The Processional and the Funeral

I was feeling a lot of pressure to make decisions because they wanted to arrange a processional with KCFD.  I knew I wanted to take him to Wichita to be buried because I wanted to work with Jayde and Isidro at Lakeview Funeral Home since we knew them from Sue's funeral 6 1/2 months before (yes, Scott's mom died 6 months before he did).  Tara started arranging and got approval for an ambulance to take him to Wichita.  I called Lakeview and asked for Jayde.  She called back quickly and I got her and Tara connected to make arrangements.  Since we weren't embalming him in KC, we needed to go the next day (Monday).  I felt so nauseous that it was moving so fast.  Kimberly (my younger daughter) called me to tell me she thought I should sell the house and move back to Wichita.  Monday, Jessica showed up at my house wearing a mask just to hug me, then we met a slew of people at Research.  I wasn't able to watch, but the color guard draped him with a flag and they loaded him into the ambulance.  We followed the ambulance and a chief's vehicle with members of dispatch followed us.  Tara was supposed to be in the ambulance but one of the chiefs ordered Tara to stand down after she'd tried to get one of the dispatchers removed from the procession.  She had previously filed a grievance against Scott for "racial comments".  It was all bull but it made me angry that she was there and Tara wouldn't be.  I was tempted to make a fuss, but I knew everything they were doing was a courtesy.  We listened to his final call on a radio.  So we headed out with his coworkers driving the ambulance.  We went to Eastwood (dispatch), seeing fire trucks along the way, firemen out saluting.  At dispatch, there were so many apparatus' and firemen and EMS out saluting.  Arrena drove so I could video it all. Then we headed to 33s, since that was his old station, before we got on the highway.  Through most of the route, we saw fire trucks and ambulances on overpasses with their crews out saluting in the rain.  It was very moving, especially when one small town had a sign that said, "In honor of Scott Davidson."  I was told that a lot of the rural ones were volunteer and they still chose to do this on their own time.  Kimberly texted me to ask if I had a spare laptop because hers was acting up: "This might not be the right time to ask" and "have as good a day as it can be."  When we got to Emporia, the ambulance needed refueling, so we all stopped.  Emporia FD chief came over and gave me his card and a coin.  Stephanie said they'd been talking to Scott the whole way, saying, "Look at all these people who showed up for you."  Emporia FD blocked the road while we got back on the highway.  Sometimes we had a police or highway patrol escort and sometimes we didn't.  Arrena was about run off the road by a pickup and the chief behind us turned on his siren.  When we got to El Dorado, we turned off on highway 254, which surprised me because it's easier to get to the funeral home from K-96.  A friend of his mother's texted me that they'd said on the news that we'd be going through Andover.  There was news and fire trucks at Andover.  We'd also seen a few Sherriff's vehicles out too.  When we got on K-96, it was out west by the zoo.  My mom called to see where we were and we were all puzzled.  Mom was at Lakeview, waiting to see us all.  I tried calling Stephanie but got her voicemail.  It soon became apparent that we were going to Resthaven, on the opposite side of town.  They'd obviously planned it because Wichita FD and color guard were there already.  We stayed in the van while they unloaded him and the dispatchers stood watch.  I was angry that that woman was closer to my husband, but nothing I could do about it.  Jayde was there and said they prepare the body at Resthaven and apologized that we hadn't known.  Then the ambulance and chief's vehicle headed back to KC and we went to check into our hotel.  We spent the next few days making arrangements.  I wrote the obituary because I wanted it to tell who he was, not just the basic statistics and also for him I would write, even though I haven't been creative in a long time.  We tried to find a place to get rapid testing to be sure we were negative for Covid.  My mom was afraid to be around us and for the funeral, I wanted to be sure we were negative.  We found a place that cost us $150 each, but we made appointments for Wednesday and they did come back negative.  So we went to see my mom.  Arrena's boyfriend drove her car up.  Thursday we had Thanksgiving with my brother and my mom.  I hadn't been eating much and lost a pound.  It was also her birthday, but I'd already sent her gift, not knowing we'd be in town at the time.  I really dreaded Friday when we would have a private viewing and then the public visitation.  That would make it real.  I couldn't turn back from there.  I kept waiting for someone to tell me there had been a mistake and he was ok.  I really didn't want to go.  But he was there and he wasn't ok.  My best friend, my biggest supporter, my rock, my hero, the one I never deserved was dead and my heart was broken.  I wept.  I cried over his body and touched him and kissed his cheek like I had wanted to that night, until the tears ran out.  I was so dehydrated all week from crying.  We looked at all the flowers--there were some from KC's mayor and the city manager.  We decorated grandma and grandpa's grave and also Sue's and Scott's grandparents'.  A couple of people came early.  We left later than we meant to, but we hurried to get some Chick-fil-A and drop Billy and Paul off at my mom's house.  Then we headed back for the visitation.  My friend Katina stayed there the whole three hours.  My best friend Kimberly had been in town for Thanksgiving and they stayed an extra day to come.  My friend Sheri came too.  The color guard stood watch  and changed out every 8 minutes.  Tara had come and brought flower arrangements from the union and the fire department.  Several members of KCFD were there and they'd brought an ambulance down for the funeral.  I'd recommended our hotel because it was between the cemetery and the church.  I'd chosen it accidentally, thinking it was one we'd stayed at before.  Two by two, the KCFD personnel came to give me condolences.  One chief sat down next to me and asked me how they'd managed to get that smirk on his face because he said Scott had had that smirk the entire time he knew him.  I was glad he saw it and commented on it because I felt like he was smirking too.  I said it was because the Chiefs beat the Raiders Sunday night in a nailbiter.  I'd been giving Isidro, a Raiders' fan, a hard time about it and got him to admit that he was glad they won for Scott.  As we were leaving, I got choked up watching the last color guard salute him.  The 3 hours seemed to fly by but my neck and shoulders were so sore.  Some old friends brought up dinner at my mom's house.  When we got back to the hotel, it seemed strange to see the KCFD ambulance parked out front.  Just a few minutes later, Jessica sent me a picture of the ambulance.  I ran outside barefoot, looking for her.  I asked where she was and she replied "Wichita" and I replied that she was at my hotel.  We were all crowded into room 116 and they were in 119, so I went over to hug my friend.  I hadn't really thought they would come, but I was so glad my best friend was there for me.  Saturday I dreaded too because afterward it would all be over and everyone would go back to their lives but I'd be stuck in my grief.  We had to get going early because Pastor Riffee had wanted a morning service to allow time to disinfect before Sunday services.  Arrena and I had decided to dress in Chiefs' gear to match Scott (we buried him in his Chiefs' Superbowl shirt).  THE Fire Chief, Donna Lake, had come down for the funeral along with several other chiefs.  Tara introduced me to all of them.  The honor guard was on again.  The service was beautiful.  The songs I chose all made me weep.  Tara spoke on behalf of the union and the fire department and as a friend and presented Arrena and Billy with coins from the fire department (Kimberly didn't come because she was afraid of Corona) and me with a medal for Scott.  Pastor Riffee preached a salvation message that at last count, over 800 people watched on the livestream.  I was glad the livestream went outside because I spent some time with him after everyone left and wept and touched him and kissed his cheek.  When I was ready (would I ever really be ready) they closed the casket and draped the flag over it and wheeled him out into the windy day.  Color guard stood watch and they played the bagpipes (and drums) while they put him in the hearse.  We followed the hearse, the ambulance followed us, and all the chiefs' vehicles followed behind.  The livestream resumed after we got there, as they unloaded him to the bagpipes and color guard again.  I followed after and we had a short entombment service.  All of the chiefs came by to give their condolences and the color guard folded the flag and gave it to KCFD, who presented it to me.  They played Amazing Grace on the bagpipes, which always gets me.  My friends came and hugged me, then everyone left but me, the kids, mom and my brother, and Pastor and Mrs. Riffee.  Isidro gave me a Chiefs' helmet magnet that I placed on his casket over a scratch, like a bumper sticker.  Then they struggled to get him situated in the "couch" mausoleum I chose.  I could have had him buried near his mother and grandparents but I wanted him inside.  The mausoleum has room for me and we'll be side by side, which is why they call it a couch.  We stayed as they sealed it up and put the marble face back on.  Then we went to his mother's friend's for lunch.  After that, Billy and I went to mom's and Arrena and her boyfriend went to visit her dad.  Billy hadn't wanted to stay with grandma like he usually does.  At first he said the house was haunted.  Then he said he just wanted to stay with me.  Arrena said he finally cried at the funeral.  He told me he was going to get a job to pay bills.  Sunday morning we went to church with mom, where I was angered by people not wearing masks.  We ate lunch and then left to go back to KC.  It's been a lot of paperwork ever since.  Arrena asked if she could move back in to help out.  When she's not here, just me and Billy make the house feel so empty.  She's been cleaning and organizing the house for me while I sit and do paperwork or just scroll through Facebook.  My therapist said when someone dies people wish the whole world would stop.  For me, it kind of did with all the publicity (the mayor holding a press conference and the governor ordering flags to be half-mast).  The hard part is when everything goes back to normal.  The words of the songs from the funeral keep playing in my head.  I'm ok most of the time, but sometimes I lose it.  Usually in the shower or at bedtime.  I know I'll see him again, I know where he is, but I mourn for my loss on earth.  I don't know if it's ok with God, but I talk to him sometimes--"See? I'm doing my self-care."  Or I was telling him how the mayor and the governor have made speeches about him and that the Fire Chief came to his funeral.  Then it dawned on me that he doesn't care.  He's with God the Father and Jesus--who cares about earthly big wigs?  The Lt. Governor sent us a card about "perpetual adoration society" for Scott.  We asked Arrena's friend and she said it meant they were praying for him all the time to honor him.  I miss him so much.  And I don't know how to finish raising Billy without him.  Billy had two meltdowns in the hotel before Arrena's boyfriend came and Arrena and I could barely contain him.  She got a bruise from being punched in the jaw.  My aunt said we (plus my mom) should travel and finish seeing the 50 states.  That gives me something to look forward to.  I've been thinking about taking the kids on a cruise too, since we loved going so much.

Westboro "Baptist Church"

The Westboro "Baptist Church" has long infuriated and sickened me. Today I was even more disgusted as I heard that they are planning to protest the funeral of the nine-year-old girl that died in the Tucson, Arizona shooting. It's bad enough when they protest at soldiers' funerals, but when they protest at a little girl's funeral, it shows how truly sick and hateful they really are.

These people once picketed a church I was attending. This puzzled me, at first. Our pastor was very well-known for being outspoken about homosexual marriages and abortion. What could they possibly have against our church? They held signs that said, "Your pastor is lying to you," and "This way to hell," and "Fag lovers." Their problem with us was that our pastor taught that we should hate the sin, yet love the sinner, as Christ teaches in the Scriptures. Our pastor spoke about people he called friends that were gay. He did not agree with their choices, but cared about them, in spite of their lifestyle. The Westboro people did not agree with that. One of the women that I knew from choir went outside to speak with them. She was upset that they were dragging an American flag around on the ground, disrespecting our country's flag. When she confronted them, they cussed at her. Very Christ-like behavior, I must say.

What angers me the most about the Westboro bunch is that they reflect badly on Christ and on other Christians. We all get lumped into the same category. However, they are nothing like those of us who are TRUE followers of Jesus Christ. It's not mine to judge, but I don't believe that they are Christians at all. I don't know where they get their agenda of hate--they didn't get it from God's Word. I attend a Baptist church and have for most of my life and the things that they believe and practice have nothing to do with the Baptist denomination.

Some of their protest signs state that "God hates America." John 3:16 says that "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life." I John 4:7-16 explains that God IS love: "Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us. This is how we know that we live in him and he in us: He has given us of his Spirit. And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of the world. If anyone acknowledges that Jesus is the Son of God, God lives in them and they in God. And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them." If you want to know what God does hate, it's written in Proverbs 6: "There are six things the LORD hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up conflict in the community." Wow. Does any of that list strike you as applicable to the Westboro people? Maybe God hates what THEY do. Hmmm....

They are outspoken about homosexuality, claiming that God hates gays. However, the Bible is full of God's love for sinners. The story of the woman at the well in John, chapter four, tells of Jesus' encounter with a woman who was living a sinful lifestyle, yet he did not speak words of hate to her. In John 8, a woman was brought to Jesus who had been caught in the very act of adultery. Jesus said, "let him who is without sin cast the first stone." When they all left, he told the woman that he didn't condemn her either. Are any of these Westboro people without sin themselves? Do they believe that any sin is worse than another? James 2:10 says whoever keeps the whole law, but stumbles at one point is guilty of breaking all of it. There is a message to them in Matthew 7: “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye."

As for their obvious hatred of anyone and everyone, that is absolutely not found in Scripture. I John 3:15 says, "Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him." I John 4:20 tells us that, "Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen." Matthew 5 says we are to love our enemies as well as our brothers. In Luke 10, Jesus explains to a lawyer that we are to love our neighbor as ourself and that EVERYONE is our neighbor.

While I believe that Jesus shed his blood for anyone who wishes to receive, even people from the Westboro cult, I don't believe that they are Christians. The Bible tells how to know if someone is truly of God. John 13 says that everyone will know that we are Christ's disciples, if we have love for one another. Again, I look to Matthew 7: “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves. By their fruit you will recognize them. Do people pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them." James 3:9-12 says "With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water." I John 4 says to test spirits to see if they are of God. If what someone says does not measure up with what the Scripture says, they cannot speak for God. Matthew 7:21-23 says, " “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’"

I have read comments by others online who have vowed to picket Fred Phelps' (the leader of the Westboro group) funeral when he dies. I cannot say that is something I would desire to do. For one, the man does not deserve that much attention. He should be ignored. For two, I believe that while others are gathered around his grave, Jesus will be setting him straight in a way that no one on earth ever could. And third, I believe that we should do what he and his people refuse to do: love. When the Bible says to love our enemies, it isn't written only to them. It's for us as well. As much as we hate all that they stand for, we must love them as well. And so, as I close this blog out, I pray, not only for the victims of the Arizona shooting, but also for the Westboro people, that their eyes may be opened to the truth of God's Word and they will repent of their wicked ways.

A Dream With An Alternate Ending

I don't usually remember my dreams, but I had a dream about my dad last night. I think it was because we watched a movie last night that really disturbed me. It was Untraceable starring Diane Lane. There were two parts that thoroughly up-ended me (besides the sickness of the murders and torture). The one was the thought that millions of people could be so sick as to tune into a website to not only watch a murder, but actually participate (the premise of the story is that the killer rigged it so that the more people that watched, the faster the person died). I know there are sick people out there, but I think of them as aberrant, not the status quo. Surely in real life there aren't MILLIONS of people who would find that entertaining. I know it was just a movie, but it was the idea and the niggling doubt that disturbed me. The second thing that bothered me was the scene where the FBI are watching one of their own agents being tortured to death. I wanted to weep, even though it was only a movie, to think of having to watch someone you know and love being tortured to death.

I don't know if that was the reason I had this dream or not. But, I can't think of any other reason I would suddenly be dreaming about this close to two years after my dad's death.

Most know the story of my dad's death, so for their sake (& mine) I will try to keep this brief. But I know not everyone will know the story, so let me backtrack just a minute for some background.

My dad died October 10, 2006. Well, that's the official date of death on the death certificate. My dad had been in ill health for a while and had just been in the hospital for his second bout with congestive heart failure a few weeks before he died. I'll try not to assume my soapbox against the VA hospital, but I do blame them. My dad's doctor had taken him off one of his diuretics and his lungs were starting to fill with fluid. I remember visiting him in the hospital and thinking, "What if dad never leaves here again?" Anyways, the ICU cardiologist told dad he needed to be on that diuretic, but when he followed up with his VA primary care doctor, she said, "Who is your doctor? I am your doctor and you will do what I say!" And she took him off of it again. I had been worried about him because he wasn't able to get around like he used to and he wouldn't call me when he needed me, worried I was too busy. I finally got him to let me grocery shop for him and I began calling him every day after he mentioned having a diabetic "episode" where he had lost time and woke up in an odd situation. We were beginning to discuss and look into a retirement community of some sort because I was afraid to have dad living alone. Well, then I got bitten by some weird spider, I guess. I never saw it, but I had the bite on my knee when I woke up. It swelled up to the size of a grapefruit and was extremely painful. I felt like a baby, but my husband insisted I go to the doctor. Turned out I was having a secondary reaction and as I sat in the office, I broke out in a rash from head to toe. They put me on antibiotics, steroids, Benadryl, and Lortabs--that's how painful it was. I was pretty dopey, to say the least.

Anyways, I forgot to call my dad (I think this was a Wednesday). My therapist said that I didn't "forget" my dad, I was just living life and also in a drug-induced stupor. But, my guilty conscience still doesn't buy that excuse. When I did call him and got no answer and no return call (as per our agreement, as an alert to emergency situations), I didn't react in the prescribed manner. I had told him I would show up to check, but I didn't. Whether it was denial that anything was wrong, or denial to spare myself from what my subconscious told me would be a horrible discovery, or whether I was just careless, I couldn't tell you. My brother and I had been playing phone tag. I had wanted him to call to check on dad on weekends, since I often caught up on my sleep on Saturdays and Sundays. But, as we had only left messages for each other, he didn't grasp the importance of actually talking to dad, so when he got no answer, he thought nothing of it (dad often--before our agreement--didn't answer the phone if he was tired or sick and took forever to return calls) and didn't go check either. Finally, on Monday I was more coherent and realized I hadn't talked to dad. I had called later than usual, so when I got no answer, I hoped it was because he was already in bed, so I left a message and waited for the call to be returned. It wasn't. Tuesday, I called once more, then prepared to go check on him. My husband tried to get me to allow him to go, but I refused. I don't know if deep down I was in denial and thought everything would be fine or if I thought it was my duty, or why exactly I insisted on going. It makes no sense to me now. I called my brother on the way, as I was supposed to meet him later. I desperately wanted to ask him to come with me or for him to offer, but I knew I couldn't and neither could he. On the way there, I began thinking of scenarios to explain the lack of contact. When I got there, I knocked and knocked. No answer, so I went back to the car and retrieved my key and my cell phone (apparently amidst all the denial, there was a shred of instinct). I entered and the first sign that I should have stopped right there and called 911 was the smell in the house. But I rationalized that if he had been sick, he might not have taken out the trash. So, I started walking through the house, calling out, "daddy!", so as not to startle him. When I got to his room, I flicked on the light and saw him on the bed and I quickly flicked the light back off and ran sobbing from the room and the house, my fingers fumbling to dial 911. I told them that I KNEW he was dead, but they made me go back in and look again to be sure, in case there was something we could do to help him. I won't go into detail, more for my own sake than yours, but I could tell that he had not recently passed--he was decomposing. I am a squeamish person. Anything dead repulses me. But, that it was my own father was really hard. I couldn't sleep. And then the guilt came. I never thought I could have saved him. I believe that everyone has their time--if I had been standing next to him, I couldn't have saved him. But, I feel guilty that I didn't find him sooner. It makes me feel like a horrible daughter to know that my dad lay there dead for four or five days before anyone noticed. It's also terribly embarrassing.

I tell that story because I think it's relevant to my dream. I think I hated the outcome so much that I dreamed a different one. I dreamed that my dad was alive, but that he was still going to die and we all knew it. It was as if me and my little family were transported back in time--we knew what would happen, but no one else did. Dad was living in a little old house instead of his trailer and he had a cat. He had been at the hospital and was on his way home and I called him because we wanted to come check on him. He didn't want to visit long, but asked if I would take care of the cat and have him a pizza and a drink waiting so he could just eat and go right to bed. I tried to argue that the pizza wasn't good for him, but gave up, knowing that he would die-- what difference would it make? I had to chase the cat to the neighbor's yard. I remember dad sent something to mom (they had been separated for six years). I think it was an article or poem or something he found--something about "wife." It was hard to hug and kiss him goodbye, especially for the kids, since we all knew we wouldn't see him again. And he didn't know. Then my dream had two endings. I don't know if that's how my mind did it naturally, or if I woke a little and decided to change it. It was fresh on my mind when I woke up, so it's likely it was a recent dream. In the first version, we went home and anxiously and sleeplessly waited out the next 24 hours, then I sent my husband to check on him, saying, "I can't do this again," even if he hadn't been decomposing for a few days. The second version, I couldn't wait. I called 911 not long after we left him, said that I suspected my dad was suffering from congestive heart failure, they picked him up in an ambulance, and he died in the hospital, being cared for.

I suspect that if I had been born in another era, I wouldn't have this aversion to death. Don't get me wrong, I don't fear death (not because I think I am invincible, but because I know Someone who is!). I fear dead things and dead people. I fear finding someone I love dead. I fear watching someone I love die. From books I have read, written around the turn of the century, it seems it was commonplace for people to die at home with their loved ones around them. That's not the way it happens most times now. It was natural back then, but now natural to me seems to be dying in a hospital. I am comfortable with the idea of someone dying in the hospital--that seems right to me, so I guess I created an ending that seemed right to me. I hated that my dad died alone, though I am not sure I could have handled watching him die, even in a hospital. I couldn't even be in the room when my cats died. How could I watch my dad die? I pray God gives me strength--I know at some point, I might have to watch my mom or my husband or someone else close to me die. I hope I can be strong enough to hold their hand and not flee the room. Or, I pray God takes me first. Not that I am in a hurry! I'd like to at least see my children raised first. Then, I'm ready.

When I was a kid, I didn't have much experience with death. I was trying to think of how many funerals I went to. I think I was too young to go to my aunt's and my grandma's funerals. I went to my great-grandpa's, my uncle's, a friend's dad's, and I think I recall going to an infant's funeral (someone in our church). None of these people were very close to me. My first real experience with death was Chris' dad, when I was nearly 25. Just before that, we went to Chris' great-uncle's funeral, then Chris' dad's. After that, it seems like a string...my cousin, my aunt, my great-grandma, my other cousin, Chris' grandma, my dad, my uncle, Chris' aunt--there may be more, but they start to run together, sadly enough. That's ten in the last seven years. I am getting more experience than I want to have.

I have actually begun to be thankful that I found my dad. I was the only one in the family to see him like that. I have closure, I have the burden of seeing what I saw and carry it with some measure of peace that I (as the oldest) was the rightful one to find him. I gladly shoulder that burden alone, gladly spare anyone else from that burden, gladly spare dad the indignity of being seen in that condition by anyone else. Even though I struggled and had to go to a psychiatrist and take anti-depressants and still have dreams, I believe that I have more strength than some of my family and was able to bear what others could not. If I sometimes still find myself wanting to call my dad, forgetting if but a moment, the tragedy I witnessed, how much more so would I be in denial if I had sent my husband and never seen dad again? Closed caskets do not afford closure.

I apologize to my readers if this post was extremely depressing. This was cathartic for me. It's hard to have a good day when you wake up with ghosts and guilt. I had to write it out. This form of therapy is much cheaper than a psychiatrist and doesn't leave me as numb as a pill would. Here's to good dreams tonight with a conscience clear and a burden lighter.