By Kristie Williams
Aaron met me at the entrance where I was waiting in my car parked beside one of the stone pillars that welcomed visitors. The steady rain was no deterrent to him as he quickly exited the municipal pickup he was driving to come to my window. Though he did not smile, he had a pleasant look on his face and approached me with his eyebrows raised ready and willing to do as I needed. I rolled the window down and said, “I’m just so sorry that you had to meet me to do this on a day like today, if I could do it without your help, or on any other day I gladly would.” He smiled and two gold teeth right in the front sparkled as he said, “No, ma’am, I’m glad to do it and would do it any time.” And, I didn’t doubt him, but a part of me wanted him to say, “Nope, sorry, ma’am, we can’t do this when it’s raining. It messes up the landscaping.” But, he didn’t, and his eyebrows rose as his smile leveled out waiting for me to speak again. I was hoping he would take the lead, but I said, “Ok, I guess, I will just drive around until I see a spot and point it out to you somehow, right?” Tiny raindrops rolled off the bill of his hat as he gave a looping nod and said, “That’ll work.”
This seemed so inefficient and time consuming; in other words painful, even without the stinging ambiance of gloomy rain. So, I rolled up the window and began creeping the car along the paved grid of Roselawn Cemetery. Three of our kids and I had briefly come home to Athens, Alabama, from Memphis, Tennessee, where Eli, our third child and oldest son, was being treated at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital for metastatic medulloblastoma – brain cancer. At seven years old, just four days after a Christmas where he felt too sick to see what Santa brought him, he was diagnosed and whisked away that same day to LeBonheur Children’s Hospital in Memphis for resection of the originating tumor. We would learn that he had more than half-a-dozen tumors on his brain as well as up and down his spine. His spinal fluid was infected and during surgery the doctor discovered a “sugar-coating” of disease that had seeped into his gray matter. The next 10 months, as a patient of St. Jude, he would endure multiple surgeries, high-dose radiation to his brain and spine, and high-dose chemotherapy––all the while, fighting the peripheral effects of the toxic treatment, such as the destruction of his immune system leaving him vulnerable to death by common cold. It was now summer and Eli was in the middle of his chemotherapy cycles. His immune system had bottomed out as expected, so my husband, Vic, stayed with him during quarantine because he could work remotely for his job, and he is much better suited for eight straight, isolated hours of video-gaming for days in a row than I am. Eli was doing well. Having completed radiation and two of the four chemo courses at this time, he was really having some good days.
A week or so prior to our brief trip home, I was reading the blog of a mother whose daughter fights the same brain cancer as Eli. The little girl had been hand-in-hand with death waiting for the door to open when she made an extraordinary turnaround almost literally from one day to the next. I’m paraphrasing, but she wrote that one day she was picking out the white dress in which her daughter would be buried and the next day she was doing something like basically planning a vacation. My heart hung on the white dress. This wearied mother, during what was thought to be the last precious moments with her child on earth, had chores. I became terrified. Envisioning now what those moments were for her led me to thoughts of what it would be like for me.
My weakness during Eli’s fight so far has been manageable; but if this were me, my heart and soul would be crushed, rending me devoid of emotional, mental, and physical strength. How was she able to do this? How was she able to plan her child’s funeral during those last intensely focused moments at her bedside? I would have no cognitive strength. I would not be able to focus on anything but watching his chest rise and fall with each breath wondering if that one was the last. Neither would I want someone to plan my son’s funeral for me. The last public recognition of his soul existing on earth must have my hand and heart in it. I was troubled by this peek into a possible future, but was grateful for the unintentional forewarning. It made common sense that we should prepare for such an event that required attention and planning while I was emotionally stable.
So, with an aching dread in my heart, I secured a babysitter and made an appointment with a funeral director. I had only been to Limestone Chapel one other time for a visitation. I trotted up to the door trying to lessen the effects of the rain on my hair, and it gave a soft chime as I entered. A man greeted me and alerted Mr. Blythe to my arrival. I only had time for one cleansing sigh before Mr. Blythe came out of his office. Now that I was in the building, I felt confident in our decision to do this and I was ready to get down to business. He led me to a plain white door that looked like a closet door, but when he opened it and I stepped inside my breath left me. Behind the subtle door the room opened like a chasm and I suddenly felt very small and lost. Despite the airiness, the room was heavy and I began to smother under its weight, feeling my hands become clammy and my mouth dry. Mr. Blythe stepped in from behind me and gently gestured toward a chair that sat at a small conference table immediately upon entering. I shook off the initial shock of seeing the casket-lined walls, small models of vaults, and rows of urns, and took the seat that was offered. Mr. Blythe spoke softly as he patiently schooled me on caskets, cemeteries, and funeral services.
When we were done, he gave me a Limestone Chapel umbrella and led me in his car to the Athens Cemetery Department where I met Whitney. She had a map of the cemetery in the office, and said she would ask Aaron, who also had a map in the field, to meet me at the entrance to Roselawn. So, with that plan, I thanked Mr. Blythe, and headed to the cemetery. After meeting Aaron at the entrance, I drove around slowly toward an open area and stopped. The rain made the procedure even more awkward than it already was, but I took the umbrella I was given and got out. I just motioned toward the big empty area. He got out with a big laminated map in hand that had turned yellow and soft from being rolled and unrolled for many years. He held it up and turned it around and around in his hands to get his bearings then called Whitney. Nope, that’s sold. We went a little further and did it again. Nope, that’s sold. Turned down another pathway and did it again. Nope, that’s sold.
Ready and willing to give up, I drove down the back drive. I got out and stood at an open area on a slope between the city road and the cemetery drive. I just shrugged my shoulders at him. He turned the map around and around while he talked to Whitney and then gave me a thumbs-up; finally. I didn’t know what to ask about the plots. The area was kind of to itself, not lost in the middle of the hundreds of other tombstones and there were some big trees nearby. Did it matter? Not really, but I needed something besides “it wasn’t sold” on which to base a decision. So, I stood in the middle of the open area and Aaron walked the perimeter to show me exactly where the boundaries were. He talked about drainage and the landscaping that had been planted along the road. So, I said, “Ok, well, hold block 189 for us,” and then I told him that I would pay Whitney after I had discussed it with Vic but that he was in Memphis with Eli. I gave him an Eli bracelet with a quick explanation and a thank you for helping me, especially in the rain. He said, “Thank you,” then stood kind of motionless for a second looking at the bracelet. He shook his head and looked up and said he was sorry to hear about Eli. Then he held that bracelet in his hand and kind of pointed it at me and said, “I’m gonna hold this block for ya for as long as you want me to. But you ain’t gonna have to use one no time soon, so don’t you worry about it.” He put his head down again and frowned as he slipped the bracelet on and said under his breath, “No ma’am, no time soon.” Then he hesitantly gave me a little half hug because he was moved to do so and just couldn’t help it.
I, genuinely and honestly, do not see how anyone can face a tragedy or hardship without having understood that earth is a pilgrimage. Sitting around the hospital at St. Jude and watching children scurry around on forearm crutches, or parents pull red wagons with little bald heads peeking out from under a blanket, I wonder how one even has hope if this life is it. What is the hope if it is not heaven? Because of our acceptance that this “world is not my home,” and the fact that Eli is not to the age of understanding sin, we are in a win-win situation. Eli either lives and is a testament to God’s power, or he is rewarded with a home in heaven as God has promised. Evil has already lost.