Closure, for lack of a better word.

There was a definite end to my grieving. Although I didn't recognize it until a few weeks later, I know the moment it happened. Afterward, I accepted my loss and was able to move forward. I wasn't in survival mode anymore. I felt motherhood calling me back to Robin and Paul. When I played with them, I wasn’t just going through the motions. I put thought into our meals. I cleaned the house. I got Robin ready for kindergarten and took Pauly for walks around the neighborhood.

A high school friend Angie Giles sent me this article a few months ago. She and I have discussed loss, grief and closure on and off over the past year or so. I have been thinking about closure ever since she sent the article.

I don’t know that I have ever believed in closure, the way it is usually used. Yes, I moved on. Yes, the pain grew to be less and less in the everyday. But closure? On what? It sounds so final.

Joshua would be 17 today. He would be a senior and would have been driving for a year now. That means I wouldn't be driving to seminary every morning. I wonder what scars he would have added to our van. He and Dan would be sharing a high school and a room. He would probably have asked for some video game or a cool phone for his birthday. Would he have a job? I wonder what he would request for dinner tonight.

It has also been 15 years (last week) since my dad died. Because he was apart of my life so much longer, I am reminded of him even more often than I am reminded of Joshua. A certain color yellow, the sound of a VW engine, books that I saw on his night stand, a bald head, a round belly, when my brothers lick their bottom lip, when I close my right eye in the sun, when I teach my children to dive like he taught me. "Now lean over and let your body drop in. Your hands touch the water first, then the top of your head, then everything else." I miss my dad.

Where I wonder about Joshua’s life and sort of stick him in where I think he might fit, I really don't know. On the other hand, I recognize what my dad is missing and what he would love.

I wish he could see his sons and the courageous, smart and interesting choices they've made. He would be so proud of each of them. Seeing them do the things that they love while providing for their families, that would have brought him great joy.

I wish he could see what Gabby and Jordan have done with their blogs. He would be over the moon seeing what they've been able to accomplish and you can bet he would have spent some time in France over the past year. I wish he was going to ALT next week; Sara always threw Dad for a loop and I think Alt would blow his mind.

Oh! How I wish I could have sent him Robin’s article on Monday; I wish he could know all his grand children. I wish he could Skype with them. Man! Wouldn't he have loved that! “Grampa, go put on shirt.”

I wish he could use an iPhone among a zillion other things.

So closure, what does it mean? Is it real or does it just need a new definition? Does it mean we stop loving those we've lost? Or is it just the end of our grieving and the acceptance of our loss? Does it mean that we don’t think of them often? Or does it just mean that we get to a point where we can move on, continue to grow and learn without those people in our lives?

My opinion is that we need a different word. Although I was able to close the door on my grieving and go back to my life, my grief has never completely left me. I still have moments of deep sorrow but I'm not driven to distraction, unable to think about anything else like in those first terrible months. I certainly never closed the door on my feelings for those I love and when we see each other again, I'm sure we will continue pretty much where we left off.

Now who’s going to break it to dad that he missed out Craig’s List?

"What can I do?"

Joshua and Pauly at the Steeds.

This is one of the pictures Sheri brought me.

I have great compassion for people but I don't have a talent for putting those feelings into practical actions. If we hadn't been forced down the road of loss when Joshua died, I still wouldn't have a clue where to start. I was amazed (I'm still amazed)at the thoughtful things people did for us. I wanted to share some of those things here partly as a way to show gratitude for the tremendous kindnesses people showed us and partly because I learned some very sweet lessons that might be a help someone out there.

Lesson: Money is a good thing to give.

I had no idea that people gave money at the time of a funeral. It felt crass to talk about something as pedestrian as money when we were dealing with this monumental shock and sorrow. The expenses of funeral arraignments, as well as estate settlement have been known to ruin people. We were young and naive and vulnerable and we were lucky to have people around us who looked out for us and helped us make good decisions.

Until we were dealing with Joshua’s funeral arrangements I didn’t know how expensive funerals are. Caskets, funeral directors, preparing and transporting the body, burial costs, headstone and that doesn’t count all the medical expenses that commonly accompany death. It is a very expensive time.

People were so good to us. Our parents bore the brunt of the expenses. Our bishop made sure we knew the resources of the fast offerings were at our disposal. I don’t remember everything but I think the church paid for the casket. Paul’s unit 2/5 Cav did a fund raiser to pay for our plane tickets to Utah. (I love that) The ward I grew up in took up a generous fund to help pay for things in St. George. My grandmother bought the headstone. I can not express the gratitude we felt for so much generosity.

The lesson: Your instincts and talents are the best way to bless those around you.

Something that always makes me smile is when I think about Ellen Keuhl calling me. She said apologetically, “Rachel, I don’t bake and I can’t take care of your kids but I am a really good shopper. Would you please let me buy you something to wear at the funeral?” It was a funny request and up until that moment I hadn’t really thought about what I would wear. I accepted her gracious offer partly because I didn’t know what else to say and partly because I didn’t think that I had anything suitable to wear.

She asked me for sizes and color preferences. She bought me the most beautiful dark green dress and black boots to go with it. It is in my closet next to my wedding dress. I don’t think I will ever get rid of it. I was stunned and so thankful when she also bought me another dress or two and several outfits, just because. Ellen also bought a dress for Robin to wear. How thankful I was that I didn’t have to worry about what to wear. I felt appropriate and more than presentable but most importantly, I could focus on the significant moments of the day.

Lesson: It might feel awkward. It might feel too practical. But it might be exactly what is needed.

I mentioned the book that Holly Glines Wilkinson made and brought to us. It was waiting on the entry table at my mom’s house when we arrived home from the burial and lunch. It is probably the most valuable thing we were given, mostly because of what it holds. It isn’t fancy, just a blue 3 ring binder with the picture from the funeral program in a plastic sleeve and extra plastic sleeves ready to be filled.

I have been so thankful for that binder.

Without it I would have 100 cards bound together with a rubber band sitting in a box somewhere. I would have lost important papers in stacks of unimportant papers; they would have been thrown away long ago. And what in the world would I have done with that lock of curly, soft, light brown hair the nurse took from the back of Joshua’s head? Because of Holly's thoughtfulness, I had a place for cards and letters, hospital records, organ donation letters, the headstone order information, and my memories of that day.

Do you think Holly has any idea what an ideal gift that was? Do you think she has any inkling of how precious that binder is to me? Do you think she knows that I think of her and her kindness every time I walk through my living room and see the blue binder sitting on the book shelf?

Lesson: Sometimes you will just know what to do.

Brother and Sister Calvert had been Robin and Paul’s nursery teachers at church. They loved my kids and my kids adored them right back. Brother Calvert found out the kids were at the Steeds where they were staying while we were at the hospital. He went to see them on his lunch hour and just played with them. He read to them and he wrestled with Paul. He knew their lives were about to change forever and he just wanted to be with them. Sheri tried to fix him lunch. He didn’t want it; he was just there to be with my children.

There is a special corner in my heart that will always be reserved for Brother Calvert. Is it even possible to repay such kindnesses?

Lesson: Remember the anniversary.

Sheri called or wrote to me the next two or three years either on Joshua’s birthday or near the anniversary of his death. Those first years were especially important but even now it is so touching to me when someone sends me a note/email/text in January telling me that we are on their mind. It is so comforting to know that someone else in the world acknowledges that something horrendous happened to us and that we are not alone. The idea that someone else is shouldering just a little bit of our pain, even now makes a difference.

Lesson: Help provide proof that the child existed.

When an adult dies, there is a lifetime of relationships, achievements and memories from those around them, that provide evidence that they spent time on this earth. When I child dies, other than grieving parents and siblings, there is little proof they were ever even here. Sheri found every picture of Joshua she had taken at her house at the park, during our Sunday dinners together. It may seem simple but it was huge to me, emotionally and psychologically.

Lesson: If at all possible, attend the funeral.

I can't seem to put into words the strength I gleaned from huge rooms full of people who dropped everything, stopped their lives and came to mourn with us at the funerals; many who traveled very far. During the darkest days of my grieving, when I was so alone in my sorrow, I drew great peace and comfort from the idea of being surrounded by all those people who loved me. People who I knew would have willingly taken the crushing weight from me, had that been possible, at least for a little while. Attending the funeral is important.

Lesson: Just do something.

Other generous things people did that we still remember and touch our hearts: Tammy Calvert brought me a book on grieving. She gave me her own copy, the one that had helped her through her loss when cancer took her 8 year old daughter. How precious that book is to me. Others brought different books, meals, flowers, plants. Ladies from church, cleaned our house. The Cloves offered my family hotel rooms in St. George. People wrote the most beautiful letters. My grandmother sent me funny cards throughout the year. I could go one and on.

This certainly isn't a complete list, in fact I have been slow to write this post because people were so good to us and I know, after 15 years I would probably miss something or someone. I am sorry if that is the case.

It was so strange to feel such intense grief and loss, and to feel such deep gratitude at the same time. Some of those feelings have never gone away.

Comfort, Peace and a Poem

We all are here

We all are here

Father, mother, sister brother

All who hold each other dear

Each chair is filled

We're all at home

We're all, all here

Sheri Steed recited this poem at Joshua's first funeral.

When Joshua died I took comfort in the ideas and beliefs I was taught all my life. I'd like to share a few of those things with you today.

First, the relationships we experience in our families are eternal, meaning they are unending. Those relationships began before we came here to this life and will continue long after we die.

Second, just like when I was born, when I die many loved ones will be there to welcome me and to help me.

Third, I will see my dad and Joshua as well as others whom I love and there will be hugs and kisses and tears of joy at these reunions.

And last, one day after our deaths, Paul and I will be reunited and all who are dear to us will be there and we will be able to say with a satisfaction that only separation can produce, and just like the poem,

". . . each chair is filled, we're all at home, we're all, all are here."

A Snapshot in a Blue Box

I never plan it but it seems like at some point during each move I will find myself alone in my room and tired of unpacking when I discover the blue box with the green lid, labeled 'Joshua'. I see it at the bottom of a moving box and I pull it out and sit on the bed and go through it, touching each item and remembering. A snapshot of our life, January 1996.

This move was no different.

The inventory of the box is short and simple:

• There are several little outfits that I loved to dress him in. I have little memories of him in each one. They are all unfolded. That surprises me every time, but I don't fold them when I put them back.
• There are two soft puffy white shoes that he wore before he could walk.
• The big blue bow that was on his casket. It's crushed and ugly now. Even though I think it is a little morbid to keep it and I am never happy to see it, I don't throw it away.
• There are also a few toys; some round bath toys that made him laugh when I would drop them into the tub. You know that guttural, no holds barred, baby laugh that you never get tired of? That laugh. Those toys make me smile.
• A Buzz Light-Year puppet from Burger King. His first Christmas was the year that Toy Story came out and along with lots of other puppets, Robin and Paul were given all the Toy Story puppets. For some reason he loved the Buzz Light-Year, he would hug it and give it big sloppy baby kisses.
• There is also an elephant that elongates when a cord is pulled and then shortens while it plays 'You Are My Sunshine'. It was hanging on the rail of Joshua's crib and he would play with it in the mornings. I would hear the notes plinking here and there and I knew he was awake. Sometimes I would hear the 'tick-tick-tick-tick-tick' of someone pulling it all the way and I knew Robin and Paul were up too and were playing with him.

I really don't go through Joshua's box other than when we move. I am very sentimental but with all the moving we have done I have learned not be a keeper. Joshua would be 16 now, if he were still alive, I wouldn't have any of these things and I probably wouldn't even remember that we owned any of them. I wonder what things I would keep if my life were turned upside-down today. I wonder if it is a little crazy to keep this box in the first place; if I died tomorrow no one but Paul would even understand the significants of the box's contents. It seems silly. I wonder if Paul ever goes through it, I keep meaning to ask him. Although we both chose things to put in the box, we've never gone through it together.

I wonder other things too but I always put everything back in and with a little pain each time, I carefully put the lid back on. There it all stays, safely tucked away in my closet, in a box.

Kitchens

I talked about how protected I felt in the days and weeks following the funerals and burial of our Joshua. I remember being in my mom's kitchen a couple of days after the second funeral. I said, "Mom, I feel so good, like I am walking through a cloud. I don't even feel sad. Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought it would." She looked disheartened and said with compassion but reality in her voice , "Oh Rachel, I hope you're right but I think you have some very dark days ahead of you."

Two or three weeks later we left St. George and flew back to Ft. Hood. Jim DeMoss picked us up at the airport, drove us home and made sure we were settled before leaving us.

My routine before bed was to go around and check all the doors to make sure they were locked and then turn on the soft light above the stove so I could see what I was doing when I made a bottle for the baby in the middle of the night.

That first night back, I checked all of the locks and I turned on the light over the stove. Then, realizing, I turned the light off. I walked back through the dark house and went to bed.

Paul held me while I cried and I began my descent.

Funeral #2

Angel Comforting by J. Kirk Richards

We had been home from funeral number one for a only a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Paul's dad. Paul turned to me and said, "My dad says we need to have a funeral in Utah." "Why?" I asked, a little frustrated by the idea that I was not being listened to. "He said everyone is coming to town and we really should have a funeral." I was annoyed, "Why are people coming? Hardly anyone even met him." "Rachel, they are coming for us." I was humbled, "Oh . . . okay."

Paul's dad was right, everyone was there. Stanleys, Burgoynes, Putnams, Packs, and Rodgers were all there as well as dear friends and neighbors. The second funeral was just as lovely as the first. Paul spoke using Sheri's talk as a template, Grandpa Paul spoke too. My favorite part was when Joshua and Jared sang Nearer My God To Thee. It was so beautiful. It all made me happy though. I think it's strange that I don't remember a lot of details from that day, I don't even remember what building it was in.

I only remember two things from the graveside service. I remember the bagpipes playing quietly while we emerged for our cars and walked to the little grave. I also remember looking at the sky and thinking of another family huddle around another tiny grave. There was one other funeral in town the day we buried our Joshua. I didn't know them but I knew of them. They had lost two children in one year and that day they were laying their second child to rest.

~It doesn't matter what you are going through, there is always someone who has it harder than you do.

This is where some of my memories might be skewed. It seems like I didn't know about that other family until after the day of the funeral but I remember thinking about them at the graveside. I wonder which memory is correct.

During this time I felt a very real but intangible protection from my grief and the horror of our child's death. I remember worrying that I was going mad because I didn't cry at the second funeral in fact I didn't feel sad. Instead I loved it. I loved the songs. I loved what was said. I loved seeing the family and old friends. I remember the funeral as a happy experience.

About two years later, I found the recording of the funeral. Remembering the funeral fondly and thinking I was going to enjoy the time listening to it, I put the cassette tape into the player and to listen to it. I pushed play. After about three seconds I turned it off, only because I couldn't reach it sooner. I was shocked, the sadness and heartbreak in the voice I heard was startling and more than I could bear. I couldn't listen to it. I never tried to again.

My memory might not be perfect but there are to things I know. First, it was not a happy occasion, no matter how I remember it. Second, I was protected and loved in many different ways during that very difficult time.

Funeral #1

The picture we had framed for the funeral.

Joshua was one year old when he died. It seemed silly to me to have funeral for a baby that no one knew but our little family and a few friends with whom we would visit the park and trade babysitting.

I thought we should have a simple funeral with our ward family in Texas and then a simple grave side ceremony with family in St. George. I mean who else would come to the funeral of a baby?

As the mother of new babies I always felt protective of my feelings. I loved them each so much I could scarce comprehend the depth in my own mind. Every smile and burp and coo enchanted me and drew me in even more. I loved those days. Slow days, small days, private days, just me and the baby wrapped in the unseen chains of supply and demand, happily giving and happily taking, nobody needing or wanting anything outside our home. I miss those days. Because my feelings were so intense and because I knew others didn't feel the same about my baby, those feelings became very private to me, even sacred. I think only Paul really knew.

I think I translated his birth and his death into similar situations in my head at least socialy. I was surprised at how self-conscious I felt about the whole idea of planning this funeral. Not because I thought I would do it wrong but because I wanted privacy, I felt very protective, I didn't think that it affected people outside my immediate sphere and at the same time I was really worried about putting people out or inconveniencing them with our tragedy. It seems absurd to me now but at the time I just couldn't believe that it would matter to anyone else.

My first indication that my thinking was flawed was when our Bishop at the time, Ryan Rydalch, came over to get the details for the funeral. He asked about what songs we would like to hear and who should speak. We told him what we wanted. Then he told us there was another matter. He said that the Commanding General of the 1st Cavalry Division wanted to come but because he was the the CG, if he attended, protocol said he should sit on the stand. That would also change the service from a church service to a military service.

We told him we wanted an LDS service. That put our poor bishop into the uncomfortable position of telling the CG, both Paul's and Ryan's boss's boss's boss's boss, that he couldn't come to the funeral. He did and the CG was obliging and could not have been more gracious about it.

Our mothers and Sara flew from Utah to be with us for the funeral. Jim DeMoss took Pauly to get a haircut and had a picture of Joshua framed for us. He made sure Paul's uniform was just right and helped with a zillion other details I asked of him. Ellen Kuehl bought me a beautiful dress. Women from all over Ft. Hood church sisters and army sisters brought in more food than we could eat. Flowers arrived from friends and family. Sara ordered the flowers for the casket. Dear friends dressed Joshua in white pajamas for burial. Paul and I stayed close to each other.

As we drove to the funeral, I still fully expected just a small group of dear friends to meet us at the church. Instead, as the church came into view, I gasped. There were so many cars that they were having to park on the road. I couldn't understand it. It looked like Stake Conference. I still could not believe that so many people cared.

The church was filled back to the stage with our ward family as well as soldiers and officers in their blues and greens. We sang I Am a Child of God and Come Come Ye Saints. Our dear friend Sherri Steed, the only person outside of our family who spent time with Josh, gave a beautiful eulogy that made me happy and made everyone smile. Bishop Rydalch spoke about families being forever and about the Plan of Salvation. The pallbearers were the men who had stood in the circle to give Joshua a name and a priesthood blessing when he was born.

After the closing prayer, the soldiers made quick work of the chairs in the gym. Tables were put up and spread with lovingly made food. Paul and I walked around and visited. People said the kindest things to us. "I've never been to a funeral I enjoyed before." "I didn't want it to end." "I will never forget this day." Although I was numb to much of the emotion, I knew how special the whole experience was.

It is one of my sweetest memories.

Differences in Grieving

Grief is an interesting thing. It is different for everyone and I was surprised at how differently Paul and I handled our grief.

I needed to talk to someone, Sara, my mom, Sherri, a kind sister from church and of course Paul. He just wanted to talk to me and only when he was ready.

I found comfort and solace when I would write down my feelings and was able to express what I was going through. Paul found peace when he was alone with his thoughts at a lake or walking through a forest; or with headphones on, the rest of the world blocked out, listening to music.

I needed to cry and get my feelings out; he needed to be occupied with a project or sports or work.

Even now, 15 years later, I want to watch videos and look at pictures of our dear boy; it makes Paul too sad, in fact, I have to warn him about these posts. On the other hand, I stay away from the cemetery. I hate it. If I never went back there again I'd be fine. Paul finds comfort and peace being in that green place, near the grave site. Cleaning the headstone and taking care of it, leaving a pinwheel or flowers makes him feel good.

Although neither of us were prepared, I don't know how you can be for something like this, we have tried to be patient with each other as we each slogged our way though the grieving process and beyond. We have tried to do whatever we could to comfort the other. He definitely didn't want to go to counseling but he knew it would help me and he was there with me every minute. I made sure he had time alone and bought him new CD's to listen to.

During a time of extreme selfishness, we were somehow able to be extremely unselfish and we came out stronger in the end. Making it through the grieving process with our marriage intact is absolutely the greatest blessing of my life.

Again and again and again . . .

I never talk about the events of Joshua’s death, ever. Only a handful of people even know the horrific details of that day; Paul, Sheri, Sara, my mom and a couple MP's who questioned me afterward.

In the days and weeks after Joshua’s death I replayed every minute detail of the accident over and over in my head: the panicked running, my screaming voice, the neighbor springing to action, the calm 911 operator, the paramedics running up the lawn, the stricken look on Paul's face, the consoling friends, Joshua’s little white shoes with yellow socks stuffed inside.

Over and over and over, every detail, I rewound and played it again and again and again; my blood freezing every single time. The pain razor sharp, piercing and brand new every.single.time.

Apparently I would continue this ritual even while I was asleep as I found myself awakened in the middle of the night. It wasn't the memories that would wake me it was the familiar and sickening icy feeling stabbing my chest.

I did this for several months. It became unhealthy and a little disturbing to me when I tried really hard one day not to run through the experience and found that I had some kind of sick need to relive it. Like a troubled teenage girl cutting herself, I took pleasure in the pain. When I told my friend Sheri that I thought I was going a little bit crazy, she suggested that maybe I was doing it because I was afraid to forget. She told me I should try to write it down, every detail and thought and emotion then “it would be safe.” It was a good idea.

That day I typed it all out on the computer and printed a copy. I saved it on the computer too but that was eight or nine computers ago and I can't find it in any of my saved documents.

I put that printed copy in the blue scrapbook that Holly Glines Wilkenson gave us. It also contains information from the hospitals, cards and letters people sent, and a lock of Joshua’s hair.

Immediately after I closed it in the binder, my mind relaxed. It felt like the end of a tug o' war; all that tension, all that force, all that effort, suddenly evaporated. It was like somebody pushed the stop button on a VCR.

Do you know that I’ve never read that story since I typed it out? And since then, I've never felt compelled to run though it in my head either. I have gone over the events of that day a few times over the years but only when I wanted to. I am sometimes curious if I remember things correctly but so far, I’ve never had the guts to read what I wrote and check.

Scattered Thoughts About Sacred Things

Joshua died 15 years ago today. If he were still with us, he would be 16 years old. I imagine that he would be big like his dad. I imagine that he would be soft spoken with his mother. I imagine that he would fill the hole between Paul and Dan perfectly; giving Paul a run for his money and Dan a comrade. I think about what the configuration of our bedrooms would look like. We would have outgrown a minivan and would be driving an SUV of some kind. I imagine he would like music. At Christmas we sang Far Far Away on Judea's Plains in the Christmas program. As we stood there harmonizing, I thought about him, just for a moment, and I wondered where he would be standing.

I don't talk much about Joshua's death. In fact, unless I know that I will get to know the person intimately, I don't even tell people that we have a son who died; the whole experience is much too sacred to me. People, trying to relate and to be kind, tell me about a death or disappointment in their life or try to make light of it or just stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. I don't blame any of them, frankly, I am just as awkward and speechless when the tables are turned. Having gone through something like that hasn't made me a good comforter.

I kept a journal the year after Josh died. I wrote in it every day but we lost it in one of the moves. I wonder about the stories that were in that journal. I wonder if I even want to read them again. Grieving is not a pretty thing, it is agony and rawness and wracking sobs. It is painful just to remember. So maybe it was a kind providence that those records were lost and I can't go back and relive that horrible time in my life.

The stories that have stayed at the forefront of my mind are still there although, after 15 years I am sure that time has skewed the facts a little. Some of them are too close to my heart to share in such a public way but I think I am ready for some of them to be known.