Today I drove Bucksquat to the other side of the state to put flowers on his Father's grave. Although his Dad died in July of 2004, his ashes were not interred until July of last year. His ashes were sitting in a cardboard box, unpaid, on a funeral home shelf until early last summer. Some very kind folks at the Division of Family Services figured out a way to pay them off so Bucksquat and his 3 older sisters could finally bury their father, gain some closure and begin to move on with their fractured lives.
After their father's death, their mother's ongoing mental illness errupted in alternating cycles of raging physical violence and deplorable neglect. I can't remember which happened first: the house was foreclosed upon or it was condemned. I guess it doesn't matter which happened first. The end result is the 3 children at home were taken. The eleven year old had already left home and was living on the streets by the time Social Services stepped in.
The service last year at the grave was beyond bizarre. Bucksquat, then the youngest at 9, took turns wrapping his arm around a sister, stroking another's hair, dabbing a kleenex at the corner of another sister's eye, and alternating squeezing an arm or patting their backs. These girls were 13, 15 and 18. The girls, in turn, wept tearlessly, and sobbed or sniffled in response to Bucksquat's exaggerated and dramatic flourishes. Not one child exhibited what we, or the social workers in attendance, felt was a single sincere emotion. It was surreal. They were all acting out what they thought they should be feeling if they were cast in a "made for TV movie". Authentic emotions were not to be found among the siblings. How can you call up (on cue) authentic emotions of grief and sadness four years after the fact?? It was so bizarre and painful to witness.
So today, while Bucksquat wiped decaying grass clippings off the flat brass military marker, and filled a vase with spraying water from the nearby spigot, and arranged the purple and white Alstremeria flowers tied with a purple ribbon (Dad's favorite color was purple, you know), I respectfully stood nearby with my head down and hands folded in front. Head bowed, I made my own communion with the dearly departed spirit of Bucksquat's Dad. I had a just a few questions for him.
* Why didn't you make arrangements for an appropriate caregiver for your children, when, for more than a year you knew you were dying from your illness? Wouldn't you find a home for your dog if you knew you were dying?
* You knew their mother was crazy and physically abusive. Did you think your death would change her instability?
* You knew there was no life insurance, no money, no way to feed a family or maintain a home. What did you think would happen to them?
* Where did you think they would go?
On the outside I was somber and reflective. On the inside I was seething with rage. I figured I, too, could pretend I was in a "made for TV movie" and act out what I was supposed to be feeling.
It wasn't so bizarre.
I am so glad I made my way over to you. Must spend a ridiculous amount of time, now, reading old posts!
ReplyDeleteYou're blaming the dead because they didn't want to face all the problems of their death, some of which they couldn't foresee and others which he couldn't afford (where do you get life insurance when you're dying?) You might have mentioned how when he was alive he stabilized his family and kept them together as any good family man would. Just because he wasn't rich in health or money didn't mean he didn't value the real worth he had–his family. Shame on you and on those social workers who probably never offered the mother services until after they took the children. Family Preservation Services might have saved this family... if the mother had been able to get them before he died...
ReplyDeleteThe family has already grieved alot, the burial just brings closure to fact he's gone... You can't expect much more several years after he's gone. If they'd weeped and grieved like it happened last week then they would have needed counseling.