July 26, 2021
I thought it was going to be like T.V. Anne and I would go to the morgue and the white coated coroner would slide out his body for us to identity. If that had been the case, there would have been the faint chance that Elliot was still alive and that there had been a mistake.
But they did not need us to go to the morgue. The coroner does not work in the middle of the night and would not be in until morning. We were not invited. We were not allowed to go. It is not like T.V.
Instead, Anne and I had to wait and wait and wait. Waiting is a hollowing activity. When your child has died and you cannot see them, emptiness grows in your body. As time goes on you start to feel like a ghost, insubstantial. It is as if someone could walk right through you.
We were not allowed to meet see him right away at the mortuary either. The mortician called in the afternoon to say that he had Elliot’s body now and that the autopsy was over. My first request was no chemicals, but that would mean the funeral would need to happen in three days or less and that the casket would need to be closed. Why have we professionalized death so much that nobody ever touches it? Why is it not normal for parents to care for their child after he has died? People should be there to help, but it is wrong to isolate people from their loved ones after death. When Elliot died, I did not get called to the hospital. I did not go to the morgue. I did not get to see him until the blood in his veins had been replaced with preservatives. Our priest advised us that the children needed an open casket at the funeral. He was right. So, we waited until after he was embalmed to see him.
I regret that I did not fight harder to see him as he was, but I was a ghost and everything that was happening went right through my body. What did I have to fight with? Could I manage to grab car keys and drive to the mortuary? Would I be able to find my way there? Would I be able to open the door? By this time, the house was full of people. It was so noisy, but it was difficult to distinguish the buzz of friends and family from the clamor inside my head.
Anne and I arrived at the chapel some time in the afternoon. Elliot was in the front in a hospital gown. It looked like Elliot, but can you really know for sure? Maybe they had made a model of his body. Drawing near the reality started to set in. It was him. He needed a haircut, and his toenails were too long. This was really my son. His hands were so white and peaceful.
I thought that I was already hollow, but in those moments, the joy that had been breathed into my soul the day he was born was sucked out and I could not breath. My boy. My boy.
The back of his head was cut from the autopsy. His neck had a faint mark from his belt. He and I had the same belt. I bought it for him with his blue suit, the suit we would bury him in. How could that faint mark cause his death?
Anne and I kissed him, held him, combed our fingers through his hair. We cried and the tears landed on his skin. Death could not erase Elliot’s existence. Joy was gone, but as I held my son’s body, I slowly started to breath in sorrow and loss. He and I both had substance. I treasure the moments I had with his body. I was no longer insubstantial. He was no longer insubstantial. We were together, the three of us like the day he was born. I was hurting now, and pain is far better than emptiness.
