I Need Help Burying a Body
The call at work
My phone vibrates in my bag under my desk, “Dad” flashing across the screen. I swear under my breath. He is watching my kids, and my next meeting starts in two minutes. I answer it, always fearing the worst.
“Hey, dad. Everything ok?”
He pauses.
“The kids are fine. But I think Barney is dead. You should check when you get home but I am 99% sure. I’m so sorry, Kate.”
I close my eyes. A week earlier, I asked my husband for a long overdue divorce. We were living apart but had not told the kids. My life felt like a carefully constructed house of cards and one more card felt like one too many. So, I pushed the news down with everything else. To deal with later.
“Thanks. I need to jump to a meeting, but I will check when I get home. Do the kids know? Does he smell? You ok?”
My dad reassured me the kids were oblivious and no rotting smells. I hung up just in time wipe my eyes, hit the Zoom join button, plaster on a smile, and jump back to attorney mode.
The World’s Coolest Box Turtle.
Twenty-nine years ago, I begged my dad for a puppy. It was my sixteenth birthday and although he had a point that yes, I would be going to college in two years, I begged, nonetheless. And the joke was on him since I drunkenly adopted a puppy that first year in college that he begrudgingly grew to love. My dad, always willing to compromise, agreed to get me a different pet. But it had to be one that needed minimal care, could be left alone during vacations, and didn’t smell.
I turned sixteen in 1993, five years before Google existed. In 1993, your ability to research pet characteristics and life expectancy was limited to visiting the local library, scouring encyclopedias, or relying on neighborhood hearsay. So, my dad and I winged it and brought home a box turtle. I named him Barney, he refused to eat anything other than cantaloupe, roamed free in our house, enjoyed my dad’s loud music, and objectively had more personality than any other box turtle who ever lived. He let me snuggle him like a puppy, could climb the carpeted stairs between the two floors of our house, and that turtle could play a mean game of hide and seek (at least the hiding part, there were times it would take me an entire week to find him). He even posed perfectly for my senior photos, with me in my emo glory and hemp necklace. I loved that damn turtle as much as a puppy.
Barney also saw me through some life. He was with me for nearly three decades. He died peacefully, after having lived as happy as a life as a box turtle in captivity could possibly live.
And now, I had to move forward without my faithful companion. My marriage was over, my kids were about to have two homes, and I had no time to process. I had to make dinner and tell my kids that Barney had died. The kids handled it well. My younger daughter commenting that Barney was “really old” and that “everyone dies.” My older daughter donated a small turtle stuffed animal to accompany Barney to the grave. I lovingly created a little casket out of a shoebox and a small baby blanket, and I put him in the garage. Day after day, I saw him there. I felt paralyzed and unable to figure out what to do next.
My house of cards was swaying.
I Need to Bury a Body.
I do not like asking for help. My divorce was no exception. And yet my family and friends showed up. They delivered flowers, food, coffee, cards, and so many amazing texts and calls. My family and friends showered me and my kids with a never-ending supply of love. At times, it was very uncomfortable.
I hid from them, sometimes for days. It often felt too hard to answer texts. But my friends persisted. They tracked me down in person, they asked what I needed. They never stopped showing up. Most days, I had no idea what I needed. I needed my kids to be OK. I needed to not get fired from my job. I needed a peaceful and calm home and to find myself again. I needed to stop crying.
I also needed a shovel. I needed someone to help me bury a body. And I knew who to ask.
Over the pandemic, two friends and I grew incredibly close. Our kids were in school together, we learned how to navigate our collective comfort levels with COVID rates so that we could still see each other in person. We bought giant ponchos, wearable blankets, outdoor heaters, and drank a lot. When we were at our separate homes, we texted. Zero filtered content. Zero judgment. Sometimes for hours too late into the night and early morning. Often about nothing. And everything. If nothing else, I wish for everyone that they find their Emily and Amy. Friends that always take you just as you are. Friends that will help you figure out how to bury a body.
The three of us lovingly referred to Emily’s husband, Gerry, as “Safety Dad.” Gerry was the dad that was always keeping an eye on the kids. While Emily, Amy, and I sipped our drinks at kid parties neglecting our parental responsibilities, we could do so because of Gerry. He was the dad that would pick up the pizzas for the party. Orchestrate a perfect pinata placement and ensure no kid was smacked in the head with a clumsily handled stick. Stand at the bottom of a makeshift sledding hill so that no wayward sled ended up on a collision course with a Seattle driver who was convinced they knew how to drive in the snow (spoiler alert: they did not). Safety Dad loved to help.
Safety Dad also had a shovel. Who are we kidding, Safety Dad probably has five shovels. If the world ever looks like it might be ending, I am packing my kids up and headed straight to their house. There are few people I trust more than Safety Dad for knowing what to do in any situation that might come your way. And if the world is ending, they will be damn fun friends to end it with.
And so, I said yes to help.
Me: “RIP Barney. He is still in a box in the garage because I have zero capacity to go buy a shovel.”
Emily: “Safety dad has a shovel and I’m sure would come and help you bury your turtle.”
Me: “I will text SD and say hey, I heard you have a shovel. I need to bury a body.”
And after a long rambling text to Gerry about a turtle in a box in my garage, Safety Dad stepped up.
SD: “Yes, I will help. Is this weekend soon enough for you?”
Concise. Straight to the point. No flowery emotions. Exactly what I needed to keep my house of cards standing.
A Turtle Funeral
On a sunny spring day, my friends showed up. With a shovel, a six-pack of beer, and two kids who were wildly fascinated about seeing a dead turtle, a family of four climbed out of their minivan.
We looked at Barney before moving him to his final resting spot. Fun fact about turtles (you can google it!), after they die, they don’t so much get smelly or bloated but they dehydrate and shrivel up. I was surprised to see his eyes were gone with shallow sockets remaining. The kids were curious and fascinated but quickly grew distracted and ran off to play.
Emily handed us each a beer as the three of us surveyed the yard for a good burial spot. Safety Dad dug a perfect hole under a large tree, providing a shady resting spot for Barney. I set Barney’s casket down in the hole, wondering what future homeowners may wonder decades from now if they dig in this same spot and find a turtle skeleton snuggling a stuffed animal. We each poured a bit of beer out on him in respect for the world’s best box turtle. Safety Dad covered him with dirt. And it was done. I had asked for help and my friends showed up.
Life Lessons Courtesy of Barney.
Ok, perhaps you might have also had a box turtle that would stubbornly climb stairs for hours, loved Jimi Hendrix, snuggled on your chest, and could eat their weight in cantaloupe. Maybe you knew without the luxury of the internet that turtles live a VERY long time. Or you might be thinking, this was just a turtle and what a strange story I just read about its funeral.
Yet that weird little reptile provided me with the courage to ask for help and taught me a lot about how to live life. I know that my dad can deliver hard news and support me regardless of my life choices. I know that my friends will make me laugh and cry and show up with a shovel and beer when it is exactly what I need. But more than anything, I know that life is about finding your joy and eating good food, stubbornly taking on challenges, hiding when you need to hide (and being found when you feel ready), snuggling someone that loves you, and dancing when your favorite song is playing. Also, I know that hemp necklaces should not make a comeback.
I am now divorced. I own a shovel. I usually ask for help when I need it. And I will be the friend that will always show up, no questions asked. I will help you bury the body.
