At Home with Grief

Continued Bonds with the Deceased

Blake Paxton

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2018
• eBook ISBN: 9781351714501
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Research & Methodology
• Index: Social Sciences

What would you say to a deceased loved one if they could come back for one day? What if you can't just 'move on' from grief? At Home with Grief: Continued Bonds with the Deceased chronicles Blake Paxton's autoethnographic study of his continued relationship with his deceased mother. In the 90s, Silverman, Klass, and Nickman argued that after the death of a loved one, the bond does not have to be broken and the bereaved can find many ways to connect with memories of the dead.

Building on their work, many other bereavement scholars have discussed the importance of not treating these relationships as pathological and have suggested that more research is needed in this area of grief studies. However, very few studies have addressed the communal and everyday subjective experiences of continuing bonds with the deceased, as well as how our relationship with our grief changes in the long term.

In this book, Blake Paxton shows how a community in southern Illinois continues a relationship with one deceased individual more than ten years after her death. Through this gripping autoethnographic account of his mother's struggles with a rare cancer, her death, and his struggles with sexuality, he poses possibilities of what might happen when cultural prescriptions for grief are challenged, and how continuing bonds with the dead may help us continue or restore broken bonds with the living.

CHAPTER 1
Goodbye¹

It’s a Monday morning, and I’m on winter break from school. Roused from sleep by the sound of my mother groaning and cursing, I jump from bed to find a familiar scene. My mother is plucking hair from her cheeks in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I’m a damn man-woman,” she mutters. She squints and furrows her brow. Each pluck of the tweezers is more aggressive than the last—her anger escalating.

She pauses in her tweezing and stares at her reflection. Her disheveled hair frames a face full of fear. My mother likes to wear a lot of makeup. But in the early morning hour before she uses the cosmetics to cover her perceived flaws, I see the deep, dark circles under her eyes.

Noticing me watching her from the hallway, she turns to face me. She throws down the tweezers in the sink and shouts in frustration. “I just used the hair removal cream three fucking days ago! What the hell is going on?”

I shrug in reply. We have a unique relationship for a mother and a teenage son. Although I wouldn’t say I tell my mother everything about my life, I do share a lot with her—my goal of being a famous writer, my frustrations at school, and my bowel movements. Personal boundaries in our relationship are sometimes so loose that I’ve even discussed a bowel movement with her while making one. My mother has jokingly coined the phrase “having a blaster” for particular occasions in the restroom, and this has caught on among our family members and friends. I’m glad we can share a giggle over these types of issues, but it saddens me when I see her body causing her so much frustration.

She washes and dries her face, tightens the front of her red bathrobe, and walks out of the bathroom to meet me in the hallway. “Between this shit and the swelling and the weight gain and the headaches, I’m losing my mind!”

My mother has struggled with weight issues for most of her life. “If only I could get back to that weight!” she has said numerous times when reviewing her wedding photographs. She was only 18 when she and my father married, and back then she possessed a smaller, lighter frame. I often wonder why she likes to look at these old pictures. Does she feel so much shame about her body that it’s a way for her to relive her moments as a thinner woman? I think Mom is beautiful no matter what size she is, and I wish she could understand that about herself. There are so many times I’ve been saddened when watching her put herself down.

These moments of self-deprecation have become worse over the last three months. For some reason, Mom has been rapidly gaining weight—even with no change in her diet. This isn’t normal weight gain either, because she is retaining water. “I’m the fucking Michelin man,” she’s been telling people. My mother likes to joke, but as I stare at her bare swollen ankles this morning, the situation doesn’t seem funny.

“Come on. Let me fix you some breakfast,” she says. “We’re not going to be able to do this for long, because you’re going back to school soon.”

On our way to the kitchen she peeks into my younger brother’s bedroom. “Let’s not wake the sleeping dead,” she murmurs.

Our house is unusually quiet with my father at work and my brother sleeping. I cherish such times when Mom and I are alone together. As we walk into the kitchen and look out the back window, we’re surprised to see a thick blanket of snow on the ground.

“All right! Look at that!” My mother exclaims. She loves snow as much as I do. She also is fascinated with snow globes and snowmen—a tall curio cabinet in our living room houses her many treasures.

The temporary serenity of the morning is abruptly interrupted when Maddie, our pet beagle, shoots into the kitchen—her claws create a clicking symphony across the hardwood floor. She charges to the glass door leading into the backyard and begins growling menacingly.

I softly stroke the back of her neck and ask, “What is it, girl?”

And then I spot a bright flash of red. There’s a cardinal slowly prancing across the ground.

Mom opens the door to let Maddie out, explaining “I don’t want her to wake up your brother.”

We both laugh as Maddie dodges through the snow toward the cardinal. She looks like a clumsy puppet on a string, running and then collapsing to the ground. The cardinal quickly spots her and flies away.

Mom murmurs, “Dumb-ass dog. She’ll be whimpering to come back inside within five minutes. What do you bet?”

“Yep,” I respond as I take a seat at our kitchen table. I can tell we haven’t kept the heat on very high during the night when I feel the cool press of the wooden seat underneath my boxers. I shiver and pull my hands into the sleeves of my shirt.

“So what’s for breakfast, Mom?”

She smiles and opens the refrigerator door. “Well, you are in luck, mister. While you were out at the movies last night, I rolled out some donut holes!”

Yes! Mom’s homemade fried donut holes. This will be a perfect treat for the cool winter morning. The idea of the hot sugary dough melting in my mouth already makes me feel warmer.

As I peruse the local newspaper, I watch Mom in action. She places the pan of raw donut holes on the counter next to the stove. Then she heats a pot of oil and turns on the radio. Her eyes light up when she hears one of her favorite tunes, “Perfect,” by country singer Sara Evans. During the introductory section of the song, I giggle as she starts shaking her hips back and forth with the spatula raised over her head.

She begins tossing the raw dough into the oil, and as each one crackles it creates a nice accompaniment to the song. The smell of fried goodness massages my nostrils and makes my stomach growl more strongly. By the time my mother reaches the song’s chorus, I join in.

I try to push aside my worries about Mom and just enjoy the moment. We don’t get to spend as much quality time together as we would like to, because she works a lot. She has her own salon in our home, and you might think this would help her spend more time with my brother and me. But she’s a popular hairdresser with a long list of clients, and if those clients don’t make their next appointment before they leave the salon, they can expect to wait at least six weeks before seeing her again.

The stress from work also has not helped her feel better about whatever’s going on with her body. I tell myself that everything will be fine. I tell myself that it’s probably just a “female” problem—an issue with her hormones. I tell myself just to sing along and have fun with Mom.

But I can’t help but worry about her strange situation, and I hate that she feels so unattractive and like a freak.

I can relate in some ways. I know what it’s like to feel different.

* * *

I watch Mark run.

It’s a steamy afternoon in late April, and I’m waiting for jazz band practice to begin. Our high school’s graduation ceremony is approaching, and I’m one of the lucky few underclassmen who will have the opportunity to play during commencement. Usually, I feel a certain comfort with my baritone saxophone. The feel of the cool, smooth metal beneath my fingertips is a signal that moments of joy and creation are imminent. But my thoughts are far away from music right now. I grip the saxophone closer to my chest and continue watching Mark from a nearby window.

Mark is one of the seniors who’ll be graduating this spring, and he’s on the track team. At my high school, the football field and surrounding track are close by the band room. It is often difficult for students to be both in the jazz band and on the track team, because practices meet at the same time. Oh well. It’s not like my fat butt can run anyway.

I tend to not get along with most of the “jocks” at school, because they’re often arrogant. They like to make fun of me because I’m heavy and a geek. My mother mockingly calls them “cool dudes” in an exaggeratedly husky, masculine voice. “You just keep doing what you’re doing in school. Don’t worry about the cool dudes,” she often tells me.

Mark is different from the other “cool dudes.” He’s a nice guy. I have known him ever since I started high school, because his locker is only two away from mine. On day one of my first year, I was panicking because I could not get my locker open, and he helped me unjam it. From that point on, we have spoken to each other just about every day. Every time football season is about to begin, he tries to get me to join the team. “Dude, you’ve got the shape and size of a lineman. You’d be killer on the field!”

I do have the body type for a football star, but I don’t have enough of a desire to play. The idea of trying to tackle someone and people trying to tackle me is terrifying. This breaks not only Mark’s heart but also my father’s.

Mark and I don’t run in the same circle of friends, so we haven’t spent much time together outside of school. It would probably be social suicide for him to be seen with me. Mark is tall and handsome, with broad shoulders and large biceps. He’s also one of those guys who can pull off a buzz cut.

As I watch him run around the football field, I also notice his legs. Boy, does he have really nice … I mean built … legs. They’re tan, with just the right amount of hair. And wow. What awesome bulging calves and thick thighs…

His track shorts are high up enough on his waist that I can also see a smooth, white tan line peeking out from beneath each leg opening. The air is on full blast in the band room, but I feel a bead of sweat roll down my forehead.

That’s hot.

What? Why did you just think that?

A conflicting self-dialogue sets my mind racing.

Okay. It’s not “hot.” Maybe that’s not the right word.

Are you gay?

NO!

You were definitely checking out his legs.

So? … That doesn’t make me gay. I can appreciate another man’s physique. Maybe I want my legs to look like his.

Faggot!

Shut up!

It’s true. Don’t you feel your boner right now?

I had that before I started watching Mark. It’s because I talked with my friend Sarah on the way to practice.

Whatever. Your friend Sarah—who’s a girl! Who’s one of your many GIRLFRIENDS. Gay guys have lots of friends who are girls.

That’s just a stereotype.

You want Mark to touch you …

STOP!

The band director taps her baton against the podium and my troubling thoughts are silenced. I begin to play the opening stanza of the first concert piece, but I can’t help but continue to feel a strange mix of desire and dread.

And with every resting measure of the song, I continue to glance out the window.

* * *

DuQuoin, my hometown, is a small, rural community in southern Illinois with about six thousand residents. When most people in the country think of Illinois, they think of Chicago. Although Chicago is a notable major metropolis of the United States, it does not represent the whole state of Illinois. Some individuals have argued that the northern and southern regions of Illinois are so different that they could be separate states. The boundary between northern and southern Illinois is also difficult to decipher. Most people claim that any community below Interstate 80 is considered southern territory. Others say that any place south of Champaign is considered southern territory. Some argue that the state is divided into three geographic regions: northern, southern, and central Illinois.

Southern Illinois has a distinct culture. The physical environment is filled with farmland and cornfields. The roads are long, winding, and often hilly. There are urban aspects of the communities, which often include many subdivisions and historic town squares.

DuQuoin is no exception. Along Main Street, there is a town square with various small businesses: post office, local bakery, movie theater, banks, shoe store, T-shirt store, antiques and collectibles store, gas stations, bars, restaurants, and one of the town’s many Christian churches. The larger business chains (including Wal-Mart and fast-food restaurants) are located farther south in the town. Even farther south is a section of small ponds and rolling hills known as the DuQuoin State Fairgrounds. Every August for two weeks, the town hosts a fair with carnival rides, food stands, and a lineup of music shows in beer tents and a small stadium. This stadium, known as the DuQuoin Grandstand, is where a circus is held every fall and where all school graduations take place.

When the fair is not in session, residents use the grounds for walking and running exercise. Families fish and have picnics. Children often feed ducks in the ponds. A monthly flea market and different programs are held at a large exhibition hall located in the grounds. During the winter months, there is a Christmas light exhibit that residents leisurely drive through and observe from their cars. When school is canceled because of winter weather, many students find a way to drive to the grounds and spend the day sledding down the hills.

My mother and father were born and raised in DuQuoin. Most of their siblings still reside here too. Not everyone continues to reside in the town when they graduate high school, but many residents stay in the general area of southern Illinois. The nearest university is about 30 minutes away, and often town residents will commute to school. Although I appreciate the comfort of small-town life and the friendly personalities of my fellow residents, I hope to leave DuQuoin after graduating high school.

* * *

“Maddie, get down!” my Grandma Jo-Ann yells. Grandma is eating a chocolate-chip cookie from Hardee’s, and our dog Maddie is jumping on her lap attempting to get a piece. Jo-Ann’s hair appointment has been finished for at least an hour, but she has decided to visit with her daughter during work hours.

It’s a humid spring afternoon. I sit in my mother’s salon and watch the chaotic scene. Although the environment is hectic, I still believe that my mother’s salon (the “Hair Loft,” as she calls it) has a Southern charm similar to the beauty shop in Steel Magnolias. Mom serves mostly female clientele, elderly women and mothers. They chatter avidly about the ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• CONTENTS
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction: The Rendezvous
• 1 Goodbye
• 2 Re-Membering
• 3 Home
• 4 Reassessing Continuing Bonds and Challenging the Causality Thesis
• 5 Future Directions for Continuing Bonds Research
• Afterword: A Family Wedding Reception to Re-Member
• Appendix: Methodology and Analysis as Mourning
• References
• Index