Some things worked out OK in the last few days and some other things, well, they didn’t exactly blow up in our faces, while not quite being as we might have imagined. Overall, if you ignore the general state of the world, I guess we’re a little bit ahead of the game.
Let’s start with the success. When I was at the hospice in October, waiting for the bus to leave for the men’s weekend getaway, I looked at the rock we had painted for Colin to leave at the pond there. They have a ton of rocks, one for each child who has died there. And I noticed it looked a little shabby, because paint is going to peel off a rock during the course of five years. It took weeks to get someone on the line to sort out a time to come and fix it up. And I get it: They’re busy providing care for people suffering major health problems, so me emailing about repainting a rock is probably of second or third priority, at best. So, I didn’t get too worked up and we eventually worked out an appointment.
The kids and I went over a week ago Saturday and I think it was a good thing. The kids hadn’t been to the hospice in about two years, so there was a lot of “I don’t remember that building” and “Hey, that one place got fixed up” kind of moments. And then we were there. They did not recognize the therapist who helped us with the materials at all, and, to be fair, she has grown her hair out. But the few people who saw us – staffing is low on Saturdays – couldn’t get over how tall both kids have gotten.
And that’s the thing about the hospice, no matter what bad memories I have of the place and horrible associations – none of which are the hospice’s fault – there’s always an odd sense of homecoming there. Like I’m coming back to my parent’s old house. And I have to remind myself that I cannot walk freely around the house like I used to and I cannot go to Colin’s room to check it out just because I want to, never mind the fact that it was occupied last weekend. The therapist told me I wouldn’t recognize it anyways. It’s been repainted and they knocked out a wall or something so parents can sleep up on the same level with their sick kid, which would have been a godsend back in 2019. There was something about getting up that flight of stairs every day, wondering if maybe Colin had died while I was asleep, that took all my energy that summer.
Maybe it’s not so much because I lived there, but because I lived so intensely there. And the memories are bad, but they are strong.
Anyways, we got there and Emma took over the painting, because she is the family’s resident artist. Noah and I helped with filling in some colors and such, just so we could say that we had all contributed, but Emma really did the work. Then we left it to dry and I came back a week later to apply a layer of protective gloss – which led to me wearing away some of the paint and getting some grit mixed in with the gloss – but the rock is now back in its place and looks a ton better than it did a few weeks ago, if not as good as it looked on Friday before I started applying the gloss. So, that was a good thing.
As it happened, the youth group for affected siblings was having a program while we were there, which led to some confusion among the staff as to whether Emma and Noah were participating. Emma has said she’s done with the group. Being there actually made her feel worse. I suppose I get that. I’m trying to get Noah to leave a door open to participating again, but he’s also hesitant. And, in the end, I suppose the kids know better than I do if they need therapy for this.
We didn’t only go for the rock. A couple of months ago, Christina got an email that it was time to pick up the lantern we had made for Colin. That led to a lot of confusion, because we had assumed Colin’s lantern would hang there forever. And now we were being told to take it down. As I said, on some level, the place feels like home. And being told to pick up the lantern felt a little bit like being told by your Mom to come and get your stuff out of the attic finally. It was an unexpected kick in the gut, especially when you keep thinking that there’s no way this stuff can get you like this any more.
To back up, the lantern is nothing more than a baby food jar that’s been decorated. Every patient who shows up either makes one themselves or has one made by friends and family. Some of them are astonishing. Colin’s was just his name with some Curioius George images we made with glass paint. The deal is that, while you’re there, the lantern hangs at the door of your room. When you check out, the lantern goes into a special room decorated to look as if all the lanterns are hanging from a tree. Each time you come back, you pick up your lantern on the way to your room. If you die, the lantern stays in the tree room.
And, like I said, we had assumed it would be there forever. But, there’s only so much space in the room, so, after five years, you’re asked to move yours out. If anyone ever explained that to us, neither of us remembered it. And when would have been a good time to tell us this rule? It’s not as if the administrators could have taken us to the side on the day of his death and told us “OK, there’s a five-year clock starting on the lantern now.” So, we worked out that I would pick up the lantern while I was there for the rock.
Of course, these things always turn into events with a touch of macabre. Or maybe I’m just wired to see things that way. But, like I said, they have a lot of lanterns, and neither I nor the therapist could remember exactly where the lantern was hanging. I could have found it, since one of the interns at the hospice at the time had made a picture of Curious George to stand by the hook holding Colin’s lantern. I would have found it that way pretty quickly. But the therapist said she would consult the database to find where the lantern was hanging. Which made sense.
So, she opens her database and asks me for his date of death.
And that threw me for a second. Sure, you have to catalogue things somehow, but it never occurred to me that they would opt for date of death. Not when there are names and dates of death available. I guess the date of death is the best way to trigger when the reminders are sent to come and take down the lantern.
But it only threw me for second. And then that part of my brain clicked where I told myself “Oh, it’s just another awful things related to Colin’s death. You remember those, don’t you? They used to show up every hour. Now they’re almost a novelty.” But, apparently they’re still there and I’ve learned to just roll with it, so instead of acting horrified that this is their filing system, I just rattled off “17 September, 2019” like someone at the DMV had asked me for my SSN. I think I was almost kind of cheerful about it. Like, look at how well I remembered that. As if I’ll ever forget that date.
And now the lantern is home, nestled in one of our mini shrines. They suggested we take it to the cemetery, but things disappear from the grave so regularly, that didn’t seem like a good idea. And, again, it’s so much fuss for a little piece of glass I don’t think I ever visited in the five years since he died. Whenever I go to the hospice, I try to see his rock and I’m now making weekly trips to his grave. But the lantern? I’d almost forgotten it was there until it became time to sort it out.
At least we have a nicely painted rock now. You probably don’t get through this kind of thing unless you have a rock.
And, in a final piece of good news, after going around and around with charities and hospitals, it finally dawned on me to just ask the doctor at the hospice if she had a use for Colin’s old medical backpack. She emailed back within the day and took it off my hands (well, I delivered it on the day when we went up for the rock and the lantern), so there’s at least been that bit of progress.
Meanwhile, the stack of his bills from 2016 sits there and I haven’t quite figured out a place for them yet. Christina says to just put it in a folder, which I’ll obviously do. But then I have to put the folder somewhere where I’ll remember what it is without it constantly reminding me of what it is. As always, these things are tricky. But, at least this time, I can report some progress.