Vacation 2008 - Day Nine - 16 July

Actually my last day at work was the third of July. I was off for the holiday, then for my regular weekend and then I took a CTO on Monday. I started counting vacation on Tuesday the eighth when we left Magnolia for Maine. If I started counting on the 4th of July I would be counting today as day 13.

Why do I care about the day count? Because it took 13 days for it to happen.

Everyone who has worked at the Dover Mortuary for any length of time agrees. After having left the building for some time you should expect an “emotional dump” of some sort.

I first heard this from an Active Duty chaplain who had been assigned to Dover during the 9/11 time frame. At that time, though the reserves were called to supplement the workforce, the active duly chaplains were working full-time in the mortuary. About 3 months after he left Dover he called me with his story and a warning.

He told about sitting at the kitchen table with his wife some friends. The conversation was easy and the friends good listeners. At some point they asked about what working in the mortuary had been like during 9/11. He gave them some personal observations without any of the gory details, told them that he had processed his feelings about it all very well and then he broke down and sobbed for half an hour. He told me that he was surprised. He did not know that all that emotion was still “in there.” “David,” he warned, “don’t be surprised. Expect it. It’s going to happen to you at some point You will be OK but you may need to find someone to help you ‘process.’”

I really wish he had called two months earlier. My first big “dump” came during an annual preachers and spouses retreat while Phyllis and I were chatting with another pastor and his wife before lunch. We were standing, unfortunately, in the lobby of the hotel with approximately 100 other pastors and spouses, all waiting for lunch.

My pastor friend wanted to tell me how wonderfully the Army had treated an extended family member and her family at the loss of her husband in Iraq. He told about the care and attention to detail they had experienced. He told me about the Post Commander who had come to the door with the chaplain to notify the family of their loss. He said that the day after the notification the commander came back for a visit, looked around the house, found the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed the house without comment. Two days later, a Saturday, he returned to mow their lawn and rake leaves. He kept up these random acts of kidness for weeks. It was a great story of the Army family taking care of its own.

Then my friend named the name. You would not think that I would remember one name out of so many. I didn’t think I would either.

In those days, with so many soldiers being prepared and awaiting transportation, the Army would place a simple piece of masking tape on the foot end of each casket. On the tape the name. It was not a official identification tag. Those were smaller and harder to see from a distance. With so many it was just a expedient way to identify a single casket from a distance.

When my friend named the name I saw the magic markered masking tape. It was just a simple visual memory. But there it was and it opened a flood gate of emotion.

I ended the conversation abruptly. I think I said, “I’m sorry friend but this conversation is over.” I am sure he would have been offended but for what happened next. Phyllis and I turned to move toward the lunch line and I began to sob. Not tears and a sniffle. SOB, SOB, and SOB some more. Phyllis guided me to an overstuffed leather couch. Just in time as my knees buckled and I fell into the cushion with Phyllis beside. While the sobs were still uncontrollable I remember a part of me standing aside and commenting on my “emotional dump.”

“That’s cool. I know what’s happening here. All that built up stress is coming out. It had to happen. It is a good thing. I wonder how long it will last”

The sobbing lasted for 8 to 10 minutes before I got control of myself. Phyllis was holding on to me and was herself crying. I took a couple of deep breaths wiped tears and mucous from my face, turned to Phyllis and said, “I think I’m all right now.” I wasn’t yet and it started all over again. Another 2 or 3 minutes of crying and then it was over and I was fine. It took Phyllis a little longer as I became aware of the gathered crowd. I heard them saying, “Sparks is crying.” No kidding. What powers of observation. Some went to tell the District Superintendent, “Sparks is crying.” None approached me or attempted to offer help. That was probably a good thing.

The second dump was two years later while on vacation in Virginia. It came out in anger at Phyllis over nothing. I am not going to tell that story but we cried that time too.

This time it took 13 days.

It was not nearly as dramatic or emotional and there were no tears. It was just a dream; a dream with mortuary content. Not a nightmare. Just intense mortuary content. A dream I will not commit to print. A dream in which in which I was a supporting actor. A dream with both recognized coworkers and not. A dream with deep intensity as well as bizarre humor. A dream through which built up stress was released. I woke up tired but aware again that any stress that goes in, WILL come back out. Intentionally or unintentionally it will come out. In healthy ways or unhealthy ways it will come out.