Planning the Funeral

“Whoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story. That is his duty.”

Ellie Wiesel

September 26, 2017 started the beginning of a new “normal” for our family. The sun rose without any remorse that my son was no longer with us. It cared not that we hadn’t slept, that we had spent hours and hours weeping, sobbing, begging, pleading, praying for a miracle with no avail. I have no recollection of where I laid my head down that night. We arrived from the hospital after midnight. I remember collapsing on my couch surrounded by my mom and other family members. My mother, a stronger woman than I could ever be, made the complicated tasks of calling loved ones that hadn’t heard the tragic news. I rested my swollen, drenched eyes on the couch’s pillow. I don’t recall much after that moment. Everything after that comes in vague, obscure pictures. Zombie-like is a what I use to describe myself in those days after the tragedy. The pain makes it near impossible to function rationally, much less think clearly. But death has a funny way of showing apathy towards your feelings. Arrangements still had to be made for my baby boy. I had to plan a funeral.

That day, which was a Tuesday, CPS came to visit. Anytime a child dies, it is protocol to do an investigation. Three employees from CPS talked to me and asked me what had happened the day before. I retold my story. I talked about the events leading up to his disappearance. I recalled the moment we found him. The tears never stopped. The pain in my chest must’ve been felt by all those listening because tears were being wiped away from their faces. I remember hating every bit of that situation. Telling the story of my son no longer being on this earth just made it all too real. I wanted to wake up from the nightmare, not relive it by having to explain what had happened. They wanted to speak to other members of the family that were there especially to Amee, my 7 year old daughter. They gave me their card and asked, “demanded,” that we take her to their facility for a personal interview. I agreed at that moment. I just wanted them to go away. Our family members from Freer had arrived during their interview and all I needed was to be held by them. CPS gave me their condolences, their business card, and said they would keep in touch. I immediately went to grandma and fell into her petite body for a full embrace. I crumbled into a million pieces all over again. I thought I was being strong for her while she wept in my arms, but she was the one holding me up.

I spent most of those days outside, wandering, weeping, and praying it was all a nightmare. I spent many hours in the pond, where my Pebs and I would frequent during our days together. My sister, with the help of my cousins and close friends, had the arduous task of finding a funeral home for our Pebs. I never even had thought about it. The first time I even heard of planning the funeral was when my sister asked me where I wanted him buried. I have no idea of the day we had a discussion about it, but one thing I was adamant about, was that I didn’t want my son buried in a cemetery where I had to drive and visit. I wanted, needed him with me. I was going to get him cremated. I wanted to place his ashes in my home. I was going to have some of his ashes placed in necklaces for me and many of our family members. I’m so grateful that no one questioned my decision. It didn’t feel right to have him buried with strangers where I could only visit him. My brain couldn’t make rational choices at that time, but i was unwavering about having him cremated. My sister began the unbearable duty of calling around for cremation and funeral services. We settled for Clayton Funeral services and went for a visit 3 days after my Pebs left this earth.

My parents, Rock, and my sister were all present as we made decisions about his casket, the different fees, colors, etcetera, etcetera. All I cared about was what necklace options did they have to carry his ashes. It was torturous sitting in that room, talking to the funeral director about how I “wanted” my son funeral service. I DIDN’T WANT ANY OF IT!!! I wanted to wake up from the nightmare. I wanted my Pebs back! I wanted him in my arms. I wanted to see him run, jump, clap, sing, dance, point, smile, laugh, cry, and be alive! I hated it. Every minute of it. And still, we had to make decisions. We had to give them a payment. We had to face the painful reality.

I chose a heart cremation pendant for our family and friends, a baseball one for Rocky, and a moon-shaped one for myself. I was trying to think of a way to show my gratitude to all those who were trying desperately to help us. This was my way of thanking them. I couldn’t buy everyone one, but I tried to give to as many as we could. I knew many, many of our family and friends loved my little boy. I needed to share him. I wanted to try and heal their hearts as well. I wasn’t the only one hurting.

We had so many people help plan for this depressing day. One of our friends made us green shirts with our Pebs face in the front and a beautiful quote on the back. Someone else made us green Pebble bracelets for all to wear. My aunt from down south had photo bins made with my Pebs face and dates. We had our softball family start a gofundme to help raise money for the funeral expenses. It was unbelievable how many people came together to help us survive this awful reality. We had my cousin help with producing a video of my sweet boy. This was nearly impossible for Rock and I to successfully complete without dying inside. Thankfully, we had loved ones that came to the rescue. All the while, I just survived. I wasn’t living. Life, as I had known it, was over. I was going to have to be reborn and live a new life without him. I wasn’t ready to move on. I didn’t have the strength. I hadn’t accepted the truth. I wasn’t ready. So, I just lived. I was on autopilot. I was dead inside but alive for others to see.

One of the pastors from our church directed the service. He had came earlier in the week to speak to Rock and me. He wanted to get to know us a bit better, to get to know more of Pebs, and to pray with us for strength, healing, and peace. Pastor Billy did an amazing job or that’s what I was told. I don’t remember the actual service. They said it was standing room only. That many couldn’t come inside because it was packed from wall to wall. We had one of our friends purchase pigeons to be released for the service, so we walked outside for this special moment. Loved ones were able to release the pigeons while a beautiful song was playing in the background, or so I was told. We walked back inside and have no idea what we said or how it ended but they told me I didn’t want to leave his casket. I was over him, crying, sobbing, unwilling to leave him.

After the service, we had a gathering at the house. We had food, drinks, and releasing of balloons in memory of our sweet boy. The house was packed with cars parked in the front and the back of the house. We had so many people there, supporting us, hugging us, and giving us their love and encourage us to keep moving. Again, a loved one went out of their way to purchase all the balloons and have them ready for this special moment. I have no idea how any of this could of been possible without our great circle of loved ones. I said some words before the release. I don’t know what I said. I’m sure it’s written down in all of my Pebble writings. I wanted to let all of them know, everyone that had traveled for hundred of miles or just a few, that our family will forever be grateful for their support, for their presence, and for their love for my Pebs. Once everyone had a balloon and wrote a sweet note on it, we released them together. The one thing that I had asked was to say “go, go, go” when we let them go. His favorite little phrase that he loved to say. We all said, “go, go, go” in unison as the balloons lifted higher and higher to the sky. The moon being present at the release of the balloons before dusk made it all more emotional yet so perfect in a melancholic but beautiful way. I really missed my son. I would’ve rather had him running in the yard, jumping for the moon instead of a house packed full of loved ones celebrating his life. I would’ve preferred seeing his angelic smile rather than our loved ones tears. My heart ached. It was shattered. Broken. I wanted to be lifted with those balloons. I wanted to leave this earth with them, float away and never feel pain again.

My Pebble shirt from this day is dingy, faded from all the times I’ve worn it and washed it. I’ve made others with a new logo that a sweet friend made for us in memory of our baby boy. The presents, gifts, cards, and intangible objects given to us on this day, before, and after we lost Pebs is impossible to describe. Regardless if I can remember them or not, I know they were a piece of the puzzle that helped us keep moving, to keep trying to “go, go, go.” Every time we had someone send us a message, a card, dinner, a smile, a surprise visit, a hug, a walk in the park, a book, a prayer, a plant, a bracelet, a loving word it gave us a tad bit of strength to take another step forward. Planning my son’s funeral, making decisions during a time that thinking isn’t even an option was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The service was beautiful because of our loved ones. It was successful because of all of those that were in our lives to help get it done, all those that cared for us. I will be forever grateful for them. We are blessed with such amazing, loving, kind, awesome family and friends.

December 2017 with Amee at her school celebrating Christmas. I had cried every day since I lost my Pebs.

Life didn’t stop just because of my aching heart. The funeral was the first step of acceptance. Many emotions followed from that moment. It wasn’t closure. It was facing reality. It was accepting a truth that was so painful, so awful, so agonizing. The funeral only caused my broken heart to shatter even more, but it allowed the mending to begin. Slowly. Painfully. Tearfully. My son wanted me to go, go, go and that’s what I was planning to do. I had no other choice. I had no other options. I would move forward one day at a time. I would go, go, go.

“Those that sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them. “

Psalm 126:5-6

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

Psalm 23:4