Thought I’ve heard it all so far in hospice. The patient that I had just left decided that she was going to "shopping" for her own grave site at cemeteries located here in the county.
I’ve had patients plan their funerals, write their obituaries or compose their whole memorial service. Never had anyone pick out their plot of land for their remains within weeks of their possibly death. When it comes close to your time and the grim reaper may be knocking at your door, as human beings we need to feel as if we have some "control."
My first horse, a roan-colored Appaloosa named Princess Lulu, has been struggling with cancer for the past two years. Even though she still has energy, the cancer has taken a toll on the definition of her body lines along with a huge tumor growing out of her left eye. It’s her time. I picked October 1, 2010 to have Lulu put down because that day allotted me time to grieve without many outside demands. I’ve paid a rancher to pick her up at my place, take her to his ranch, mercifully shoot her and bury my beloved mare next to his favorite cow pony. Lulu doesn’t have the ability to make those decisions. She’s dependent on me to spare her a painful end. The age old struggle with choices and control is my burden right now with Lulu. I want the control but I hate the price of the pain. I hate it.
On my way back to the hospital, I drove through the Thatcher Cemetery for the first time.
I photograph grave sites from time to time. Not because I know the people who are buried there. Folks tend to decorate them so interestingly.
I wasn’t there for five minutes when I came across one that was cause to stop and park my car. The grave was all gravel and had a large quartz rock and a huge empty, black cowboy boot planter on it - standing side-by-side. A piece of tin, with faint etching, was shoved into the ground. Next to that was a pair of old leather cowboy boots stuffed with tattered, silk mum flowers that had all their color bleached out by the sun. The only writing I could make out on the piece of tin was "Jake Johns - died 2007."
The grave site seemed kind of lonely looking to me. I went back to my car and returned with a cowboy and indian icon art piece. I placed, photographed and documented #58 there. It appeared to fit right in with John Jakes’s other elements of decor.
Before I walked away I spoke out loud to the spirit of John Jakes. "Hey, I sending you my mare, Lulu soon. Please look out after her." Then I smiled, "Happy Trails."
This is my son Jake Ray Johns. He was born at 2:52 am February 5th 1989, just 20 minutes after his identical twin brother. Jared (Jake's twin) leaves for basic training in the Army in 2 weeks. He is struggling with leaving his brother behind. I have told him Jake will be with him every step of the way. Jake was only 18 when he went to heaven. In his short life he accomplish many things. He was a cowboy, a wrestler, a bull rider, a football allstar on Thatcher High's undefeated 2007 team, he was a woodworker, a drummer, a golfer, a hunter and a brother to 3 brothers and 3 sister. And a son. My son. He is loved and missed daily.
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