Absolutes
by Mary E. Mannix
October 2005
There are very few absolutes in life. Yet the ones we happen upon are very difficult to accept.
None as difficult as those Absolutes a parent happens upon when their child dies.
The child is absolutely not coming back to life.
There will be absolutely no more candles the child will blow out.
There is absolutely no way to hole your child again onc ethe casket is closed.
You will absolutely dig with your bare hands at the gravesite..at least once.
There will be absolutely no scrapped knees to kiss.
There will absolutley never be a field trip to chaperone.
People will absolutely misunderstand your anger and sadness...as if it has something to do with them.
There are absolutely no suitors calling.
The grandchildren will absolutely never be.
You absolutely becreative to memorialize your child over the holidays.
There will absolutely never be a field trip to chaperone.
The child will absolutely be buried,
cremated,
or otherwise interred.
Tears are absolutely infinite.
These things are not accepted lightly by a dead child's parent(s). Regardless of how the child passed.
Yet, these are all so simple to accept by those other people who were in the child's or parent's lives.
The first question people ask upon hearing of a child's death is "How old?" Quickly followed with "what happened?"
No matter what the answer somehow the answer relieves the interrogator. Somehow people are able to use the response to ease their own understanding of a child's death. I was told within a week of my child's death that "People will allow others to grieve in direct correlation to the size of the deceased's casket."
Hmmm. Or, rather, "hmpf." was my reaction. Couldn't possibly be true.
The deaths in my life were always of an adult. My father was 52 when he died and that was seen as very very young. I remember at twelve thinking that was pretty old actually. Me and my siblings were young. There were months of casserole dishes to be returned to neighbors. "Who does this dish belong to?" and "DId you give Mrs. Thompason her dish back when you went to play with Tara?" People werelined around the block of the funeral home. Looking out the back of the car window I couldn't seen the end of the procession.
The Second Mile with the help of many family and friends established a memorial in my dad's honor. My uncles established a memorial at a retreat center in my dad and his deceased brother's honor. A flag was draped over my father's coffin for his service in WW2. Many many cards and letters were received of my father's memories we may not have been a part of. But it was nice to hear of his life beyond his family. It made us all feel closer to him.
I think we were given a lot of leeway for a longtime. Late for school. It must have been assumed that it was difficlt to get four kids up and out when you lost your husband. Messy house. It must have been accepted that a widow had more things to deal with than cleanliness. People stayed away for even longer. It bothered me to hear that my cousins families would get together but for some reason my family was excluded. I have no idea why. There may have been a perfectly reasonable excuse. Yet to this day, the memories sting. We were so fortunate to have so much family so close. Yet, there were times were I felt my family was just a block or two in the wrong direction for visitors. There is so much family. Yet, we were all so lonely.
So, it seemed to me that the death of a newborn would strike even more sadness and outpouring of sympathy. As I heard the doctor say,"Serious event" and "sudden" and "we don't know", I thought, "He can't die. He can't possibly die. He just can't die." That was my absolute. It was proven very wrong.
He died. He is still gone. I can't/won't say that he is not coming back. Just won't do it.
You may reach Mary at angeljamesus@yahoo.com for comments.
© October 2005 by Mary E. Mannix. This work is protected by copyright and may be distributed or published only with the express written permission from its author. You may, without permission, publish or otherwise provide the URL (web address) of this page.
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