Scott sent me a text today to let me know that Greg's maker has been set.
We've been waiting for the marker to be set, but Scott is the one who goes to check. I knew I couldn't go to Greg's grave before the marker was set. I wondered if I would be able to go once it was.
When Scott sent me the text about the marker, I was on my way out the door to see Dr. Woowoo.
It's a beautiful day today - temperature in the low 60s - sunny - very little wind. By the time I arrived at Woowoo's, I knew that as soon as my appointment was over, I would go to the cemetery.
I think the first time will be the hardest. I know that I don't want to go to bed tonight, thinking about going to the cemetery tomorrow. I want to get it over with - no matter the emotional cost. I need to go today.
Woowoo suggested that I might not want to go alone, but there was no time to pick Michael up. I left Woowoo's at 3:00. The gates to the cemetery close at 4:15. I had to go straight to the cemetery.
I drive through the huge, heavy, black, wrought iron gates of the cemetery and before I go fifty feet, I pull over and stop the car. I have no idea where I am. Nothing looks familiar. Am I at the right cemetery? I am completely lost.
Greg is buried with his father, so this is not the first time I've been to this cemetery, but I feel like I'm in the wrong place - and I start to panic. Where am I? Is this the right place? Why doesn't this look familiar?
At that moment, Scott calls and for a minute, I pretend that everything is fine.
Answering the phone, "Scott's mom. May I help you?" (My friendly, customer service greeting. I'm the only one that thinks it's funny, but that doesn't stop me)
"Hi Mom. Where are you?"
"I decided to go to the cemetery today, I just got here a few minutes ago. I'm right inside the gate."
And then my voice breaks. "I'm lost, Scott. I don't know where I am. Am I at the right cemetery?"
He talks to me for about 10 minutes - quietly - calmly - describing where the grave is. "Look for the tree," he says.
Greg and his father are buried under a tree.
Nothing he says makes any sense to me. "Drive toward the circle, but don't go around the circle. Before the road goes around the circle, look to your right. You'll see the tree."
I can't move.
"How did you get there, Mom? Which way did you decide to go from your doctor's?"
I'm calmer now - calm enough to know that this is the third time this has happened to me since Greg died. Twice before I was driving and suddenly... I was lost. I had no idea where I was. Nothing looked familiar. I didn't even know what road I was on. Everything else was okay - I was just completely disoriented. Both of those times, everything cleared up in a couple of minutes. Maybe I can simply wait this one out, too.
And then there's a small clearing in my mind. "I turned left from the main road and drove down to the second gate, which is where I am now. I'm about 50 feet inside the second gate."
He goes over the directions again and I still don't understand, but I'm no longer panicked. "I think I'm going to unload my scooter before I run out of time. I'll find the graves. I'm okay." (I really wasn't okay, but I knew I was close enough.) "Thank you so much for calling when you did. Your timing couldn't have been better. I love you, Scott."
We hang up and I unload the scooter - still not knowing where I am, but feeling confident that if I just move forward, this confusion will pass.
I sit there on the scooter, behind the car for about 5 minutes and then start moving toward where I think the graves are. (This is a HUGE cemetery) Within 100 feet of the car, I know where I am - and I see the tree.
I find Greg's grave - right next to his father - and the pain and heartbreak cut through the fog and I can't control the sobs. My son. My boy. My sweet Greg. Gone. At this moment, life makes no sense at all to me - and has no purpose. I wish there was a hole for me.
The man who locks the gate at dusk interrupts my grief to tell me that I have to go. It's time to lock the gates.
As I head back to my car, I'm grateful for the interruption - and that the cemetery locks their gates at dusk. If they didn't, I don't know if I'd be able to leave.
I load my scooter into the back of my van, move my oxygen machine to the back seat of the car and plug it in. As I climb into the driver's seat, I try to be present. I try not to live in "10 minutes ago" - or in tomorrow. Think about now. Think about turning around and going through the gate. One step at a time. One minute at a time.
I call Michael and tell him that I'm on my way home. That's all I can tell him. He doesn't ask any questions. He just tells me he'll be glad to see me. He reminds me to let him know when I get home so that he can help with the oxygen. I am grateful.
It was impossibly hard to see my son's grave, but in retrospect, it was comforting that Greg and his father are buried together. Neither grave was a lone grave. They have each other. I'm not sure exactly why that was comforting, but it was.
If I had to go (and I did), I'm glad I went today. I was sure the first time would be the hardest, but whether I go ten more times or a thousand more times - how could it possibly get any easier to look down on my son's grave?
I miss him a thousand times a day.
We've been waiting for the marker to be set, but Scott is the one who goes to check. I knew I couldn't go to Greg's grave before the marker was set. I wondered if I would be able to go once it was.
When Scott sent me the text about the marker, I was on my way out the door to see Dr. Woowoo.
It's a beautiful day today - temperature in the low 60s - sunny - very little wind. By the time I arrived at Woowoo's, I knew that as soon as my appointment was over, I would go to the cemetery.
I think the first time will be the hardest. I know that I don't want to go to bed tonight, thinking about going to the cemetery tomorrow. I want to get it over with - no matter the emotional cost. I need to go today.
Woowoo suggested that I might not want to go alone, but there was no time to pick Michael up. I left Woowoo's at 3:00. The gates to the cemetery close at 4:15. I had to go straight to the cemetery.
I drive through the huge, heavy, black, wrought iron gates of the cemetery and before I go fifty feet, I pull over and stop the car. I have no idea where I am. Nothing looks familiar. Am I at the right cemetery? I am completely lost.
Greg is buried with his father, so this is not the first time I've been to this cemetery, but I feel like I'm in the wrong place - and I start to panic. Where am I? Is this the right place? Why doesn't this look familiar?
At that moment, Scott calls and for a minute, I pretend that everything is fine.
Answering the phone, "Scott's mom. May I help you?" (My friendly, customer service greeting. I'm the only one that thinks it's funny, but that doesn't stop me)
"Hi Mom. Where are you?"
"I decided to go to the cemetery today, I just got here a few minutes ago. I'm right inside the gate."
And then my voice breaks. "I'm lost, Scott. I don't know where I am. Am I at the right cemetery?"
He talks to me for about 10 minutes - quietly - calmly - describing where the grave is. "Look for the tree," he says.
Greg and his father are buried under a tree.
Nothing he says makes any sense to me. "Drive toward the circle, but don't go around the circle. Before the road goes around the circle, look to your right. You'll see the tree."
I can't move.
"How did you get there, Mom? Which way did you decide to go from your doctor's?"
I'm calmer now - calm enough to know that this is the third time this has happened to me since Greg died. Twice before I was driving and suddenly... I was lost. I had no idea where I was. Nothing looked familiar. I didn't even know what road I was on. Everything else was okay - I was just completely disoriented. Both of those times, everything cleared up in a couple of minutes. Maybe I can simply wait this one out, too.
And then there's a small clearing in my mind. "I turned left from the main road and drove down to the second gate, which is where I am now. I'm about 50 feet inside the second gate."
He goes over the directions again and I still don't understand, but I'm no longer panicked. "I think I'm going to unload my scooter before I run out of time. I'll find the graves. I'm okay." (I really wasn't okay, but I knew I was close enough.) "Thank you so much for calling when you did. Your timing couldn't have been better. I love you, Scott."
We hang up and I unload the scooter - still not knowing where I am, but feeling confident that if I just move forward, this confusion will pass.
I sit there on the scooter, behind the car for about 5 minutes and then start moving toward where I think the graves are. (This is a HUGE cemetery) Within 100 feet of the car, I know where I am - and I see the tree.
I find Greg's grave - right next to his father - and the pain and heartbreak cut through the fog and I can't control the sobs. My son. My boy. My sweet Greg. Gone. At this moment, life makes no sense at all to me - and has no purpose. I wish there was a hole for me.
The man who locks the gate at dusk interrupts my grief to tell me that I have to go. It's time to lock the gates.
As I head back to my car, I'm grateful for the interruption - and that the cemetery locks their gates at dusk. If they didn't, I don't know if I'd be able to leave.
I load my scooter into the back of my van, move my oxygen machine to the back seat of the car and plug it in. As I climb into the driver's seat, I try to be present. I try not to live in "10 minutes ago" - or in tomorrow. Think about now. Think about turning around and going through the gate. One step at a time. One minute at a time.
I call Michael and tell him that I'm on my way home. That's all I can tell him. He doesn't ask any questions. He just tells me he'll be glad to see me. He reminds me to let him know when I get home so that he can help with the oxygen. I am grateful.
It was impossibly hard to see my son's grave, but in retrospect, it was comforting that Greg and his father are buried together. Neither grave was a lone grave. They have each other. I'm not sure exactly why that was comforting, but it was.
If I had to go (and I did), I'm glad I went today. I was sure the first time would be the hardest, but whether I go ten more times or a thousand more times - how could it possibly get any easier to look down on my son's grave?
I miss him a thousand times a day.
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