t do for yourself. This, to me, is that greater hand at work. I still don’t use the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”. Yet I am at peace knowing that there very well may be reasons that simply haven’t been revealed yet, and I’m not actually entitled to all the answers.

You never “get over” something like this, whether you are a parent, grandparent, friend, or other relative. You are forever changed.

Beth and Dave, Jeff and Melissa, thank you. Thank you for your grace.

This post is a call to action to all of you: make today count, whatever that means for you. Always make today count.