Kimmie Cont...

      The funeral took place in Red Wing, Minnesota, about an hour south of where my family and I lived. We were staying in a hotel because the wake was the first night and the funeral the next day. I didn’t even know what a wake was until this experience.
     I remember getting ready in the hotel room. Every one of my family members had little or nothing to say. How does one prepare for the wake of a baby? I had only seen her one time in her short life. She was born in the fall and attended either the Haider Thanksgiving party or the Haider Christmas party, I can’t remember, but she was a sweet little girl and I was lucky enough to hold her for a time. Nobody knew that it would be the last time any of us would see her. These unsettling thoughts flooded my head as we combed our hair and put on our dresses.
     Once we were ready to leave, I looked at the six of us and believed that our dark, drab clothes perfectly expressed the sadness we felt on the inside. We slowly walked to the car, piled in and quietly drove a torturous ten minute drive to the funeral home. I had a million thoughts running through my head and my worst stomachache to date. Then in the blink of an eye we arrived.
     I swear to you that I have never forgotten the smell of that funeral home. Even though Lilys are beautiful flowers, their bouquet will always remind me of that gorgeous baby’s funeral and the unbelievably chilling atmosphere. I had never seen my family in such despair. There were no smiles, just countless tearful embraces. Haider family gatherings were usually loud and full of laughter but not today. Losing that baby girl had broken everyone’s heart.
     My sisters and I huddled together, unsure of where to go and what to say. We simply hugged anyone who walked by while shaking our heads and wiping our noses. And then I saw it. As the sea of people thinned out, Kimmie’s open casket became visible. I started to panic. Knowing that she had passed was one thing, but actually seeing her dead body was another. Anxiety shot through my limbs and I felt as though I would collapse. My dad must have noticed my elevated stress level because he walked over to me and gave me a hug.
     Somehow he calmed me down and through some carefully chosen words, he convinced my sisters and me to approach our baby cousin. I cannot remember what he said exactly, but it must have been good.
     We held each other tight and sobbed as we moved closer and closer to her. She looked beautiful. I could not believe that that little baby was alive one minute and gone the next. Why…why…why…?
     I was so mad. So mad I could not see straight. Her little life was way too short. She did not get enough time to experience life and we didn’t get enough time to get to know her. Tears were streaming down my face as these thoughts sped through my mind.
     Then, for some unknown reason, my body went against all of my impulses and I found my hand reaching out to touch her. She looked so soft and warm but in reality, her face was rock hard and cold to the touch. My heart nearly stopped and it was at that moment that I decided to step away from the body that used to house my cousin. The reality of death had just become too much for me to handle.
     As I backed away, I noticed Kimmie’s older brother and sister running around the room. They were about two and three years old and seemed to be having a great time. They were dodging in and out of people, running up to the casket, touching Kimmie then running away. It was all very innocent yet slightly disturbing. They would never remember her, how could they? The thought made my stomach turn. It was the last time they would ever see their little sister and they were too young to know better.
     The last thing I remember about that wake was the conversation Shelly and I had with my uncle. He sat down with us and just poured his heart out. He was so angry at the loss of his little girl. He wanted answers and knew he would never get them. He wanted her back and knew that it was impossible. He sobbed and we sobbed. It was the saddest moment I had ever experienced. If I could have taken away his pain, I would have. He was such a loving father and all he wanted to do was share that love with his daughter Kimmie.
     I can’t tell you how the conversation ended because I was wiped out, I was pushed to the edge of hysteria. The wake forced emotions out of me that I would not wish upon anyone. And the fact that my family had to go through such debilitating pain made me physically sick. I was not sure how I would make it through another day. But as much as I resisted it, another day came. The day of Kimmie’s funeral.
     As I walked into the church, I was again blasted by the smells of Lilys. Why do funerals have to ruin such a beautiful flower?
     As I scanned the pews, I saw friends and family members forcing back sobs yet allowing tears to fall. And that damn casket, the symbol that is supposed to assist us in the grieving process, sat in the middle aisle like a knife stabbing every one of us in the heart. Nobody could look at that small visual without choking up. It was truly one of the worst sights I have ever seen.
     I wanted that service to end almost as much as I feared for it to begin. That’s the thing about death—it's a no win predicament.
     Like it or not, the priest eventually started the service and it was awful, just awful. We all just held on to one another and cried. There was nothing else we could do.
     Then, the priest turned to my aunt and uncle and motioned them to the altar. Apparently, they were interested in addressing their loved ones. I was shocked. I could barely speak without sobbing, how in the world would they be able to say anything?
     My aunt spoke first. She stood up at that podium and cried through her entire monologue. She told us of a dream she had that contained a number of doors and Kimmie was behind one of them. God told her that Kimmie had done her job and was ready to be with him. I cannot remember all of the dream details exactly but somehow that dream gave my aunt a sense of peace that her baby was alright and that she would see her again someday. It was a moving speech that surprised everyone. There was a mother, in the worst pain imaginable, and she was moving toward the healing process right in front of her friends and family.
     My uncle spoke next, but did not share her sense of peace. He vocalized his anger. He was angry with God for taking his baby. He was not ready to let her go and he could not see a time where he would ever accept her death. It was pretty obvious that he was my blood relative, because I understood every word out of his mouth.
     Both speeches were heartfelt and honest and every person at the funeral felt for the grieving couple without passing judgment. All any of us could do was listen and embrace our loved ones who were suffering.
     Kimmie’s passing devastated every person that I knew. Even acquaintances braced themselves as the news was relayed. A precious baby had left the earth too soon and that reality hurt everyone in its path.
     As a coping mechanism, my sisters and I developed an obsession with Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Every one of us did a report on the subject in high school and then again in college. We needed facts; Facts about the disorder that would help us understand the reasoning behind our cousin’s death. And even though the information recovered was limited, the act of researching assisted us through our grieving process.
     I cannot say that I ever truly got over the passing of my baby cousin. I still think about her today. I wonder about the interests she may have had and the Haider sense of humor she would certainly have inherited. I think about her looks and how they would have resembled her beautiful mother and sisters. The “what if’s” are endless.
     Though Kimmie’s life was short, she sure produced quite an impact on those of us who knew and loved her.
     “Kimmie, we miss you very much. You are still in our thoughts today and will never be forgotten.”

SAD

Kimmie 1988

Age: Fourteen





      How does one recover? Who could ever be prepared? As a fourteen-year-old child, I knew that I was too immature to make sense of it all and now as a thirty-six year old adult, I am certain that no age is mature enough to handle the devastation.
     The story that haunts my memory; that infests my dreams; and that still makes my head shake in disbelief, took place about twenty-five years ago on my uncle’s birthday. The events surrounding that day were passed on from family member to family member leaving the absolute truth slightly jumbled with each new translation. And my aunt and uncle, who experienced everything first hand, initially relayed the awful news under a cloud of panic and despair. The outcome, however, has never changed; the outcome, unfortunately, has always remained the same.
     On that life altering morning, my uncle and aunt awoke with their two oldest children and prepared to celebrate my uncle’s birthday. The baby lay sleeping while they began fixing breakfast. The day seemed normal, yet the fact that the baby was still asleep concerned my uncle. He decided to go in and check on his sweet girl.
     As he approached the crib, he realized that her blanket was positioned up over her little head. His heart began to pound rapidly as he ran in and pulled the blanket down only to discover her blue coloring.
     Panic set in as he ripped the blanket off, picked her up and tried to wake her. When he realized that she was not breathing, he screamed to his wife who ran to him and somehow, through her hysteria, managed to phone 911. My uncle performed CPR while they desperately waited for the ambulance to arrive.
     Unbelievable…unbelievable! How could this happen? Why did this happen? I cannot imagine the thoughts that must have been running through their heads: sheer panic, utter hopelessness, extreme anxiety. Plus, they had two other children to tend to while this horrific event took place. My heart races as I write these words and tears are forming in my eyes. Time has eased the pain, but my memory will not forget the trauma.
     The paramedics eventually arrived at my aunt and uncle’s panic stricken home, but it was too late. My four month old baby cousin, Kimberly Jean, had died and no amount of medical help or knowledge was going to bring her back.
     Having lost their ability to make sense of the world, my aunt and uncle rode with their baby to the hospital. It has been said that my heartbroken aunt sat in a hospital chair and rocked her daughter’s lifeless body for hours without a word.
     I have often pictured her in a state of shock and disbelief while she rocked that lovely baby. Nobody should ever have to feel the pain of losing a child, it is just not fair. Then adding insult to injury, as the terrible event played over and over in my aunt’s head, she ultimately convinced herself that Kimmie had smothered to death in her blanket. Even after hearing that the coroner’s autopsy concluded SIDS to be the cause of death, my aunt could not believe the findings and put the burden on herself for placing a blanket in Kimmie’s crib.
     Who needs those thoughts? Losing a child is bad enough, but placing unnecessary blame is torture.
     Through the thick fog, my shell-shocked uncle somehow managed to call his dad, my grandfather, to relay the awful news. My grandpa always said that losing Kimmie was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He could think of nothing worse than watching his son and daughter-in-law go through that kind of heartache.
     The news hit everyone hard as you can imagine: A full blow to the gut would have been less paralyzing. Nobody knew what to do, how to act, where to begin.
     I was in eighth grade and had never known anyone to die, nor had I even been to a funeral. Death had always freaked me out. I mean it. I used to have panic attacks about death, eternal life, heaven, hell. The uncertainty of the after-life really hit me hard as an adolescent and now I had to face it straight on and not at a funeral where you can celebrate a person’s long life and accomplishments, we had to face it at a funeral where “what could have been and what should have been” would be the focus.

England Cont...

     My dad decided to tackle the driving, oh what a brave man. It’s hard enough to drive on the left side of the road with a small automatic car; I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to drive a bus with a stick shift on the left side. Every driving instinct he had needed to be ignored and full concentration was necessary to drive us around safely. 
     As my dad drove us out of the rental lot, Kate and my mom sat shotgun watching the windshield wipers move wildly. The placement of the wipers and the turn signals on that English vehicle were very confusing to an American driver. The wipers were located in the American car’s turn signal position and turn signal in the wiper’s position. Every time the car made a turn those damn wipers went on, needless to say cuss words out of my dad’s mouth became commonplace during the unforgettable driving experience. I don’t think that our semi muted chuckles helped the situation either. 
     Oxford was our first destination, so at least my dad had time to practice his shuttle bus driving skills on country roads without too much traffic interference. And it was not always pretty. He was so focused on the road and shifting that he often neglected to notice tree limbs that were hanging over the road. Soon we would find ourselves naturally drifting to the left only to hear the sound of branches viciously scraping the side of the car. The sound of those branches would alert my dad causing him to panic then to quickly turn the wheel right, shaking up the luggage and all of us. 
     We all felt so out of control which made everyone, except my dad, laugh uncontrollably. We could not help it. Nothing about the car ride was normal and apparently living on the edge in a beast of a car was humorous to us. 
     My dad eventually lost it, looked into his rear view mirror and yelled, “This is not funny!” Unfortunately for me, the mirror was pointed in my direction so I received his glare along with his frustrated words. I remember a dead silence for a few seconds and then Shelly blurted, “Dad yelled at Ang.” We all looked at each other desperately trying to hold back smirks but we could not compose ourselves and soon burst into laughter. Apparently, if a group of travelers compile jetlag, crazy driving and a beastly car into one experience, the end result is delirious laughter that cannot be controlled. 
     After our laughter subsided, my dad immediately apologized for snapping at me then asked us to assist him with his English driving skills. He encouraged us to yell at him if he was getting too close to the side of the road, a random bush or tree limbs of any kind. He said that this would be the only time he would ever ask us to yell at him, he just had way too much to concentrate on with the car itself and needed more eyes to keep us safely on the road without incident. 
     As we traveled the countryside, my dad white knuckling it at the wheel, Shelly, Lora and I laid down in the back and slept. With sixteen seats back there, we had plenty of room to stretch out. While our dad fought the difficulties brought on by the shuttle bus, we actually enjoyed the many perks it had to offer. 
     Kate and my mom continued to sit shotgun and once the chaos settled down, my mom found some time to daydream about her parents. They had planned on making the trip with us, but because of my grandfather’s heart condition they had to cancel their tickets and stay home. That upset my mother very much and she later spoke with us about her sadness. Of course, we all agreed, that the car ride alone would have given both of her parent’s heart attacks so her sadness about their absence quickly faded. 
     With luck on our side, we reached Oxford in one piece, thank God. The town was so beautiful but unfortunately for us, most of our concentration was on the size of the roads compared to the size of our vehicle. Our tour bus gave us no room for error, yet error we did. My mom, the designated co-pilot, accidentally misread our map so we found ourselves unexpectedly traveling down the wrong street. Now in any other vehicle the wrong street would not have been a big deal, but that street ended in a dead-end and turning a sixteen passenger vehicle around the parameters of a dead-end was not going to be an easy task. 
     As my dad pondered his driving options, his mind cluttered with a million thoughts, he inadvertently hit a pedestrian in the arm with his side mirror. She shot him a look to kill and continued to stare the rest of us down as we drove by her. My dad did not realize that he hit her until we shouted, “Dad, you just hit a woman in the arm with your mirror!” He slammed on the brakes, stuck his head out of the window and tried to apologize to her. Because we were moving about five miles per hour, she was not hurt but she was pissed off. She showed zero interest in his apology and continued to stare him down as he tried to explain himself. It seemed as though she just wanted him to shut up and disappear. Of course, that was impossible for two reasons, the bus was too damn big and because we were heading into the dead-end. 
     Somehow my dad pulled it together enough to make the u-turn look fairly smooth but once we turned around, we had to drive back where we came from only to see the jaded woman again. We all ducked to avoid her evil eye while my dad shot her an “I’m sorry look.” That beast of a vehicle was nothing but trouble. 
     Fortunately, that form of transportation only cursed us and all pedestrians in our path for about a week. We eventually traded it in before heading to Ireland where we would leave the driving to the train conductor. 
     The final memories I have of the car are an eighty dollar parking ticket that we received from parking a vehicle with tandem wheels on a public street and a great picture of my family standing in front of the unforgettable beast. 
     The rental company ultimately paid for the eighty dollar ticket and the hilarious picture of my family sporting huge smiles graces one of the Haider family photo albums.
     I really did enjoy the art, history and architecture of our trip as well!