Wedding Flashbacks

As of this Saturday, Kyeorda and I will have been married for five years, something that is hard for me to believe. It just does not feel like it has been that long. To celebrate, we took a trip to Toronto this past weekend. It had been a while since we had taken a real vacation, our honeymoon in fact. While preparing for the trip, we ended up walking through our wedding day and each day of our honeymoon. I am not sure that we had ever done that before. It was a beautiful week and a half I wish I could live over again.

But another episode relating to our wedding sprang into my mind recently. We were married on the 20th of August, 2006, but originally, we were to be married on the 13th of August. That date was changed for various reasons. I mention it due to its relevance to Rudy's August 13th shenanigans. I just so happen to still have the emails relating to this so without further ado, I present Rudy and Jesse's trip to New Zealand.

Subject: New Zealand

Jesse, what are you doing on August 13th? I have these two
tickets for a week in New Zealand (all expensives paid)...
you wanna go with me?

- rudy

A free trip? That is awesome. What an awesome friend! We were supposed to go to Michigan for wedding planning that weekend, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, right?

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Wow, let me get a hold of Kye, we're supposed to take a trip back to Michigan for wedding planning and I'll see if I can juggle that around a bit.

Jesse

And so I forwarded the message to Kye and asked about changing our trip.

Subject: New Zealand (fwd)

So, obviously I want to go. Would you want to go back to Michigan really early in August (I know you have a doctors appointment around August 1st). Or maybe we could take the wedding trip at the end of August. Let me know what you think.

Jesse

And then I sent another message to Rudy.

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Dude, how did you get these tickets? Just curious.

Jesse

And Rudy responds...

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Ha ha, I forgot I sent that. Jesse, aren't you getting married on the 13th?

--
- rudy

That message sounds odd.

Subject: Re: New Zealand

13th of August 2006. Was that just a joke then? Sucks to your jokes if it was

And Rudy responds...

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Or is Samantha from Samantha's Creations full of crap?

--
- rudy

Samantha was a wedding planner we hired. That's odd he knows about her. And then Rudy writes...

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Oh man, you are going to kill me aren't you?

--
- rudy

He explores further....

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Wait, you are getting married in 2006? Does Samantha know that? She thinks it is 2005, you might want to make sure she knows that.

--
- rudy

Rudy is generally a fairly astute reader, but perhaps he missed something. I look this up myself. Clearly I am thrilled.

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Dude that was lame. Here is what's on the web. She does have us listed as 2006.

Kyeorda Kemp & Jesse Chvojka of Chicago, Illinois
Sunday, August 13th, 2006
Ceremony & Reception: To Be Determined

You suck,
Jesse

And Rudy responds...

Subject: Re: New Zealand

Maybe she does know... oops... yes, I was trying to pull a fast one on you, but it doesn't work as well if you are not in person... heh heh...

--
- rudy

And I respond in mature form...

Subject: Re: New Zealand

LAAAAAMMMMMMEEEEEE

I omit a few messages because we tried to set up talk on pine, but Rudy concludes...

Subject: Re: Kind of funny when read in sequential order

You have to admit I fooled you big time... I hope you didn't rearrange anything... ha!

--
- rudy

Well, I did in fact start rearranging the schedules of five other people. I'm not sure if Rudy realizes he was on fairly shaky ground with Kye for a while. Incidentally, Rudy did make it to our wedding and waited for another time to travel to New Zealand.

Some people.

Ashes and Sand

One of my earliest memories is sitting in a highchair playing with an hourglass. I felt disturbed by the object. When I flipped it, the sand would slip through the narrow aperture and make a pile at the bottom. Eventually the grains would run out and any outward sign of the passage of time would cease. This alarmed me and I believe contributed to an obsession with the passage of time that I have.

I suspect this memory has persisted due to the next moment that followed. My mother's stepfather, Dell, started an argument with my grandmother during dinner. She stood up in anger. He followed suit and slapped her hard across the face. I don't remember anything other than the complete silence that followed. When I was younger, I did not understand why this happened. Now, I am fairly certain the argument was about my mom, my sister, and myself. He wanted us out of the house. We had been there several weeks. My grandmother refused to kick us out. He eventually forced us out anyhow. She would leave him over this, meet Ron Porubsky, and move up near Farwell with him.

Ron, my grandmother, and great grandmother would be buried just outside of that small town. And when my mom passed, we added half her ashes to the family plot. I cannot help but link this moment with where my mom is buried.

In truth, my mother did not want to be buried near Farwell. I asked her this as we drove by the Surrey Township Cemetery after a visit to my grandma's place. This must have been June, three months before my grandma passed. I asked my mom where she wanted to be buried. She didn't know. I think she didn't know because no place ever really felt like home to her. She felt out of place her entire life.

But I kept this to myself as we sat in the basement of the funeral home mulling the particulars over. In the end we agreed to have half of her ashes buried with our family so part of her never had to be alone. This felt right regardless of what my mom had said. We decided to scatter the other half on a beach on Lake Michigan. My mother adored beaches and sunsets and loved the beaches of Lake Michigan in particular. It felt right.

There were a few beaches from which to choose. We considered Sleeping Bear Dunes, Empire Beach (where Kyeorda and I were married), Saugatuck, and Ludington. Each place had meaning for the family. In the end, we chose Ludington, a place we visited many times with our mom. My last trip there had actually been with my mom, just five days before we found out Kyeorda was pregnant with Micah.

In early May, Karen, Kyeorda, Micah, and I piled into the Jeep and headed to Ludington. My aunt and uncle headed up from Kentucky and Martin came over from Lansing. We met up on a Saturday afternoon. We had hoped to scatter her ashes at sunset, but the sky was a stubborn grey. We opted for the dismal lighting over nighttime and thus after dinner, we headed to a deserted beach.

We chose a place at random. Karen grabbed the box with our mom's ashes and we walked out into a drizzle. Martin and our aunt and uncle had very thoughtfully bought roses which they passed out to each of us before going out to the beach. Once out there, Karen and I were tongue tied and our uncle came through with a beautiful prayer. We then each took a turn scattering her ashes onto the wet sand. The water would roll over the dark grey ashes with white flecks and wash them away. The ones that remained were slowly worked into the sand. We then scattered the roses into the water, a last offering to my mom. Micah was shivering so he and Kyeorda returned to the warmth of the car. The rest of us stood in silence watching the water, unable to just walk away. After a while, the chill was seeping into our bones. Karen took some sand. I looked around trying to drink in the nearby landmarks. And then we left for the hotel to play Euchre for old-times sake.

The next day, I went back to what I now regard as my mom's beach by myself. I wanted to make sure I could find it again and I suppose I still felt unsettled. The beach had become charged with strangeness. I felt a bit of vertigo for a few moments after walking out onto it. The roses were still there, but no sign of the ashes. I wrote a message to her in the sand and then stood feeling the silence. Satisfied, I claimed a sand-encrusted piece of driftwood and left.

Talking to a Ghost

We left Labor Day morning to come back to Chicago. It was a brutal drive. We were worn completely ragged by the end of the trip, but once home, I texted my Mom to let her know that we had made it OK and that it had been a great weekend. And it had been, but we started that week exhausted.

I had a hard time getting a hold of her for the rest of the week. We bought a new vehicle, the days were crammed with errands to run, and my cell phone seemed to be perpetually dead. I finally called Saturday to tell her about our new car car and the adventure I had selling my old one out of a Metra parking lot. I only got her voicemail.

She called me back on Sunday afternoon. Her voice sounded subdued and thin. She was definitely sad, but she sounded defeated more than anything else. I know I need to believe that at this point she was already gone. I can step backward and see the point a day or so before where I think she finally broke inside. But part of me doubts anything is ever truly predetermined and that is my problem. I went on to ask how she was doing. I said it not in a conversational tone, but in a concerned one. The first anniversary of her own Mom's death was just six days away. She told me that she was going to need all the help she could get. On reflection, I should have been deeply alarmed. At the time, I thought she was being melodramatic and it was the second half of the week that I needed to worry about. I tried to convince her to spend that next weekend with Micah and us, something I had been trying to do over the previous month. She declined. I asked her what she would do. She told me about attending an Arts and Craft fair at the Cider Mill. I suspect she said this to placate me. I tried to cheer her up. I talked about going there with Micah, Kye, and her the next summer. And then research, Micah, and menial chores swept me off the phone. We had talked for 30 minutes. I try to believe she called to say goodbye, to talk to her little boy one more time.

I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind for the rest of the evening. I had been having intense feelings of foreboding for days, something I do not often feel. I considered calling her back later that evening to check in on her. In the end, I pushed it to the back of my mind convincing myself it was the end of the week I needed to worry about.

As I walked to my desk at Fermilab the next morning, I thought about my Mom, about how down she gets. By this time, pulmonary edema had already done its work. An hour later, I got the call, my sister sounding distraught asking me to find a quiet place before she would tell me anything.

I know what I need to believe, that this was her choice. Intellectually, I even understand why she made this choice. But the conversation I cannot seem to finish is the one with myself, where I finally acquiesce to reason, and fully accept this.

At the Surrey Township Cemetery

We were the last to arrive and running late, which is commonplace for us. I had attempted to dress up with a frumpy ill-fitting sweater, a pair of cheap slacks, and some gym shoes having forgotten my dress shoes. It was a fairly uncomfortable ensemble that gave me the constant urge to squirm. We stepped out of the car into the warm autumn air. Gathered were Kyeorda, Micah, my sister, and I in addition to my mom's closest friend, boyfriend, twin sister, her brother-in-law, and her aunt and uncle. The sexton stood off a good distance to give us our privacy.

We did the perfunctory greetings. My uncle asked if we had come straight up from Chicago. I answered no and then murmured something about lateness and having a baby and then the conversation petered out. With no further reason to keep us from the business we had come to attend to, we wandered over to the hole in the ground. This hole lay in our family plot, the last unclaimed spot, with my Grandma, Grandpa, and Great Grandma already occupying the others.

My uncle said a prayer. We turned to my sister and she gave some thoughtful words which I can no longer remember, I only recall that they felt very moving at the time. And then eyes were on me. I had wanted to compose something of worth for the occasion. This never happened. When I did speak, my words felt ill-suited and rushed. I could not seem to capture what I wanted to impart to my mom's remains and so I stopped. We went silent and the sexton intervened. He asked who would be helping lay her to rest. My mom's boyfriend, my uncle, and I all stepped forward. The vault containing my mom's ashes had no good handholds and we struggled. I went down on my knees as we lowered the vault. The exhumed dirt soiled my slacks. After grunting and straining, we managed to gently lay the vault at the bottom. The sexton held out a shovel. I took it, told my mother goodbye, and released a shovel full of dirt onto the top of the vault. My sister stepped forward and repeated the ceremony. When no one else stepped forward, I turned and shook the sexton's hand. And then we stepped away to allow the man space to perform his duties.

Conversation started again. My mom's sister clung to Micah and Micah took to her with ease. Later Kyeorda and I would speculate on whether Micah knew the difference between his grandma and his grandma's twin sister.

My sister and I then strolled along the rows of stones trying to make a decision about a monument. We took pictures and came up with ideas. As we were walking back to rejoin everyone, we decided we did not want that bastard's name on the stone, that we would bury our mom without a last name. The decision felt like the first thing to go right that day. We then we piled into our vehicles and left.

In the Beginning

In the beginning, all I could do was shake, my hand on a floor-to-ceiling window to steady myself and my sister asking if I was still on the line. My mind scrambled, all I could think to do was to find Kyeorda. I wandered about the 10^th floor of Wilson Hall in a daze, trying to calm myself so I could safely make the drive home.

In the beginning, we were at each other's throats. Each of us snapping at the smallest perceived provocation. At one point it felt like the whole family had fallen apart and I worried of permanent schism.

In the beginning, the stress of it felt crushing. Every cell of my body seemed to to ache. I weakened. Shingles marched across my chest. No amount of sleep was enough and the exhaustion was terrible.

In the beginning, I would go from deep sleep to absolute alertness. My eyes would open and the realization that my mother was dead would come upon me again. I would then have to check on Micah, to make sure he was still with me, still breathing.

In the beginning, it was all I could think of. My sister's words perpetually haunted me. They would come at me at any time, her sobbing voice echoing through my head, “Mom killed herself.”

In the beginning, I relived my Mom's last day many times over, unable to stop myself. I would start from our phone conversation in the early afternoon and go forward to the end. My mind would paint a vivid picture of the day despite my wish to suppress the vision.

In the beginning, I spent most of my spare time investigating the why that my Mom did not provide. I reconstructed the seven days bookended by Kyeorda, Micah, and I pulling out of her driveway and my sister calling me while I sat at my desk at Fermilab. I read things I wish I could forget, such as the gut churning autopsy report. And eventually I knew everything there was to know.

And since then, I am not haunted like I was before. My body has healed. We have nearly settled my Mom's estate. I know almost every detail of that last week. I know many things about my Mom that I did not know before. The matter for all practical purposes is concluded, except how I fit a bitter, surreal autumn into the continuity of my life. And for that, I do not think there is an “In the beginning” to be had.

Everything Must Go

We headed back to Michigan a week ago Sunday, Karen and I. We went to my Father's place first to unpack and prepare for the week. On Monday, we got back to work at what's been our second job this fall, dismantling the remains of our Mom's life.

We made a list of everything we had left to do in her house and discussed what we should tackle first. The conversation was part farce because we had been both been itching to sift through the box of Christmas ornaments, completely unsorted unlike everything else in the house. These were treasures, that next to the cat and the coffee maker, were probably the most dear to my Mom. As we settled down on the now bare floor, “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas came on the radio. I'm generally not one to assign anthropomorphic qualities to the universe such as intentionality, but really universe? Melodramatic, don't you think? Despite the circumstances seeming almost contrived, the emotion was real and in that moment, we both nearly lost it. We could either laugh or cry and fortunately laughter prevailed.

We picked through each ornament, recounted the story, the history, what each one meant to us. My sister even kept some of the 1970's plastic icicles that she had hated for decades. These had long ago been banished from the Christmas tree, but my Mom had kept them anyhow. We ended up each keeping a few ornaments. Some were made by our Grandmother, some by our Mom, and some were acquired on one of my Mom's many trips.

After the ornaments, I wandered off to excavate a basement closet packed with all my old collections. This mostly consisted of baseball cards that I used to obsess over. I marveled at my ample collection of cards of the now disgraced Pete Rose. These I couldn't bring myself to part with and they now sit in another basement waiting for the next closet or basement to call home.

Other treasures I did let go, a plastic nativity set, which even now I still adore. Now gone, these little pieces of plastic have a disproportionately visceral effect on me even though it depicts a scene which I no longer have a shred of faith in. Another treasure, a plastic tub we called “The Game” for reasons that neither my sister or I understand, I let go. I still second guess this choice. But these are items that will leave a hole, which for me is a more potent reminder of my Mother than the objects themselves. I need that reminder so my mind can start to wrap itself around the bigger hole that I honestly still can't digest.

The rest of the work was composed of small, not particularly notable tasks.

And then Wednesday morning came. The auctioneers showed up and within three hours, everything was staged. We stuck around to visit with well-wishers, host would be customers doing early bird reconnaissance, wait for Kyeorda and Micah to make the trip up from Chicago, and to just let the time pass.

Thursday morning started with fog. We hauled everything outside into the damp air. With just 45 minutes of work, we had everything prepared. People trickled in as the sun burned away the mist. Near the 10:30 am mark, the bustle and chatter of 150 plus patrons went oddly silent. In the pause, there was a peculiar tension. I felt like the air was being pulled out of my lungs and then the auctioneer launched into his sing song rambling. Within four hours, everything but four boxes of books, which we subsequently donated, was sold. An hour or two after that and it was all gone, each piece claimed or bought.

Everything must go.

Object Permanence

Micah is approaching the age where he will begin to develop object permanence, the concept that something still exists even if one cannot see it. The whole idea strikes me as odd. It seems like we develop this thought and then spend the rest of our life learning that this is not actually true. Perhaps what we call separation anxiety, which tends to accompany this, isn't so much a fear that one will not see another again, but a premonition that this concept is too good to be true.