Geese

We did several surgeries, changed and went to the memorial service for a 19 month old child of one of our surgeons. Our office manager arranged a shuttle. The surgeons on duty split their day. I have been to more funerals than I can count, but this was heavier. Infinitely more massive. I guess about 500 people attended, cried quietly, did what they could, which was not much. Piano player as the crowd straggled in, fine, until one song, and the tears became choked and smothered sobs. Only after did I completely figure out what it was, the one song as a child that irresistibly forced tears. Baby of Mine from Dumbo. Obviously, I was not the only one who reacted so.

The surgeon, well, I've heard the term gutted before, but I've never seen it until today. Grey and gaunt, if his guts had been yanked out of him, tripping him as he walked, it would not have seemed worse. When his mother, speaking German, bid her granddaughter adieu at the grave, I had to restrain myself from running to her, to hold her close. I held myself in, this is not my grief, I only carry a slight weight of it for an hour. Not enough to notice, but a gesture, only.

Waves of grief, echoed around, gaping empty loss, not just this one, but all our griefs. I wore Aunt Evelyn's kilt, and although this added to my tears - it also comforted me. The minister at one point asked us what song was sung by those we had lost. It took me a while, and he had not meant it so literally, but it came to me. Aunt Evelyn sang:

Hail, hail, the gang's all here!/What the heck do we care?/We don't wear no underwear! (Around my mother, I had to use the expurgated "We don't need no car fare") / Hail, hail, the gang's all here/ What the heck do we care, now?

Then we went back to work, and finished the day. My head and eyes are swollen, eroded. Brain exhausted of thought, drained of emotion. A furry black sponge sits beside me, a comfort, a joy.

When I spoke to my mother yesterday, she told me how she's tried to ease my SIL's anger at me for my decade out of contact, explaining it as a defense of my husband. My mother seems to see my father's abuse as me "not getting along" with him. (Apparently, it was my job - as the child, to create the relationship, and he, as the adult, was not.) My SIL believes in family above all - and never saw my father's malevolence. My mother also spoke of having more money now than she ever expected to have, I believe from various life insurance policies my father set up. Good for her, he did work hard and saved money - one of his good points - no question. Especially given that we lived on the edge of the poverty line. But then she makes a point of telling me she's done her will, which divides what is left among the three of us. My stomach sinks, I won't be bought. My love has no price.


D helps me work through this. Because of him, I have the courage to drop my end of the rope, and wait to see. (After all, in the ten years that she may well live, it will be all gone anyway.) That kind of non-action slowly rolled my brain around through the night, and kept me from sleep for many long hours. Part of me wants to make a statement, refuse any inheritance. On the other hand, the Army paid me $300 a month in separation pay from the (not then yet) ex for six months, something for the years of hell. I want to tell my eldest brother, the executor, to leave me out of this, I won't take a penny. And I may not, in the end. If there is anything after all, which seems unlikely as ever.

I don't know what will happen, and I'm not yet content with that. Time enough to defer, and ignore. To bide.

As we approached the gravesite, three Canadian geese honked overhead. I imagine a little girl would have been delighted. I will remember the geese. Much loved child, she lived a perfect life, never been lonely, never been lied to, never had to shuffle in fear, nothing denied to. The suffering is to those left.