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Scabs

 


This past Saturday, we attended the celebration of life for Shannon's son, Clayton.  

"How did it go?"

I don't know how to answer that question.  I don't know why it's called a "celebration of life."  No one was celebrating.  Most people were crying.  I think "remembrance of life" would be a more accurate description.  The ceremony was nice, if nice is the correct word to use.  Clayton's uncle was in charge of running the show, and did a good job keeping things moving.  A few family members shared stories about Clayton.  There was a lovely slideshow featuring photos of Clayton from baby to adulthood.  The weather was warm and sunny when we arrived.  As family members shared stories, clouds rolled in and the wind picked up.  Just as the slideshow began, fat raindrops started to split-splat on the tents and the heads of those of us not under the tents.  The rain intensified during the fifteen-minute slideshow, and when the slideshow ended, so did the rain.  Afterward, people milled about, visiting and partaking in refreshments for the allotted amount of time, then slowly drifted back to their cars as the cold wind brought on the shivers.  

Funerals and memorials are not for the deceased.  They are for those of us left behind.  They provide another opportunity to honor the person, to remember the life once lived, and to share those memories with loved ones.  I hope the ceremony brought closure to those who needed it.  To me, it felt like the scab got ripped off.  

As soon as we arrived, one person after another approached Shannon to shake his hand, give him a hug, offer condolences.  "I'm so sorry, Shannon."  "How are you holding up?"  "It's so unfair."  "Clayton was an amazing young man."  "If there is anything you need, let me know."  They were saying all the right things.  After all, this was why we were there.  These people showed up to support Shannon and honor Clayton.  And it felt like we were back at week one, the week after Clayton died.  The flood of condolences.  The tears.  The offers of help in any way that was needed.

I cannot imagine what it feels like to lose a child, but I know exactly what it feels like to lose a spouse.  The heart that shattered into a million tiny pieces has slowly, painfully, started to put itself back together.  The raw, gaping wound that was left has incrementally started to heal.  A tiny scab has formed, and with each passing day, the scab grows infinitesimally.  A hard day, a chance meeting with someone who didn't yet know of the death, a random conversation, a surprise memory, and the scab gets ripped off, only to begin forming again.  Day by day, week by week, the scab grows in fits and starts.  Nine and a half months since Scott died, five months since Clayton died.  The scabs are still raw and fragile.  

As more friends hugged Shannon, as more tears flowed, as more stories about Clayton were shared, I felt my scabs get ripped off again in one solid chunk.  I was back to that morning in December, standing in the bathroom with Shannon, listening to the voice of the officer on the other end of the phone.  I was back to that morning in August, doing CPR on Scott and praying the paramedics would arrive.  The wounds opened wide once again, and my heart broke and broke.  

Four days have passed since the service, and the scabs are forming once again.  Each time, they feel a little stronger, a bit more resilient.  Someday, I wonder if they might finally form a lasting scar.

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