Slippers or Crocs

Two Years Ago

David is well enough that Jim and I take a trip to San Francisco to visit his niece, Carla, and husband, Daniel. We get out of Boston just ahead of a snow storm and return before the next one. February broke a record as the snowiest month on record: 64.8 inches.

2017

A week ago, in sacrament meeting, a young married man gave a talk. He described himself as “almost 28”. I struggled, dully and unsuccessfully, with the arithmetic. Afterwards, at home, I finally worked it out: David was 27, “almost 28”. My inability to do this simple math was disconcerting, but not surprising. This young man will probably make it to 28. David never did.

Last night I went to a Compassionate Friends meeting in Concord. Once a month, a husband-wife facilitator team meets with whoever comes through the door, seeking solace as a bereaved parent. It’s a club no one wants to join.

I first attended in August, just before the first anniversary of David’s death. It was profoundly comforting. Last night was my fifth meeting. In January's meeting, I described my rough start to the New Year; this month I’ve been calmer. And, not feeling desperate to talk, what did I get from attending? A time and place set aside for talking about David and listening to other parents talk of their lost children. They want to hear my story, and I theirs.

Our family book group selection this month included listening to an audiobook, narrated by the author, David Rakoff, entirely in rhyming couplets. He describes the daily life of a young man, Clifford, who is dying:

And so the concern with the trivial issues:
Slippers nearby and the proximate tissues

When Matt, in our conference call discussion, mentioned David's experience, I was surprised that I hadn’t consciously thought of my son while listening to this chapter. David, who rated nurses on whether or not they carelessly kicked his beloved crocs under the bed and thus out of his reach. He was obsessive about having his crocs nearby, just as Clifford became about his slippers.

The description of a young man dying was just too close to make the conscious connection and let it all the way in.

David's Black Crocs, Act Two

        
    Except for a few times when David donned Army boots to do business at Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford, he wore his beloved black Crocs constantly, taking them off only to go to bed. I informally rated the nurses and technicians at Cox outpatient for how careful they were in not unintentionally kicking the Crocs under the exam table.

            They were made of flexible matte-black resin and had removable fleece lining for cold weather. David never made a formal will, but he had definite plans for his Crocs. He wanted to donate them to someone in a muddy area of Africa.

            On October 4^th, I received the following email from our friend, Diane, who took the Crocs to Accra, Ghana, sent me the following email:

Dear Mary & Jim,

I hope there have been some moments of joy woven into the fabric of grief and sorrow that would surely be part of this day. Yet, David's birth is surely to be celebrated, and I have been celebrating David.  I will share with you the story of David's crocs, by beginning with an admission that when I saw the crocs I realized I may have jumped too quickly to have recommended the week before that we give them to my dear friend Charles. Charles feet would not fill those shoes. Yet I knew I would find the right person. Or the right person would find me.  

As I went about my business and I carried those shoes in my great big Ghana bag each day.  On October 1: no tall men. On October 2: no tall men. October 3--same story. You can imagine that all along I'm checking in with David now and again. Who do you want me to give these shoes to? Please nudge the right person in my direction and please let it be on October 4. I had made a promise that I intended to keep.

On October 4, I was with a person I was meeting for the first time. Greg, a USAID consultant from Colorado, who was very tall and would have fit in those shoes nicely. He travels all over Africa evaluating USAID agriculture projects. Mali was his next stop. Could it be Greg? I thought about it as we worked together. But, no.....he's not an African. It just wasn't right. At one point we needed a taxi and Greg hailed a driver. A tall, and I mean very tall, rather handsome young man emerged from the driver's seat to open the back door for me. But a taxi driver? What was his story? We chatted. Tetteh (Tay-Tay) was his name. He was the son of a farmer, living in Accra to earn more money for his family. He goes to the farm for planting and tending and harvesting. Of course! Farmers slog around in a lot of soupy earth during the rainy season. This man needs these crocs.

Greg looked on in awe as I pulled two very large shoes out of my bag and began to tell them both the story of the crocs. And David's story. Rather formally, I offered Tetteh David's gift, and asked him to wear the shoes David no longer needed them, in David's honor. I showed Greg and Tetteh David's picture, with his birth date noted, and asked Tetteh to read about David and to think about David as he wore his crocs.

This young man was very touched, Mary. Jim, I could see in his smile a sense of both awe and delight.  I was honored to be there. Surely, he will be a more thoughtful, appreciative person as he learns about David and accepts his gift. I imagine there will be an evening back at the farm, when he wears the crocs home and tells his family about David.

Much love,

Diane

David's Black Crocs

  

            Yesterday I gave away David’s Crocs.

            Except for a few times when David donned Army boots to do business at Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford, he wore his beloved black Crocs constantly, taking them off only to go to bed. I informally rated the nurses and technicians at Cox outpatient for how careful they were in not unintentionally kicking the Crocs under the exam table.

            They were made of flexible matte-black resin and had removable fleece lining for cold weather. David never made a formal will, but he had definite plans for his Crocs. He wanted to donate them to someone in a muddy area of Africa.

            A few weeks after David’s death our friend, Diane Kellogg, saw me out in the flower garden and stopped by. We gardened for a while and I asked her if she still travelled to Ghana. She does. She is a board member of Hope for Africa, an international non-governmental organization (NGO) engaged in sustainable development in Africa as well as founder of The Ghana Project at Bentley University .

            When I mentioned David’s Crocs and his wish, she immediately thought of a man in Accra, Charles, who could use them.

            Diane will fly to Accra on September 29^th and present them to Charles on October 4^th:

David’s birthday. It’s a Sunday; he was born on a Sunday in 1987. twenty-eight years ago. I remember the weekend well. That Saturday evening I bought a used wooden baby dresser and a sister missionary in Manchester helped me pick it up at a second story apartment and move it into our house while our husbands were at the chapel watching the priesthood session of the LDS General Conference. Next day he was born, six minutes before the last session of General Conference. I joked about having time to get to the chapel to watch it.

            David is our fourth child. On the way to the hospital Jim had written down sixteen boys names on the back of an envelope, just in case (we disqualified Nathaniel to avoid having a “Matt” and a “Nat”. By the time labor became intense, we had narrowed the list of possible names down from sixteen to four (Samuel, Michael, David, and Logan). After the birth, but before we left the hospital that evening, we settled on David, Hebrew for ‘beloved’.