Forgotten
Ever since my step brother died, Mom has been concerned about the rest of us making appropriate arrangements. Specifically she is worried about her older brother, Uncle Bob. Not everyone is equipped to discuss death without fear, but life has lead me to such a point, and so I consider it my task to aid in this decision.
Doug died in April, and it is now December. Uncle Bob and I have had several conversations, but it’s difficult for him to come to a firm decision. Their mom is buried alone at one cemetery, while those we think of as the close family are going to be in another. He does not want his mom to be alone, nor does he want “to be put in a hole in the ground and forgotten”.
From the moment I heard those words, they resonated in my soul, jarring many fears of my own. The point of cemeteries is not just to have a place to put the shell we reside in, but to establish a chain of memory for those we leave behind. As a child my first memories were of going to the family cemeteries to remember the babies my grandparents lost, and Grandma Vi’s mother. Although they were buried in two different cemeteries, Grandma Vi could walk through and explain the relationship of more than half of those with headstones, even if they did not have her family name.
I always assumed my grandparents and I would be buried with the babies, but that was decided unpractical when we lost Grandpa. Although always enjoyable, the trip to southern Ohio has become more difficult, and one Grandma Vi is gone, there is no one but me to make that trip. I have no one to whom to pass on the tradition; it will die with me.
This has become poignant as I help Uncle Bob decide if he wants to be forgotten with his mother, or visited for at least a little while with the rest of the family. The fact is, we will all be forgotten.
I turned 40 a few days ago. I was both forgotten and ignored. The next day I had a meeting at the cemetery to figure out what kind of arrangements we would need in the future. Although my quick stop on FaceBook reminded me that even people I had never met remembered me, I was not sure that I needed a place at the cemetery to be remembered after death. I am still not sure.
When I returned from that very depressing meeting, I rejoined FaceBook for a few moments to try to personalize a few of my “thank you's" because I had been away from it for so long attending the needs surrounding my husband’s cancer. It was then that I learned of a friend in Australia we lost shortly before my brother died, who was buried without even a name plaque. I had to sit on that thought for a moment. His body has a permanent home, but his loved ones have not been given the option to ensure he is not forgotten. How important is that name plaque? Does it really have anything to do with being remembered?
The headstones I saw at the family cemetery gives me the ability to trace my genealogy, rather I know anything more about the individuals than their parentage. I used to think that was very important, but not having children nor cousins who are interested in such things, that is just one more fallacy within my belief system. Genealogy is not important.
I should have already known that, because most of those I consider family-most of my sisters and brothers, are not connected to me through DNA. My “children” have to remind themselves that I am not a blood aunt, or they may not even bother to explain to themselves how the relationship came into being. Sometimes we don’t hear from each other for months, even though our hearts call across great distances regularly.
I will not likely even be put in a whole in the ground from which to be forgotten. I will not likely know when I am remembered, nor even how I will be remembered. Eventually I may even be completely forgotten. My name is likely to fall away with the sands of time. Even so, for into the future, people will recall that weird lady with unconventional idea that started a new movement of spirit/mind/body heath. They will be able to talk about suicide not as though it is shameful, but a normal part of life we must help one another overcome with care instead of shame. Maybe they will even tell their children that once they know someone who knew one of the children Santa Clause raised.
Every day when I wake up, when I speak, and when I act, I leave behind something to be remembered. It is not likely to be remembered in the way I expect it to, but I have a spirit that refuses to be forgotten. We do not need our names written in stone, for our spirits are etched in the hearts of the people we love, rather they return that caring or not.
Doug died in April, and it is now December. Uncle Bob and I have had several conversations, but it’s difficult for him to come to a firm decision. Their mom is buried alone at one cemetery, while those we think of as the close family are going to be in another. He does not want his mom to be alone, nor does he want “to be put in a hole in the ground and forgotten”.
From the moment I heard those words, they resonated in my soul, jarring many fears of my own. The point of cemeteries is not just to have a place to put the shell we reside in, but to establish a chain of memory for those we leave behind. As a child my first memories were of going to the family cemeteries to remember the babies my grandparents lost, and Grandma Vi’s mother. Although they were buried in two different cemeteries, Grandma Vi could walk through and explain the relationship of more than half of those with headstones, even if they did not have her family name.
I always assumed my grandparents and I would be buried with the babies, but that was decided unpractical when we lost Grandpa. Although always enjoyable, the trip to southern Ohio has become more difficult, and one Grandma Vi is gone, there is no one but me to make that trip. I have no one to whom to pass on the tradition; it will die with me.
This has become poignant as I help Uncle Bob decide if he wants to be forgotten with his mother, or visited for at least a little while with the rest of the family. The fact is, we will all be forgotten.
I turned 40 a few days ago. I was both forgotten and ignored. The next day I had a meeting at the cemetery to figure out what kind of arrangements we would need in the future. Although my quick stop on FaceBook reminded me that even people I had never met remembered me, I was not sure that I needed a place at the cemetery to be remembered after death. I am still not sure.
When I returned from that very depressing meeting, I rejoined FaceBook for a few moments to try to personalize a few of my “thank you's" because I had been away from it for so long attending the needs surrounding my husband’s cancer. It was then that I learned of a friend in Australia we lost shortly before my brother died, who was buried without even a name plaque. I had to sit on that thought for a moment. His body has a permanent home, but his loved ones have not been given the option to ensure he is not forgotten. How important is that name plaque? Does it really have anything to do with being remembered?
The headstones I saw at the family cemetery gives me the ability to trace my genealogy, rather I know anything more about the individuals than their parentage. I used to think that was very important, but not having children nor cousins who are interested in such things, that is just one more fallacy within my belief system. Genealogy is not important.
I should have already known that, because most of those I consider family-most of my sisters and brothers, are not connected to me through DNA. My “children” have to remind themselves that I am not a blood aunt, or they may not even bother to explain to themselves how the relationship came into being. Sometimes we don’t hear from each other for months, even though our hearts call across great distances regularly.
I will not likely even be put in a whole in the ground from which to be forgotten. I will not likely know when I am remembered, nor even how I will be remembered. Eventually I may even be completely forgotten. My name is likely to fall away with the sands of time. Even so, for into the future, people will recall that weird lady with unconventional idea that started a new movement of spirit/mind/body heath. They will be able to talk about suicide not as though it is shameful, but a normal part of life we must help one another overcome with care instead of shame. Maybe they will even tell their children that once they know someone who knew one of the children Santa Clause raised.
Every day when I wake up, when I speak, and when I act, I leave behind something to be remembered. It is not likely to be remembered in the way I expect it to, but I have a spirit that refuses to be forgotten. We do not need our names written in stone, for our spirits are etched in the hearts of the people we love, rather they return that caring or not.