Calder, 7: His Brother’s Bones
“Mommy, where are Calder’s bones?” Three years after we buried his older brother, I’m still taken by surprise when Caleb asks questions like this. Caleb is now close to a year older than his brother was when he died. Caleb was four, Calder was seven. The bigger surprise was it felt like Caleb had lifted this question right out of my head. I had been thinking about the state of his brother’s bones earlier today. In fact, I googled it. Without embalming, bones typically last for eight to 12 years, though they can last for hundreds more under certain circumstances. What does it mean that Calder’s bones will last longer than his life did?
We’ve taken Caleb to his brother’s gravesite a few times. It stands out among the more traditional washed-out gray headstones like an arcade game. We visit on Calder’s Angel-versary, a term I learned from parents who have lost a child to describe the day they departed. This annual week of emotional strain starts with Calder’s birthday and ends seven days later, on the date he was electrocuted in our home pool, gone in a surge of energy that shocked him out of this world. The shock still reverberates through us all.
The “bones” question comes up while Caleb and I are winding down our bedtime routine. I’ve just read him a book and shut out the lights. It is my favorite time, a quiet celebration of another day we’ve shared together. His wet hair smells fresh with grapefruit shampoo as I worry whether I should have dried it more thoroughly so he doesn’t catch cold. I listen to his breathing and feel his damp hair on my cheek. The emotion of missing his brother slips into my body and makes itself at home in my heart. I successfully deep breathe my way through it, not wanting to cry in front of my little boy again.
Calder and Caleb shared a room from the time Caleb was old enough to sleep in a big boy bed. I was often torn between them, scurrying back and forth to make sure each brother got a head rub or back scratch. Caleb often wanted a second helping of love while Calder was holding my hand, right at the edge of sleep. I remember how seriously Calder took his role of big brother, giving me the green light to tend to Caleb. “Don’t worry Mom,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”
“Calder’s bones are at the cemetery,” I say, keeping my tears in check. I think about Calder’s bones and body. About a year after his death, I heard a story on NPR about a mother who wanted to contact the person who received her son’s donated corneas. I could do that, I thought, but do I really want to see my son’s eyes in someone else’s head?
We donated Calder’s corneas and all his organs, leaving what of him for burial? One thing I know for sure–his bones were in the grave. When I read that the body is mostly decomposed after a year, I sobbed for hours because now there was even less of Calder than there had been when we said goodbye to him.
“I wish I could have a bone,” Caleb says. I can hear the yearning in his still baby voice. He wants something to hold onto, something to clutch and keep near. The physical loss is one of the hardest parts of losing a child. My boys were both huggers with big lips for kissing. We often referred to hugs as a “Caleb hug,” as in Give me one of those Caleb hugs. Kisses in our house are “Calder kisses.” I need some sweet Calder kisses. In fact, on one of the first dates with the man who became my husband, I remember thinking how his beautiful lips would look great on our kids one day. They did and they do.
Kisses in our house are “Calder’s kisses.”
“Do you want something to remember Calder by?” I ask Caleb.
“Yes. I want one bone,” he answers. I understand the need. My girlfriend keeps her son’s ashes next to her bed. She told me she couldn’t bear burying him in a cemetery. It’s more comforting to have him by her bedside when she wakes up in the morning and when she goes to sleep at night. Her son is still with her, under her roof. I appreciate where she’s coming from. I have a secret stash of my own. Calder’s curls and baby teeth are in my closet. I don’t take them out as often as I used to, but it makes me feel good to know that they are there. That they exist.
We are Jewish and our traditions are also comforting, giving us something emotionally tangible to grasp. There are rules to follow, scripture to repeat, chants to utter at a time when nothing makes sense, as we are barely tethered to reality. Tradition feels comfortable like thick, heavy boots protecting us from the cold truth. These rituals ground us while the new normal of our daily lives swirl around like a cyclone, threatening to tear us apart.
Then there’s Calder’s burial site. We have family members who simply refuse to pay a visit. I’m aware that there’s nothing simple about it because it’s difficult for me to go there, but at the same time, it feels insulting when a family member will not go to pay respect. It feels like they are refusing to bear witness.
These family members believe we have made an unholy spectacle of the headstone and ledger by making it bright and colorful with porcelain photos of Calder and our family set into the granite. Although I don’t believe that Calder’s essence is there, I am compelled to visit. My husband, who leads our pilgrimages, created the most beautiful resting place in the world, a perfect reflection of our beautiful, beautiful boy.
It is hard for all of us to process Calder’s absence, particularly at school. His loss hit like an atomic bomb, the grief billowing out like the most noxious mushroom cloud, lingering to this day. Calder’s best friend’s mom, Jess, called to pass along sympathy from other mothers. They couldn’t bring themselves to get on the phone, and I recognize why. What are the right words for a mother who still has her seven-year-old first grader when calling a mother who does not?
“Do you need a bone to remember him?” I ask Caleb. I am in murky waters here, seemingly making up the rules as we go along. What if he asks me to go get one? Do I dare share my secret stash with him? My mind wanders to Calder’s first haircut. He had long, gorgeous blonde hair. It took me three years to cut it, which is, coincidentally, another Jewish tradition, but for me, it was only because he wanted it gone. It got too sweaty to have that much hair in the Miami heat. I think of his baby teeth too. I don’t need these things to remember my son, but I would never part with them. I understand why Caleb wants a bone.
“Do you remember playing with him?” I ask. I know he does. We have photos of the two boys all over our house. I wonder how we will look at them in the coming years next to new ones of Caleb as he ages while his older brother does not.
“Yes, I wish I could still play video games with him,” he says, as I fight to hold back tears. I wish he had his brother to play video games with too. Those annoying video games caused so many arguments between them. I remember telling them to stop their bickering because they would be brothers and best friends for the rest of their lives.
“Are you crying?” Caleb asks. He knows that I am.
“Yes,” I confess and he starts laughing. This is one of our tricks. It started with the dedication of the art room at Caleb’s school. I was about to speak to his class, but the words would not come out. Caleb walked over to me and did a zany dance in his inimitable style and it instantly saved me.
I laughed through tears and was able to finish my speech, but I’ve had a lot of guilt about what that did to Caleb. He always wants to make everyone laugh now, like it’s somehow his job to put a smile on our faces and make everything right in the universe.
It’s hard to have a mother who cries so much. I have a girlfriend who lost her sister unexpectedly two months before Calder died, and her five-year-old daughter summed it up best. “If you are crying, who is the grown up here?” she asked her weepy mom. “Who is going to take care of me?”
And that is why I get out of bed every morning to take Caleb to school and have attended every event since the first weeks after his brother’s death. I didn’t want him to ever feel abandoned or lost. I tried not to cry at school. I didn’t want to be the crying mom in public, which, when I think back on it, was ridiculous. What else would I be? I’ve since got it fairly under control and now only shed tears that are specific to a question or conversation about Calder.
“Caleb, do you ever see Calder in your dreams?”
“No!” he says and doesn’t like that I’ve asked.
“I do sometimes. One night I dreamed that we were at your school and Calder was on the steps coming down by your classroom,” I say and notice that his ears have perked up. “He smiled at me. Then we were laughing and he wanted me to tickle him, so I did. It was so real. It made me happy that I got to visit with him and I held onto that feeling all day.”
“Was I there?” Caleb asks.
I pause for a moment. “Yes,” I answer.
“I can tell by the way you are saying your words that you’re lying,” he says.
I try not to panic as I think about balancing how to parent my younger son while honoring his older brother. Caleb finally drifts off to sleep and I pray that he has a visit from Calder in his dream tonight where they can play video games and run through puddles together.
From time to time, I have gotten messages from Calder saying that he is always with us and that he is protecting his brother. That is something I can hold onto. And so can Caleb.
Carla Kaufman Sloan is an Emmy winning writer and television producer with three decades of experience in creating, writing, and developing TV shows. She and her husband co-established Caleb and Calder Sloan’s Awesome Foundation to help children in need, particularly kids who have suffered the loss of a parent or sibling. You can follow Carla and contact her on Instagram @carlasloan @the_heart_lady.