Stephen's Story, Part 10: Requiem

I wish this last chapter in Stephen's Story were easier to write.  Not just emotionally -- it was obvious from my very first post how this story would end (although friends have reported that they were internally protesting while reading the last couple of entries, as if that could somehow change the outcome).  I wish it were easier in that I wish I remembered more.

But the mind protects its owner by blocking out some of the most painful memories, or at very least, shrouding them in such a way that only the most brilliant and stunning details can be picked out through the haze.  I can remember that we ate spaghetti the night that Stephen's hair began to fall out, but I can't remember a single direct interaction I had with any other human being during Stephen's viewing, service, or interment.

So.  Much of this post will read like flipping through snapshots, and for that I feel like I need to apologize -- but for what it's worth, here's what I remember:



The funeral home was just one block away from our home.  We were attempting to keep the viewing as light and celebratory as possible, knowing that so many children would be coming.  I helped deliver some of Stephen's prized possessions to the funeral home, including walking that block up our very, very busy street carrying his absolutely enormous stuffed blue dog, "Ringo."  It was my first real introduction to one person's dying day being just another day for everybody else.  I was sixteen and long-leggity, and in a pair of cut-offs.  And genuinely shocked when my one-person giant-blue-dog parade elicited honks from passers-by.

My "job" for the viewing was to create a mix-tape to be played softly over the PA as the mourners paid their respects.  Stephen listened to pop-punk, like Green Day and The Offspring, which were really just not appropriate for the solemn occasion, although I think I may have included one or two of the mellower songs.  I included songs that had made me feel sad while watching movies.  Like "Philadelphia" by Neil Young.  And Pergolesi's "Stabat Mater."  And Tom Petty's "Learning to Fly," at my dad's request.

Because at that moment in time, I could feel nothing at all.  And I desperately wanted to.

Hundreds of  mourners attended the viewing.  They were directed from the front door, all the way down the front hall, where the line doubled back on itself before following around the entire perimeter of the double hall before finally approaching the casket.  It probably took an hour or more to make their way though this line to say goodbye.  They waited.  Along the way, they encountered mementos from his life; Stephen's bike, his drum pad and sticks, a huge collage of photographs, and a quilt that his friends had made to cheer and encourage him while he was ill.  I stood in an awkward sort of receiving line with my parents for hours.  I wasn't sure how I was "supposed" to act.  So I smiled like a politician, and tried to console everyone who approached instead.

The next day, at the funeral, I felt like I was under a microscope -- that every single person in the church was watching me, and judging whether I was appropriately sad.  At the same time, I didn't want to make anyone feel bad that I was sad.  So I made eye contact with no one.  The last thing I wanted anyone to have to deal with was me crying.

I don't remember the readings, I don't remember the flowers.  The only clear memory I have is Stephen's friend, Katie, reading through her tears, a eulogy she'd written.   Here it is, reprinted with her permission:

A true friend always is what you are.

No one is as great in the world by far.

You brought us happiness,

You brought us joy.

With all in the same, you're a wonderful boy.

I'll never forget you,

You'll always be in my mind.

You're a very special friend

Like no other I can find.

My love for you in my heart will never leave.

These are the thoughts for my wonderful friend Steve.

I rode to the burial in a limousine.  There were fifty-seven cars in the procession, bringing city traffic completely to a halt for over half of the three mile drive to Woodlawn Cemetery.

Stephen was buried in a Dallas Cowboys jacket with a thousand paper cranes and a copy of "Where the Red Fern Grows."

It was a beautiful, sunny day.  After the pastor had finished the burial service, all of the children gathered around the grave.  Each was given a balloon.  They were instructed to think of a memory of Stephen, to hold it in their mind, and then, to let it go....

To donate to St. Baldrick's in honor of Stephen, click HERE!