Woodlawn Cemetery

 I came across this cemetery by accident a few years ago when I found this empty-looking field surrounded by a ragged edge of trees. A bit of exploration, however, turned up tombstones and sunken graves. I did some research and discovered Woodlawn Cemetery.

Ypsilanti used to be a segregated community. The north side was White, the south side was Black. There were no cemeteries on the south side, and the north side White folk refused to let Black folk bury their dead in "their" section of town.

In 1946, Reverend Garther Washington had enough. He bought a plot of land and created Woodlawn Cemetery for the Black community. The cemetery acquired dozens and dozens of burials. Then disaster struck. Rev. Washington died, and the cemetery was left to his wife Estella and her friend Brooker Rhonenee. They went bankrupt and died in 1965.

Now we had a problem. Who owned the cemetery? Usually in cases of bankrupt land, the county, township, or state takes ownership and resells it. But a cemetery creates a unique problem: no one ever wants to buy a cemetery. Cemeteries don't make money, and moving the remains and the stones so the land could be used for something else would cost more than the land was worth. Also, if a township takes ownership of a cemetery, it's legally required to maintain it. So if Ypsilanti Township declared it owned Woodlawn, the Township would have to pay enormous sums to take care of it until someone else bought it--and no one ever would. Understandably, the Township was reluctant to do so.

As a result, the cemetery landed in legal limbo. Literally no one owned it, no one wanted it, and eventually, no one remembered it.

This happens more often than you might think. A lot of people think cemeteries are owned and run by the city, but few these days are. Most smaller cemeteries are privately owned, often by a church or a kind of co-op group. They earn money by selling graves. But cemeteries have finite space, and when they run out of graves to sell, their income dries up. This is why few groups are willing to operate them--they know their business will eventually, so to speak, die, leaving them with no income and an obligation to maintain the space.

Anyway, someone finally decided to do something about Woodlawn Cemetery. They got grant money from county to clean and restore the graveyard, and it'll be jointly run by the Township and this organization.

This is a splendid thing.

https://www.bridgemi.com/quality-life/abandoned-michigan-cemetery-unearths-history-segregation-even-death

The Last Stone

 So yesterday spelled the end of the Great Kidney Stone Explosion.

 

In February, I had a KUB x-ray to check for stones, and the doctor said I had one. He was new to me, and didn't know my history of countless stones or the horrible operations I endured over them, so he delivered the news in a calm, cavalier fashion that was at odds with my inner "holy shit" reaction. Only one. ONLY one. Only ONE! I couldn't remember the last time I heard those words.

 

Although the stone wasn't quite big enough to justify treatment, the doctor recommended lithotripsy (sound waves) because I'm going out of the country in the fall and it wouldn't be a good idea for it to flare up overseas. I agreed to this. I held it together long enough to schedule the appointment, and I left the office.

 

In the car, I cried for several minutes. It was a sudden alleviation of thirty years of stress so pervasive that it had become normal for me. I only had one stone left, and I was going to be rid of it. With luck, this would be the last one, the last time for the pain, the last time for the anxiety.

 

Yesterday was The Day.

 

I thought I'd largely dealt with the trauma and anxiety surrounding operations that the stone surgery and my shoulder surgery and my prostate biopsies had left me with. I was wrong. Anxiety kept me awake well into the night.

 

At 6 AM, Darwin and I got up and pulled on our clothes. A veteran of operating prep, I knew to wear sweats and pull-on shoes, and put just my ID in my pocket. No wallet. I felt a bit calmer than usual, mostly because I knew this procedure wouldn't be painful. I still hated/feared the anesthesia angle, but I chanted to myself over and over that these were kind people, that the medical staff who had hurt and abused me were highly unusual. A pair of Xanax tablets did their bit to calm me down.

 

At the clinic, the nurse let Darwin come into the prep room with me. I always like that. A lot of places don't let anyone but the patient in. Once I got gowned up and into the bed, my cousin Mark popped in. Mark is a regional manager for a medical company and wanders all around southern Michigan. He arranged for his schedule to take him to this clinic during my procedure because he knows I get unhappy about this stuff, and he wanted to lend support. He's a very, very nice cousin, and I was glad to see him. 

 

The anesthetist came in and said she would give me something to relax me. I asked if it was Versed. It was. I politely turned it down. "I don't like what it does to my memory," I said. "I'd rather be nervous." The nurse nodded.

 

They made ready to wheel me down to the operating room. Darwin stayed behind, but Mark came with. His job, you see. His presence was a big help—I knew I had a witness in the room who was close with me.

 

In the OR, the nurse injected me with propofol, and then I was waking up in the recovery room. 

 

When I come out of anesthesia, I repeat the same two questions over and over: "What time is it?" and "Where's Darwin?" This time was no different. I remember seeing the clock on the wall and being unable to read it. My brain couldn't process the information. It was weird.

 

My memories are hazy about this part. I think the doctor came in to talk to me. He said they actually found TWO stones that were close together, so they looked like one. But they pounded both to gravel. No more stones.

 

Here sudden sobs rushed over me. I cried for quite a bit. This was less a tension release and more as another reaction I have to anesthesia: I cry. A fairly common reaction, really.

 

Mark said nothing odd happened during the procedure, which reassured me, and then he had to leave—work, you know. Darwin brought the car around. I barely remember getting into the car.

 

At home, I was zonked all day, a bit unusually. Normally I feel fully awake by the time we get home. This time I slept for hours and was still zoned in the evening.

 

Today, I'm a little sore and taking prescription painkillers. Other than that, I'm fine.

 

I'm deeply relieved. No more kidney stones! I still have to be checked for them, but I think we can dial it back to annually instead of every six months. I can't describe how it feels. Lighter, I think. I'm still wrapping my head around the idea. But I'm so, so glad.