How to Never Forget the Losses

One of two terrapins traveling on its annual pilgrimage through my parents' yard.

I'm fond of Facebook...and I think most of my friends are aware of my "addiction." I manage Facebook pages for a few clients, so it's second nature for me to toss up a photo or a pithy saying on a daily basis on my own wall or pages while at that site. While this habit has become...a habit, I've realized lately that my additions to Facebook have become somewhat of a diary.

In my searches for what has happened in my life over the past two years, I've suffered pangs of hurt, sadness, and even utter and bitter loss over and over again. That pain has worsened with the new Facebook "look what happened on this day last year...or two years ago...or even a decade ago..." feature. Although I'm sure this daily reminder of the past is meant well, it can shake my socks off sometimes.

This morning, for instance, I was whacked in the face with the image of the terrapin shown here. Yes, it's just a turtle. But, it's one of two turtles that make an annual pilgrimage through my parents' yard. These two turtles...or their relatives...have been traipsing through my folks' yard since they moved here in 2000. The turtles just don't pass through. They stick around for a few days, playing hide-and-seek with each other and with us in the gardens before they move on.

While at some other point in my life I might have thought warmly about this photo and its family tradition, I happened to glance at the photos that braced that turtle image in my Facebook "mobile uploads" album. Those photos portrayed our first visit to the teaching hospital where mom was first diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma. We had just returned from that city to discover the turtles in the yard, exactly two years ago today.

I'm glad I have this chronicle of events that happened over the past two years, because those clues are vital for writing the memoir. But, I'm not very keen on how I keep getting pinched by the past in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes, I feel as though I'm picking at a scab. What saddens me further is that we haven't seen the terrapins yet this year.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I'll get lucky and see them before I have to return home this upcoming weekend. And, maybe one day I'll truly be grateful for the memories.

A Ritual I Developed During My Caregiver Stint

My ritual is somewhat like a pinata ceremony.

I write these blog entries in hopes that readers won't judge me, as I am bringing my own perspective to topics that deal with a death in my family. Although death is common ground, and should -- above anything -- unite us somehow, I've learned that folks may not agree with my outlook on certain topics. Feel free to disagree; but don't tell me I'm wrong, especially over a ritual that saved my sanity for the past two years.

According to The Chaplaincy Institute, ritual can make a person "stop, focus, and make sacred that which is ordinarily taken for granted. A ritual can be used as a way to give voice to the unspoken, facilitate healing, or remember a person or event. It can also be a way to refocus personal thought patterns so they become self-serving, not self-defeating. A ritual does not need to be elaborate or take a lot of time. In fact, to keep meaning from getting lost, the simpler the better."

That article goes on to provide an example of a ritual that involves an altar, candles, and prayer, which is fitting for that particular perspective. Other rituals I've known caregivers to use include yoga for meditative qualities and also for keeping the body fit. I love yoga practice, and I understand how yoga benefits me. But, I haven't had a class since the last one I took with Terri Hug, and that was before I even learned about my mother's illness. Terri is a sister from another mother, and I'm having a difficult time choosing to take on another yoga instructor after becoming so close with Terri. I need classes, because I don't have the self-discipline to practice alone.

Other caregiver rituals might include a set time each day/week to get away, or time to be alone. In my experience, however, getting away from home was fraught with anxiety, because every time I did leave home, mom would encounter an emergency situation. The only time I was able to get away was during Easter weekend, when some friends kidnapped me to spend a weekend with their poet and bard neighbors. But, that wasn't a ritual, although the escape was sorely needed and appreciated.

My alone time and ritual came about without planning. I still practice it after mom's death, especially when I'm at my folks' house. I leave the house proper to sit in the screened porch with my Android and begin to play Candy Crush Saga. Playing that game in itself is not a ritual; but, playing game #75 over and over and over again became a ritual for me, one that isn't elaborate or that takes a lot of time.

Other friends who play that game continue to offer free passes for me to get past game #130. Yes, that's how far I got before I learned about mom's cholangiocarcinoma. But, I'll never go there again. I doubt if I'll ever get past game #75. If I play the game without thinking about the game, it provides me with time for reflection and planning. If I play the game with intent on beating the other two women who are ahead of me, the play takes me away from everything. The fact that the game only allows play for five games unless the player wins a game (garnering one free game per win) is convenient, too. Once I've played through those five or so games, I'm revitalized and ready to get back to more pertinent tasks at hand.

I play game #75 when traveling, too, because my husband refuses to let me drive. But, the game isn't a ritual then -- in fact, it's boring. The only time Candy Crush Saga game #75 becomes a satisfying ritual is on my parents' back porch. This rite offers me comfort, mindlessness, and even some sense of self-worth and achievement. I am only a few points away from obtaining the #1 spot on that game. When I achieve that goal, I don't know what I'll do.

Note: Candy Crush Saga is a puzzle game distributed by King.com. The logo image is from Wikipedia.

Yes, I'm the Cemetery Snob

Saints arising from the dead, different than the average person.

I recently learned that I'm a bit of a cemetery snob. I've researched the subject for years, wrote about it, and studied burial methods and what the professors called "outdoor museums," or cemeteries, in my master's studies. So, I know about Christian burials and the tradition of placing the head to the west and the feet to the east in many cemeteries. Not all cemeteries, mind you, follow this tradition. But, my paternal great-grandfather purchased twelve plots in a cemetery that does follow this tradition.

Burying a body to face east is a long-standing tradition that goes back centuries. In Christian belief, this body orientation is never directly referenced in the Bible. But, ancient tradition dies hard, so some scripture was used to validate the continuation of this body orientation, including Matthew 24:27:

For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so with be the coming of the Son of Man.

Another reference is found in Ezekiel 43:1

Then the man brought me to the eastward facing the gate, and I saw the Glory of God coming.

And, yet another reference in Luke 1: 78, 79:

...because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death...

Enough for references. You get the picture -- by being buried facing east, a body could be easily resurrected facing the Son of God. Simple, I thought, and very convenient for fast and easy resurrection. But, I learned that many Christians today aren't aware of this tradition. They aren't even aware that many churches were built so that congregations were facing east to meet the Son of God should he arrive on a Sunday morning between, say, 10:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. Or, on a Wednesday night. Or, during choir practice.

So, therefore, I am a bit of a cemetery snob. But, I have learned that the funeral home that oversees this particular cemetery where my mother will be buried knows about this tradition. And public works, which oversees cemetery maintenance, also knows about this tradition. I assumed I could trust them, then, in placing stones in the correct positions.

So why did I sense something was awry when I visited that cemetery earlier this year after my mother's death? Dad and I had traveled to talk to the funeral home about the plots, since dad was entitled to two of those plots -- one for him and one for his wife -- as a direct descendant. There were plenty of plots left, but mom and dad decided to be cremated and share one plot. This cemetery allows that practice (not all cemeteries do).

By the time I had figured out the problem, the owner of the funeral home was in attendance, as well as one of the funeral directors, and the head of public works. We all realized that the headstones in our family plots were being placed at the feet of the graves. If I go into details here, I won't have anything left for this chapter in my book. Let's just say the situation was rectified the following day. Since no bodies had to be moved, all was well (the mystery deepens, no?).

Today, my father and I traveled to that cemetery again to view my mother's headstone for the first time. When we walked up to the plots, dad and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. My mother's headstone was in the wrong place. Fortunately, I'm a cemetery snob. I had the funeral home's phone number, and I called and talked directly to the owner. The conversation, in my opinion, was hilarious. At the end, the funeral home owner said, "One day we'll get this right." I answered, "Yes, when all the plots are filled."

Fortunately, mom is at home in her urn on the fireplace mantel. No body had to be moved. All is well for now.

About the image with this blog entry -- attribution is below. Note that the people arising from the dead in this image are saints. Saints, clergy, and other religious leaders are different than ordinary people. They, traditionally, are buried in the opposite direction of the congregation; so, when the resurrection arrives they can lead the masses that arise to face the Son of God. I don't know why, but I keep thinking about phrasing this tradition as an "organized Walking Dead." I'll probably burn for that thought.

"Plaque resurrection dead VandA M.104-1945" by Marie-Lan Nguyen - Marie-Lan Nguyen (2012). Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Plaque_resurrection_dead_VandA_M.104-1945.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Plaque_resurrection_dead_VandA_M.104-1945.jpg