So I’ve been away from this blog, away from Facebook, and away from my e-mail for a few days, which, if you know me, is an extended period of time. During this time, I’ve delivered my eulogy twice, seen my family members weep over my dead mother’s body multiple times, seen my father cry more in the last few days than I had in the last thirty years, and said goodbye to the woman who birthed and raised me while simultaneously celebrating her life.
It’s not an emotional stew. It’s an emotional avalanche. It’s everything, all at once. There was a Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns finds out that everything is trying to kill him at once, but because the disease can’t “fit through the door” so to speak, he just couldn’t die. That’s kind of how I am right now, but with emotions instead of diseases. I’m not… numb per se. But I’ve got a million things going on right now and I’m not sure what order to feel them in. Overwhelming is an understatement.
My mother is being cremated and interred in a small, idyllic cemetery near my childhood home. Today was the last time I was going to see her body. That feeling is still sinking in. As much as we all like to say that they aren’t in that box, they are, in a way, in that box. The morticians did an amazing job; my mom looked the way she did five years ago, before the disease really ravaged what was left of her body. While a dead person is still a dead person, it was astonishing. That made it both easier and harder. Her gaunt, skeleton-like appearance when she first died was indicative of all of her suffering, and in a way, all of ours. Her restored appearance, post-embalming, erased that almost completely. But it also made it less real – the death, the loss. Today, in the last few minutes we would have with her, it really slammed me.
Both viewings yesterday and today were lively affairs, believe it or not. My family is not one that succumbs to morbidity and despair easily. These last few days we saw friends and neighbors and family members that we hadn’t seen in years, sometimes decades. There was a lot to talk about. There was a lot to catch up on. It was easy to get lost in the joy of that. To get swept up in the love and support. And there was a LOT of it. It was weird for me. I’m used to being the supporter, not the supported. It’s hard for me to accept any of that. But I did my best, and it really did elevate my spirits.
At the end of each day, my father spoke about his life with my mother. He spoke about how they met, what their lives together meant. He broke down throughout the eulogy, but true to his character, he struggled onward, and conquered his tears each time. I was proud of him for the moving and meaningful things he said about my mother, about her character, about their love, without a script, without a safety net, with all that emotion, with everyone watching. Then my Aunt Betty, my mother’s older sister, spoke about their lives together as protesters, as sisters, as family. They told the story of my mother’s sweet sixteen, and how they rehabilitated an old stable behind their house, how they cleaned and repainted it, and how much the boys loved my mom. She also mentioned how my mother held the banners the highest and laughed the loudest. My father always said I had a lot of my mom in me, and I think that’s just more proof.
Then I gave my speech, which I’ll probably post later. I went off script near the end, regarding two things – my last memory of my mother and what this has taught me (This is actually way rougher than I delivered it during the eulogy because I am currently soul-deep tired). My last memory of my mother was the evening of Wednesday, May 29th. She was having trouble breathing because of congestion. She was death rattling, I realized later. My sister and father were pumping her chest, helping her breathe and clear the congestion. I couldn’t do much really besides hold her hand and say, “We’re all here, mom. We love you.” The care that my sister and father gave my mother was astonishing and loving and beautiful. They are my heroes. I am not afraid to say that. They are my heroes.
The other thing is this – I saw all the friends and family around me, and I knew that I still had far more than I lost. Even though I was heart broken, I knew there was so much in my life to look forward to, so many people in my life who still loved me. That is an amazing feeling – that there is still so much and so many people in my life to treasure.
Then we all paid our last respects, and that’s when all the joy and all the life fled the room. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I don’t want to face the reality of death (a definite, and likely, possibility). But as soon as we started focusing on the death itself, we all started hurting again – as if all the joy we found (or at least I found, I can’t speak for everyone else) died with all the wonderful talk. Suddenly it was just us, alone, against the enormity of death. And I fucking hate that.
Carolyn said that these two things aren’t mutually exclusive – that celebrating my mom’s life and mourning her passing are meant to go together. I know she’s right. I just hate seeing the people I love in pain. I hate being in pain. (Who really likes it?)
I had trouble tearing myself away from the casket today. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her (kissing her cold forehead on Friday afternoon was the most awful experience of my life, but I couldn’t stop doing it) so I squeezed the edge of the casket in my hands as hard as I could. And in my head, I promised her I would live every day of my life in her honor. I would take the days of my life and use them well, in the ways that she never could because she was so, so sick.
I’ve been in a rut with my job for a long time. I think it’s time I started looking elsewhere, trying to figure things out. I need to do something, anything more. I have too much to give, too much love in my heart, too much care for the world, to burn a third of my life churning butter for my corporate masters. Life is just too precious.
I have to say that my mother’s sickness and death is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, full stop. But at the same time, I can feel vast vistas of existence, of possibility, opening up before me. Before she died, the horizon only held death and pain, and the possibility of more suffering – hers and ours. Now… who knows? My mom’s been sick since I was 13. I’m 30 now. I have no idea what my life can or could be. But I’m going to find out, one way or another. Before, it seemed like any effort I made would be doomed to failure. Why? Because my mother was going to die. Now? Who knows?
I want to find out. For the first time in my life.
like an open book 