The Hearse With the Dead Battery

My five year old son, Jack, who passed away last week, never missed an opportunity to push my buttons, both literally and metaphorically. (He was five years old, after all. Isn't that part of the job?) You might call it a specialty of his, and it really has everything to do with his inquisitive nature. He just loved to explore every nook and cranny of the world he came into contact with. This fascination with getting into things relates directly, and quite appropriately, to the title of this specific blog post. I'll get to that in a moment.

First, I refer back to my previous post when I spoke of the swiftness of this whole ordeal and the state of complete shock it has left me and my wife in. The reality is that I'm still in disbelief, although as I reflect upon the events of last week I realize I'm in a much better place now than I was then; I wasn't just in shock when my son unexpectedly passed away, I was in complete and utter denial. I think part of this can be attributed to the fact that I was flying home on an airplane from New York while his health was declining so rapidly and I had no true sense for how bad things were. My wife was only slightly more prepared because she was with him throughout the entire ordeal. The total span of time from when Stacy noticed his first seizure at home to when she said goodbye to him for the last time in the hospital when the doctors stopped doing chest compressions on him was just less than nine hours, although he was only awake for the first three or four of those.

Here's a case in point to illustrate our inability to initially process what had happened. It will sound completely ridiculous and perhaps even callous, but it's a good illustration of what I'm saying. Jack passed on Monday. On Tuesday, my wife and I were having genuine discussions about whether or not our two oldest children should go to scout meeting and piano lessons and gymnastics practice on Tuesday night like they always do. We were just going to send them on their way as usual! Isn't that crazy? I laugh about it now, but we just couldn't quite yet wrap our heads around things and how to process this dramatically sudden change in our lives.

Now that we've gone through the process of laying our son to rest, we find ourselves in a sort of limbo state--not really able to move forward yet (although I'm sure that will come, with time) but not wanting to be perpetually sad either. It feels like a betrayal to Jack's memory to simply go about our daily routine again, but the fact is that we MUST do that (at least to some degree at this point; completely, in the not-too-distant future). We can't remain in limbo forever. But the moments of normalcy are really the most difficult for us now: we've gone out of the house several times since Jack left us, and I'm constantly catching myself counting four kids instead of three when moving from one place to the next; his chair sits empty at the dinner table; his toothbrush untouched in the bathroom. These constant reminders are the most challenging and difficult because they remind us of his absence. It's also become dramatically more quiet at home. I used to curse the noise; now I'd give anything to have it back.

Making a "new normal" for yourself is pretty miserable work. This is probably The Great Trial of Our Lives. We may look happy and put-together all the time but the reality is that we have near-constant melancholy interrupted by moments of complete breakdown. Yet we also have joy. We see the light from our living children radiating brighter than it ever has before. Their light, love for us, and need for us to be "present" for them strengthens us a lot. We also have great hope for the future, tremendous appreciation for those who care about us, and complete faith in God's plan.

We also have a sense of humor, which brings me back to the hearse with the dead battery.

Following the funeral service on Friday, Jan. 16, Stacy and I exited the church, got into the car, and waited patiently in the parking lot behind the lovely white hearse from the funeral home so we could begin our caravan to the cemetery. When the funeral director went to start the hearse, he found that it wouldn't turn over. The car had a dead battery! He ran over to tell us and apologized; Stacy and I immediately burst into laughter. A dead battery in a hearse at a funeral--talk about a perfect way to lighten the mood at a very sad moment!

Of course, the funeral director was mortified and embarrassed but handled the situation with aplomb. My amazing brother, our chauffeur, hopped out of our car and went to work helping to get the hearse started. Since we were next in line, our car made the most logical choice of vehicle to jump the hearse's battery. It all worked out, and after a few moments everything was back in working order and we were on our way.

It wasn't until two days later that a friend at church made the connection for us that it was probably Jack who had caused the hearse's battery to fail. That might seem harsh, but I was reminded about the many times Jack used to slip into the van in our garage at home to fiddle with the many buttons and levers therein. I always knew he had done so when I'd get in the van and discover that all of the air vents were closed or facing the wrong direction and my secret stash of chewing gum had been raided (not so "secret," I guess). On at least one recent occasion (with more under suspicion) he managed to kill the van's battery in the garage by leaving a light on or door open or by turning the key in the ignition (I can't remember exactly which one, perhaps all three!). This is how I know he had something to do with the stalled hearse in the church parking lot. This small event served as a wonderful reminder of the uncontainable spirit of our precious baby boy and the fact that he doesn't want us to take his departure too seriously.