In a recent conversation with a friend, I made mention of the fact that my son Christopher will be 18 years old in a couple weeks. I always affectionately refer to that as the "kick Christopher out of my house" day - not so much for the fact that I want to kick him out of my house, but that I want him to grow and be influenced in the ways that only firsthand life experiences can teach a person. I myself left home shortly after I turned 18, and the world was a completely different place than living at home with my parents. More challenging. More unpredictable. But with it came the freedom of choice; the control to make my own decisions - for better or for worse - and in those "for worse" instances I experienced the biggest growth moments. This is what I hope for my son - because in having those experiences he will be tested and shaped into the man he is destined to become.
I talk a good "strict parent" game, but in truth I attempt to give Christopher as much freedom as possible. I don't want to be so controlling of his environment that I limit his ability to develop friendships, to have some fun once in a while... so what invariably happens is I find myself very frustrated that he doesn't comply with my wishes (i.e. chores, homework, etc.) but still manages to obtain the reward. When I read that statement back, the first thought that pops into my head is this: Shirley, that's because you aren't a very good parent. And I readily recognize this fact. I have friends who have children - sometimes they aren't even THEIR children! but by virtue of relationship they have to deal with them; as in, boyfriend's children from a previous relationship - that make it appear so easy and effortless, I feel doubly guilty that I either missed out on the "good parenting skills" gene, or it was so under-developed that it's completely useless now.
Christopher has gotten in the bad habit lately to be very vague in his whereabouts. It's all "I'm going to the park to hang out with my friends, Mom," or "I'll be back before dark, Mom," and because I feel powerless to lay down any concrete laws, I respond, "Okay. Have fun." So this was the set-up to this morning's situation: last night after dinner - we did have dinner together, my son and I - Christopher informed me that he was going to "so-n-so's house for a birthday party" and that he would be getting a ride home from whoever. Fighting my immediate urge to yell, "No, you CAN'T!" I merely said, "It's kind of late to be going out, isn't it?" But in the end Christopher left to go to the party, and I eventually went to sleep, knowing he could get in through the garage when "whoever" brought him home.
Fast forward to Sunday morning (today). Intending to go to church - I attend a lot of church on Sundays, mostly because of my choir involvement - I took a shower, got dressed, heated up my coffee from the day before... then I checked the garage door that opens up into the kitchen. Unlocked. Normally what is supposed to happen is Christopher comes in through the garage, then locks this door (which prevents anyone from breaking into our house through the garage). So I go to his bedroom and poke my head in.
He's not in his room.
For the next hour or so I text all of his friends (and their mothers) I have numbers for; trying to find out about the party, if anyone has seen Christopher (after texting and calling his cellphone and getting no answer).. finally, FINALLY, I get a text from an unrecognizeable number from my son, telling me that "he accidently fell asleep" at his friend's house. I told him to call me, and when he did I got the address of the friend's house and went immediately to pick him up. I couldn't say anything to him on the drive home, but Christopher knew I was pissed off.
We get home; Christopher scurries off to his room, and I go and text everyone I had contacted earlier (including his dad) to let them know I had found him. Then I called him out to the front room.
I am hoping that with this conversation, Christopher has a new understanding for what it's like for me, having lost the Bunny, to wake up and find out "my son didn't come home last night." I told Christopher that he is my only son, and I am his only mom... and I needed him to realize that I need him to help, because I feel so alone a lot of the time; I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. Falling asleep at his friend's house wasn't a big deal to him - but it had a significant impact on me - very much like throwing vinegar into an open wound just to see the injured person writhe in pain and agony. I know he didn't intend it, but I had to open his eyes to the fact that if he isn't able to help me, for God's sake! Don't make me hurt worse.
The last thing I told Christoper is that I hoped he would never have to go through the experience of having someone he loved not come home one day, because as far as experiences go, that one really sucks. In this instance, I am hoping that Christopher can grow vicariously through MY experience - to realize how a person's actions influence those around him or her, that nobody lives in a vacuum.
And I wait for my own growth moment. But I'm guessing I have to get rid of the concrete first.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
At The Park
I recently made a decision to accept a position at a local cemetery. No, I'm not going to be a grave-digger. My actual role is helping families pre-plan their funeral arrangements (which includes purchasing cemetery property) with the idea that a) through pre-planning a person can dictate how their "final celebration" will go, and b) it removes the burden from distraught loved ones so they don't have to make all of these time-critical decisions at potentially the worst moment of their lives.
People that know me in real life might think it odd that I would choose to immerse myself in activities so closely aligned with death, given my experiences with the Bunny and all of that. But I look at it from the perspective that who better to counsel people on why pre-planning is so important? I have had the unique experience of experiencing the death of someone very close to me, and but for one sentence - one instruction I carry with me - I would have no idea of what the Bunny would have wanted me to do in terms of "memorializing" or "final resting place." I wouldn't want to guess, and then feel guilty that I made the right decision. This is what I intend to help my families avoid.
I've been in training for my new job for a week now, and it has been fairly difficult emotionally speaking. I'm not the sort of person to share my personal stuff easily, so almost none of the other newbies in my training class know of my history. Even my director doesn't know it - it only became relevant for me to share in two conversations with two different people. And my ongoing challenge in working with families going forward - as it has always been in the life insurance business - is how to connect with those families on a meaningful level WITHOUT being in the position that I have to keep reliving my own loss. As I've always said: I like a challenge.
This organization is one of the largest of it's kind in the world, and I have had the benefit of hearing many stories from our trainers (who are the Sales Directors)... I have been in plenty of sales organizations that always talk a good game of "treat the customer well" and so forth, but I have to say that I have never been in an organization that really made me believe, in my gut, that there was some other underlying motivation beyond "selling a lot of product." In this case, the organization really means it when they've been telling us all week long: "The family comes first. Take care of the family, and the sales will follow." Customers are not "customers" - they are families. They are human beings. And we ARE dealing with death.
This is the perfect role for someone like me. I have a very strong internal sense of "helping" my fellow man. And in this case, everyone on the planet will need what I've got at some point in their lives. As it has been said, "Death is no respector of time." Boy, do I know that, and then some!
It was almost accidental that I got to this position. In fact, there were things going on the day of my first interview, and I almost blew it off. But the more that I am learning, the more I realize that this could be a meaningful part of "the rest of my life" - the concept that still brings me to tears. Why am I still here? What important stuff do I need to still do, that I am here without the Bunny - literally the love of my life?
Coincidentally, I made earlier mention of the Bunny's friend who also died in the accident. He is buried at the Park (that's what they call the grounds - and it really does look like a park, very serene and peaceful and beautiful). On Thursday, I took my lunch and sat in my car just outside the chapel where his services were held. At that time, the Bunny was still alive, at least physically. I just sat there, and reminisced, and absorbed the beauty of my surroundings. I was amazed that a whole year and a half has gone by! Life keeps moving ahead. I'm still moving ahead... not as fast as I have historically, but faster than I was at the start of this journey; the one where I embark on "the rest of my life."
My house renovations are nearly complete. The house is beautiful; it has a lot of the "Shirley feel" built into it. But if you look closely, you can still see some traces of the Bunny. I think he would have liked how everything came out. And believing that he would have makes me all the more determined that I will enjoy it, and enjoy my life... for the both of us.
People that know me in real life might think it odd that I would choose to immerse myself in activities so closely aligned with death, given my experiences with the Bunny and all of that. But I look at it from the perspective that who better to counsel people on why pre-planning is so important? I have had the unique experience of experiencing the death of someone very close to me, and but for one sentence - one instruction I carry with me - I would have no idea of what the Bunny would have wanted me to do in terms of "memorializing" or "final resting place." I wouldn't want to guess, and then feel guilty that I made the right decision. This is what I intend to help my families avoid.
I've been in training for my new job for a week now, and it has been fairly difficult emotionally speaking. I'm not the sort of person to share my personal stuff easily, so almost none of the other newbies in my training class know of my history. Even my director doesn't know it - it only became relevant for me to share in two conversations with two different people. And my ongoing challenge in working with families going forward - as it has always been in the life insurance business - is how to connect with those families on a meaningful level WITHOUT being in the position that I have to keep reliving my own loss. As I've always said: I like a challenge.
This organization is one of the largest of it's kind in the world, and I have had the benefit of hearing many stories from our trainers (who are the Sales Directors)... I have been in plenty of sales organizations that always talk a good game of "treat the customer well" and so forth, but I have to say that I have never been in an organization that really made me believe, in my gut, that there was some other underlying motivation beyond "selling a lot of product." In this case, the organization really means it when they've been telling us all week long: "The family comes first. Take care of the family, and the sales will follow." Customers are not "customers" - they are families. They are human beings. And we ARE dealing with death.
This is the perfect role for someone like me. I have a very strong internal sense of "helping" my fellow man. And in this case, everyone on the planet will need what I've got at some point in their lives. As it has been said, "Death is no respector of time." Boy, do I know that, and then some!
It was almost accidental that I got to this position. In fact, there were things going on the day of my first interview, and I almost blew it off. But the more that I am learning, the more I realize that this could be a meaningful part of "the rest of my life" - the concept that still brings me to tears. Why am I still here? What important stuff do I need to still do, that I am here without the Bunny - literally the love of my life?
Coincidentally, I made earlier mention of the Bunny's friend who also died in the accident. He is buried at the Park (that's what they call the grounds - and it really does look like a park, very serene and peaceful and beautiful). On Thursday, I took my lunch and sat in my car just outside the chapel where his services were held. At that time, the Bunny was still alive, at least physically. I just sat there, and reminisced, and absorbed the beauty of my surroundings. I was amazed that a whole year and a half has gone by! Life keeps moving ahead. I'm still moving ahead... not as fast as I have historically, but faster than I was at the start of this journey; the one where I embark on "the rest of my life."
My house renovations are nearly complete. The house is beautiful; it has a lot of the "Shirley feel" built into it. But if you look closely, you can still see some traces of the Bunny. I think he would have liked how everything came out. And believing that he would have makes me all the more determined that I will enjoy it, and enjoy my life... for the both of us.
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