We went to the cemetery today. Totally bizarre. The business of being buried is definitely a booming one. We are not burying Calla--went the cremation route--but are purchasing a plot with a "cenotaph."
Are you as freaked out by that last paragraph as I am? Christopher and I now know WAAAAY more about cemetery stuff than I ever thought I would, especially at the ripe old age of 32. (Or am I 33 yet? Can't remember.) It's such a strange business. We had an appointment with Mili, our Family Consultant (or whatever) who has been very nice and business-like with us. We had to wait a few minutes, and got to listen in on another sales rep discuss prices and plots over the phone. No prices, though, reflect "the discount." And oh, if the caller would like, there's a plot available by the creek right by " . . . Rick James. You know, the singer? It's a beautiful spot."
Weird, right?! (Oh boy, how did Rick James [BITCH!] get dragged into my life like this?)
We laypeople take our lives and the living at face value--not so in the cemetery world. My list of not-for-me jobs grows longer by the day.
Speaking of weird, or strange, or just WHATEVER, that's exactly how I've been feeling lately. I vacillate between being super-charged miserable, strangely normal, and emotionless. I guess this is how it goes for awhile, maybe for always. Ach.
Even more weird? I can't turn off my brain. I grieve for my little Calla, want her more than anything. My little girl I so dearly and secretly hoped for, barely daring to think pigtails and ruffles and raising a strong, confident, kind girl might lie in my future.
But I also know our family isn't yet complete. I can't help but hope for the future, wonder if there's another baby for us--a sibing for Eliot, a son or daughter for Christopher and me. I can't stop wondering and hoping and crying and remembering--my Type-A brain in the blender.
For now time will help sort it all out, and where hurt and despair now live, maybe soon there will be room for hope.