I loaded the pickup van, stopped at Dunkin Donuts on the way and a half-hour later I was at the Hospital.  I went through the normal procedural paperwork, and got back to the morgue where the security guard awaited me.  We pulled the stretcher out of the fridge (the gentlemen had been dead since Sunday [the family had only called us this morning as they awaited the autopsy]) and unzipped the bag.

I didn’t know how he died and wanted to look at him to make sure there wasn’t an obvious and horrific cause of death.  He was autopsied that much was obvious, but no abrasions or other violent injuries.  And he was young.  I couldn’t tell how old he was, but I knew he wasn’t much older than me.

I called dad and let him know that if the family wanted embalming, that embalming was possible.  That call proved useless as I arrived to the funeral home before the family arrived at 11 and in the end they would choose cremation.  I unloaded the van and awaited them to show.

The widow and her mother came through the door.  And we found out the deceased was only 36 years old.  Five years older than me.  Too young.

My phone started ringing.  I went back to another room and answered it.  It was Nicki, my wife.  “Can we come to the funeral home and show Pop-pop Jeremiah’s Halloween outfit?”

I thought to myself, “Well, the family is here.  And Pop-pop is meeting with the family, but why not?”

“Sure”, I said.  “Bring Jeremiah over.”

A couple minutes later and Jeremiah was coming through the front door with his dinosaur outfit on.  And all of a sudden he was the center of attention.  The widow and mother came over, he smiled at them, they smiled back and their eyes started to tear up.  They laughed.  Jeremiah laughed.  More tears.  Their mind had momentarily forgotten their grief, but their body had not.

Tears were all they had.

A smile from a dinosaur allowed them to relax enough to cry.

As the tears rolled down their checks, and as Jeremiah’s smiles waned, they remembered.  Small talk ensued for a minute or two.  Small talk isn’t natural around death.

They looked at my dad and he ushered them back to see their deceased beloved a last time before I took him to the crematory.

You walk into a house full of fresh grief.  It’s fresh because the death just occurred.  Your best friend’s husband went out to the bar last night, drowned his hard day in hard drink and he never made it back home.  Fresh.  Because both you and your friend have never experienced death this close.

You open the door like you have so many times before, but this time the familiarity of the house is unexpected different, dark and lonely.  What once housed parties, life and love now houses something you’ve never known before.  Like a river, everything is in the same place it was when you last saw it, but this home has changed.

You see your friend’s children sitting on the sofa, staring into space.

You ask them, “Where’s your mom?”

And as you reach to hug them, they snap back to reality and whisper, “Upstairs.”

Each step brings you closer to what you know is only an apparition of your friend.  The nerves build.  Fear begins to build.  You repress it as you ready yourself to meet your closest friend who has all of a sudden become someone you may no longer know.

“Can I come in?” you ask.  No response.

You push open the cracked bedroom door and see the body of your friend collapsed on her bed, with used tissues surrounding her like a moat.

You tip-toe into the room, slowly sit down on the bed, and not sure if she’s awake or asleep, you reach for your friends shoulder and begin rubbing her back.  Her blood shot eyes open, look at you and then, they slowly look through you.

You fill the weird silence with an “It’s going to be alright”.

“It’s not”, she whispers.  “I’m alone with two kids and no job.”  Her voice suddenly raises as anger courses through her body, “Why the f*** would he do this to me?”

The curse word chides you into recognizing that you’ve not only misspoken, but you’ve spoken too soon, so you decide to wait in silence.  She starts to cry.  You respond to her tears with your own.  Even though you want to respond with words, you know this isn’t the time for words.  There’s no perfection words here.  There’s no perfect anything here.  And so you wait.

You stay.  Listen.  Silence.  You take her pain into your soul.  Hours pass.  She rises out of bed and makes the children dinner.

You’ve spoken, not with words or advice; not by trying to solve the problem; nor by placing a limit on your time.  You’ve taken the uncomfortable silence, allow the grace for tears, for brokenness; you’ve allowed yourself to sit in the unrest without trying to fix it.

With your presence.  With your love.  In your honest acknowledgement of real loss, you’ve spoken the language of grief.

Although the language of grief is usually spoken in love, presence and time, sometimes it’s spoken in words.  And when it is, here are five practical “do”s and “don’ts”

The “DON’T”S:

1.       At least she lived a long life, many people die young

2.       He is in a better place

3.       She brought this on herself

4.       There is a reason for everything

5.       Aren’t you over him yet, he has been dead for awhile now

The “DO”S:

1.       I am so sorry for your loss.

2.       I wish I had the right words, just know I care.

3.       I don’t know how you feel, but I am here to help in anyway I can.

4.       You and your loved one will be in my thoughts and prayers.

5.       My favorite memory of your loved one is…

It’s an innate desire for humanity to remember what we can forget with symbols.  It’s an innate desire for us to remind others with symbols.

In Judaism, observant Jews wear a phylactery around their heads and their wrists.  It’s both for themselves and for others … in order that they (we) might remember.

Religion has always used symbols.  And these symbols are often deemed as “holy” because of what they represent and what they remind us of.

Like religious symbols, there’s a sense that when tattoos are used to remember the dead, those tattoos are holy … maybe even just as holy as religious symbols.  Memorial tattoos symbolize our heritage, our love, our loss in a way that we and others must remember what we too easily forget.

Here’s some examples of holy tattoos:

*****

Brenda Lee

I kind of feel guilty saying this, but overall, today was a good day. Despite not wanting to get up this morning (facing the official 2 weeks since…), I eventually got my bum moving and went to lunch with a great friend. Afterwards, I went to the interview and it went surprisingly well. I have no clue if they’ll hire me, but they’re flexible with when I want to start. The only concern I have is I think it’s only 20 hours instead of 24, which means I may not qualify for benefits. So…we’ll just see what I’m offered and go from there.

Tonight I got out of the house with a friend for coffee and it was just GOOD. One vice I have picked up is a new coffee addiction, but I figure that’s better than any of the alternatives!

Pray for Linda as she had a rough day and really needs support. We all have bad days and good days, and, of course, they aren’t always going to correlate.

I’m very adament about taking my own timeline on things. After discussing everything with my friends today, I am on the “right” track. The fact is, for the past 4 months my minute by minute job was taking care of Kevin. That WAS my job whether it was official employment or not.

My life is gone. I don’t say this to sound hopeless, because I am not hopeless. In fact, for whatever reason, God handed me a clean slate, a new life. As much as I want my old one back, I don’t have a choice. I no longer have a job, a home (that’s “mine”), a husband, a routine, even my car is different. The only thing I have left is faith, family and friends. My triple f, which is helping me immensely.

So, for me to go to a “routine” and “get back in the swing of things” isn’t going to happen. There is no SWING OF THINGS. As I said, I am hopeful, but it’s not going to be easy. Everything I do from here on out is new and different and will take even more time adjusting to. Starting a new job is NEVER easy, let alone when you’re an emotional basketcase and a new widow. In time, I’ll want to find my own place, in time, I’ll have a new routine. In time.

So….in time, this will happen. But I’m not going to rush it. I’m going to take weeks…maybe even months to “get back in the swing of things”. I am putting this out there because for me, finding a job, a “routine” isn’t really helpful to me right now. It scares me to death, and trust me, I’m finding things to fill my time with. I don’t have an immediate need to go back to work, to set a schedule. My immediate life right now is getting through each minute and doing things for myself.

..and that’s what I need to do. So thank you for respecting that and giving me this time. Thank you for allowing me this because this is all I need right now. Faith, family and friends. Everything else will fall into place as it is supposed to, and I’m not going to rush a thing.

So..it’s been a good day. And I pray tomorrow will be as well.

*****

Brenda Lee is a freelance writer and blogger whose topics include travel, events, and businesses in central Pennsylvania.  Widowed at just 24, Brenda is now an advocate for sarcoma cancer, and is working to change how society discusses grief and accepts those grieving at an early age. She is an award winning writer and is currently editing the first draft of her memoir, “Keepin’ it Kevin” detailing her love and loss story.

You can connect with her on Facebook, on Twitter and at her blog.

And, as a preface, I want to forewarn you that the honesty you’ll read in the following post has words that were made to express Gayle’s situation … words that are neither intrinsically wrong nor meant for everyday use.  So, if you’re offended by strong language, I kindly ask you to skip this post.

*****

Gayle's husband Jim with their daughter.

Jim, my late husband, at the time this post was written, was believed to have had a rare form of frontal temporal dementia. This isn’t the kinda of dementia where grandma doesn’t remember who you are anymore or where grandpa sleeps in a bed all day and is feed applesauce. No, no… Jim wasn’t that lucky.

This dementia turned Jim into a caged lion.

“Our” world, the one our minds govern with common sense, intellect, and compassion became his cage. And he fought like an aged lion tiring to escape it. Trying to find peace and freedom, from his mind. His fighting had caused him to be kicked out of dementia related nursing homes and denied entry into others. Caregiving agencies refused to come help and hospice had refused to admit him. The only option was for him to be placed in a State Mental Hospital.

I knew he would leave this world soon and I was determined to let him feel love and peace at the end. Three weeks before he passed he was allowed conditional entry into a dementia nursing home, my own mental health was fading and I could no longer speak. These were my thoughts 3 days after he was admitted…

While lying in bed staring at the ceiling this afternoon (kids were taking a nap) I came to a strange realization about myself. NOTE-this is not deep, i attribute it to the pills i take.

Anyhow, I’ve always thought those people in the zombie movies who keep their afflicted loved ones chained to the wall, or chair and feed them bits of once living things were nuts. Or down right fucking crazy. I mean what is the point of keeping them around? First off, whatever made them who they were (their spirit) died, and secondly, they might or will kill you when they get the chance. So they should obviously get the hell away from them or make it so they can’t kill others (basically just kill them).

So when i think of what jim (or what was left of him) & what I had been through in the last 7 months I realized that I am that fucking crazy person or at least was. Jim was sick with no hope of return and i was seriously putting myself at risk. I was choked, hit, almost raped, ect. by a loved one who was losing his brains. It was rational to have him placed in a secure facility. But every time he was released from his 5150 holds I fought to bring him back. Why? That’s fucking nuts. He could have killed me if he wanted (he is 6’6″ and i’m 5′ nothing). Was i crazy? did i think i could bring him back? would I follow him to the ends of this earth? did i?

I did not act rationally then and knowing that is what is holding me together now.

Follow Gayle on twitter and please visit her website.

Lois Anne Purnell grew up as a “missionary kid”. Her parents were missionaries for many years in Thailand and Lois and her siblings spent most of their childhood overseas. When Lois was a teenager, her family moved back to the United States.

Lois’ younger brother Tom was a good friend of mine from church and he introduced us in 1982. After 3 years of dating, we were married in May of 1985.  Our plan was that we would finish college together and then try to start a family.

Lois was 26 and working as a sales representative for Kinemetrics in Pasadena, California. She was also attending Cal State LA, part-time, working towards a Master’s Degree in Psychology. I was attending Cal Poly Pomona working towards my bachelor’s degree in Agricultural Biology.  We were a young couple living in a small rental back house in Pasadena.

Lois was an intelligent, genuine, loving wife with a contagious smile. She had a good sense of humor and a soft heart for animals, even skunks. Her joy was playing the piano and singing her favorite hymns and songs. Growing up in Thailand, Lois adopted a deep appreciation for the Thai culture and loved cooking great Thai dishes. Deep down, Lois always felt that Thailand was home.  Her love for God and people was evident in the way she connected with individuals with warmth and sincere interest.

It was October 18, 1988 and the baseball play-offs were occurring for the American and National leagues. Most baseball loyalists spent the evening home watching the game on TV. That evening, Lois went out to get a baby shower gift for a friend at work at a local mall. I was at Cal Poly working on a research paper. I called home at around 9 pm that night from school. No one answered so I left a message that I was still at school.

By the time I arrived home at around 9:30 pm, there was melted ice cream on the counter and a note written by Lois saying she would be back soon from the Pasadena Mall. It was unlike Lois to be late. I had first called her parents, who lived locally.  Her mother informed me she had not stopped by or seen Lois that evening. I then called my parents who lived about 20 minutes away to see if she had stopped by to see them. They had not heard from her either.

I then thought she might be at her work, possibly picking up something she forgot. As I drove to her work, my legs began to shake and I could feel the dread that something was not right. My first thought was that she might have been in a car accident. But I didn’t want to consider the worst.

When I returned to the house, I phoned my mother-in-law who came immediately over to the house after I told her that I could not find Lois. While at my house, my mother-in-law called the police to report her missing. She began to call area hospitals to see if anyone had been brought in from a car accident.

I went to the underground parking lot at the mall to see if her car was there, but there was no sign of her or our vehicle. When I returned to the house, my mother-in-law was told that a missing person report could not be filed until 48 hours later.  By this time, it was close to 11:00 pm. A detective somehow got ear of our phone calls to police and area hospitals. He had seen a woman brought in to one of the hospitals, filed as a Jane Doe. The detective called back and asked to speak to me about the description of my wife and what she wore that day. I continued to believe that she was in a car accident. I described her flowered jumpsuit that she wore that day and other details. The detective informed me that he would come to the house within the hour.

It seemed like eternity waiting for the detectives to arrive. It wasn’t until about 1:00 am when the detectives finally arrived. We were informed that Lois had been the victim of homicide. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They had me identify some blood stained white rose bud earrings and a bracelet that I had given her for a birthday present. They asked me what kind of car we drove and the license plate number. Then they told me that she had been shot in the head and left to die under a bridge near the Pasadena Rose Bowl.

Police that happened to be patrolling that area spotted her body lying in the dirt, barely breathing. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. They asked me if I could go to the police station to positively identify her body. I was in shock and could not bring myself to face her dead body. My brother in-law, Mark volunteered to identify her body. On October 18^th, our worst nightmare came true. Family members and some friends were with us that night as we all wept in disbelief.

The night seemed to never end and my mom stayed with me until morning. The bed was void of Lois’ presence as I wished I could just fall asleep and wake up from this living nightmare.

There were no words, no Bible versus, no theology, no comfort that night, just a tremendous sense of loss knowing I would never see Lois on this earth again. Yes, there was knowledge of hope that someday I would see her again, nevertheless, it didn’t take away the empty space I felt at my core, a longing to see her one more time. There was also the question that was on all of our minds, “Why, why Lois?”

The following day I woke up in a fog. I went to her closet to smell her robe, her slippers, anything that would give me a sense of her presence.

Devastated, it was nearly impossible to eat for days. I had lost nearly 10 lbs within a few weeks.

The day after her murder, detectives came to the house to tell us that they had caught one of the suspects. He was spotted with our stolen car by a rookie police officer. The patrolling officer followed the suspect to his residence. A “back-up” was dispatched as the officer monitored the suspect. He was arrested in his apartment with Lois’ credit cards and other evidence. Through him, the other suspect was apprehended soon after.

Detectives interrogated the suspects following their arrest. Taped confessions were made to their kidnapping Lois at the mall at gunpoint, robbing her, sexually and physically assaulting her, raping her, and finally shooting her in the head while she knelt on her knees, begging for her life. Her plea to the kidnappers was, “just take me home.”  Before she was shot, the two men argued over who would kill her.  Because of the rape and the possibility of Lois identifying them, they decided to end her life.

This was just the beginning of over three years of criminal trials, each suspect tried separately. During that time, our families attended every trial day, holding back our anger, pain, and suffering, as we relived details and evidence of that one heinous night.

At 27 years old, I never thought I would be planning a funeral for my wife. Hundreds of people attended her funeral and many more who knew of her internationally gave their condolences. Our pastor at the time spoke about the spiritual aspect of her death, that even though she is gone from this world, the spark of God’s love would not be extinguished here on earth.

Many people were well intentioned with their encouragement, however, the people who helped me the most were the ones who just listened. My counselor was very instrumental in my healing, helping me process my feelings and thoughts without judgment or scripture antidotes to make me feel better about the tragedy that occurred. My therapist just validated my process of grief and sorrow.

Other well-intentioned Christians tried to explain to me that God would show me the purpose for my wife’s death or make something good of it. One couple had the audacity to say that it was because of our sin that Lois was killed. Some Christians will come up with crazy explanations for things they really don’t understand or can’t fix through a spiritual and theological explanation. Can good come out of tragedy? Yes. Does that minimize the loss? The answer for me is no. There was no logical explanation for what happened to Lois. My faith in God would never be the same. This side of heaven, I will never get over what happened to my dear wife who meant everything to me.

I have continued to live life. I have forgiven the two men who killed my wife in that I no longer allow them power over my mind, body or spirit. I have resolved that God will be their judge and deal with them in His way.

I am now a Licensed Professional Counselor in Oregon, happily re-married, and have two beautiful girls. Our firstborn daughter was given the middle name of Lois. My gracious wife wanted to honor Lois by passing her name down to our child.

Over the years, I have learned much about grief and my faith, both through my own experience and also through the experiences of my clients. It’s a privilege to walk with them through their loss, just as my counselor had walked with me.  I love my profession and have come to a deep appreciation for our humanity.

Often, people are judged by what they see on the outside, but there’s so much more to a person than what we see on the surface. Everybody has a story and at some point in our lives, we will all experience loss. I believe that best thing we can do, the best way we can love, is to be fully present with those who grieve and listen with our hearts.

*****

I first heard the abstract of Tony’s story from a comment he left at my “Even Jesus Wept” feature at Relevant Magazine.  I asked him if he’d be willing to share the whole story in a blog post and he graciously obliged.

After reading Tony’s story how do you feel?  It’s such a heavy story that I encourage you to process your reaction.