The Visitation

Watching my children grapple with the death and dead body of their brother was overwelming. But more overwelming than dealing with the massive crowds of people who came to the visitation. There were people everywhere- all over in fact- and I was frightened and tired and I longed to be away far away. People were hugging me, touching me, and I was feeling smothered and so near insanity that I could hardly contain myself at times. They needed to grieve- I know that. They needed to express their condolances, and I probably needed to hear them, but every face became a blur as I faced near exhaustion and the looney bin. Katie Aronin stayed by my side and protected me from some of it. My niece Mandy did the same as well. But the craziness in my mind that a bunch of people were in our space, touching my son, seeing my son, touching my children, and sharing this exclusive, private grief was so very hard. I couldn't go to the casket and throw myself on it, because that wouldn't be the sane thing to do. But I wanted to, I wanted to very badly, and I fought it everytime I saw someone touch my son. The room continued to be filled with people all day and into the night. There were lines everywhere and then the music began to play on a laptop- the music I had chosen for his funeral- not his visitation and I began to falter. I was talking to a dear, sweet woman and her family- when the music seemed to be getting louder and louder. It seemed to be permiating my whole thought process. I asked them to please have it turned off. But no one did. I could hear the music, I could see him in that awful casket, I was reliving everyday of the last week as that music continued, the room was smothering me, the people were smotheringme, I couldn't get enough air, and I could feel every ounce of sanity leaving my body and vomitting all over the world around me. And so without any foreknowledge, I began to yell, "Please- PLEASE- turn that music off!...." I kept repeating it, I began to falter, I began to lose it, and just couldn't breath.... Tim grabbed my arm, drug me outside, and I beat on his chest, (just as I had done at Bill's visitation so many years ago).
"I want them out! I want this music off! I want my children and I want to go home....." I sobbed and sobbed. And he did what he always does...he held me, he soothed me, and he explained that other people felt like I did and they needed this whether I liked it or not. He spoke to me forever and talked me back to reality- what little there was of it. And I, like I have always been taught to do, regained my composure and reentered the world of grief and death. I walked back into the room and back into my son, laying in a casket- DEAD. And that day, that day of visitation became a dream to me- a horrid dream that would get worse the next day as I would have to lay my son to rest, in a casket, in the ground, and never ever be able to rub his little head, or smell his familiar smell, or see his beautiful smile again, and I would have to do it in front of a hundreds of others who felt the same way, and I would have to watch my children and their friends die inside. But I would do it- I would never be the same- never ever , but I would do it, because it was the right thing to do and goodness knows- I am all about doing the right thing and obeying God....but as each moment came to fruition I began to realize that my life wasn't my own any more and this grief and guilt were going to eat me alive for the rest of my life...at least that is what I thought that day and for many days to come.