Went to a funeral today. What a different experience it is from the ones in my family. This one was for my husband's 90 year old auntie, the loving, smiling, actor in the family of sisters. I was nervous, pulling out my black dresses again, one for wake, one for funeral. Stomach muscles tightened, bladder spasmed, anticipating the heart and soul sucking void to reappear in my heart as we entered the funeral home. It was not a somber affair, but full of photographs, laughter, kids running round, people dressed in bright colors. I thought for a moment that I had gone into the wrong room. There was joy, and nostalgia, people happily sharing memories of this wonderful, vivacious woman who is no longer with us. I'd be wrong to say nobody was crying or upset, but most were chatting, catching up...as if we were at a reunion and not a death.
L's longevity certainly gave her family a lot of wonderful memories; she saw great grandchildren in her lifetime. She had her trademark smile and red glasses throughout her life; I couldn't help but smile at such joy.
We did these things for my father as well, at his wake and memorial service. Carefully we chose pictures to show, we had family and friends come round during the wake, quiet, hushed, gentle words to us. We were on the edge of breaking down, and if one person had said some platitude "Oh he's in a better place now" I might have come unhinged and really punched someone. There was very little joy at my father's wake and service. We were all devastated. Today, I am still devastated. I then think back three years earlier, at my mother's funeral, thinking "she's not suffering anymore." She let herself be taken over by something beyond her control and it was in its grasp, with only one journey possible. In this case, it seemed appropriate. When we buried her, in a light rain, as the priest said his last blessings, a full rainbow blossomed from one side of the field to the other. We knew. We knew that was my mother telling us she was okay. We all wept.
My father died on a freezing cold January night. None of us were in the room. We all generally left the hospital by between 8 and 10 pm, to go home and grab some sleep before getting back to the hospital by 8am the next morning. That was our schedule for the weeks he was in the hospital. The morning our phone rang at 6.30 I knew exactly what had happened. He passed away before we could get there to say good bye. I was devastated. I couldn't believe he'd been there, alone, with strangers, as he left this world.
My aunt, his sister, said something very wise, as we were getting ready to go to the hospital. She suggested that perhaps in true Dad fashion, he wanted to spare his children from watching him die. He preferred to do it privately. Do we have a say in such things as a dying person? If so, my father was a man I imagine could do that. We had said all the things we wanted, forgiven one another, and reaffirmed our love and gratitude that we were a good family together. What else was there to say? And I was so exhausted at night, I crashed as my head was hitting the pillow and it seemed like the next moment the alarm was going off to start another day.
It has been a year and three months since my father has passed away. I was just in Connecticut for spring break with a mission in mind: cemetery first. Reaffirm it's true, they're gone. I still need this marble confirmation. To touch it, run my fingers through the letters carved so beautifully. Wondering if there's an afterlife, or are they just beneath me, returning to dust. Saw my sister, still so troubled, and my heart breaks for her. She said she'll never get over the deaths of our parents, and doesn't really want her own life, anymore. This scares me, but I sure do understand what she means. I'll never get over it, either, but I am blessed with a steady, wise, and loving husband who let me be me--sweet, spiteful, angry, outraged, supportive--whatever it is I am. We can talk about the impact of my father's death, not only on me, but on my husband, too. Spouses grieve, too. He not only grieved for my dad, whom he adored, but also had to experience my deep grief for my father. We are working through this together. It's been over a year and I can still hear my father's voice when he answered the telephone, and it brings a smile to my face. Those muscles have been severely underused over the past year. Also saw friends from high school, who have become my rocks and my lighthouse. I could not be myself with anyone but them; each of them took me in, each a week at a time. It's hard to recall what those two weeks were like, except I had food available, a warm bed, and leisurely mornings. These friends are my soul friends, with whom I can share anything, and they with me.
What irks me about this, a little bit, is that we galvanized with my father's illness. I am sorry my father's illness got us all back in close touch. But I will not question this any longer. These friends have become my family, along with my sister. I hope, someday, to know my sister better, that she will open up to me. I am always watching my ps and qs with her. I don't want to anger her in the fragile state she's in, but if I knew what was going on perhaps I could be there to support her. To help her find happiness-which she is sure is gone forever. There are things in her life I cannot fix. They are not of my making. I hope when she feels stronger she will make some of the choices that will lead her towards happiness and feeling more fulfilled in life.
It's hard to be fulfilled now. I just get through the day, hopefully without breaking down too many times, and I work until it's done, so I have time to sleep and then resurrect the dog and pony show at work.
My first trip to Connecticut in seven years that involved no dying, no hospital crises, no chemo treatments, not PET scans, no dignity stripping hospital stays, no labelling us the "anxious family." I was worried I would jump back into crisis mode....I didn't but felt quite anxious, esp around the steaming pot of my sister's grief and anger. Hell yes, she's angry. I understand that. But it keeps you stuck. I do not want to be stuck in that purgatory. That is no life. I did, though, jump back into warrior mode because a friend is in need. I overstepped, apologized, and told her I loved her and I was there for her as SHE needs.
I take my father everywhere I go. He is in my heart. His sensibilities and wise words are in indelibly etched into my consciousness. I do not feel crazy when I ask him questions, or for help, or tell him that I miss him, terribly. The furniture in our house that was his have become touchstone pieces for me. I am grateful. Some day, if he indeed gets to 'look down' on us, I hope he'll forgive me for the state my house is in. Still so many boxes, stuff in disarray, and proof of our disconnection from the world sits in piles on every countertop in the kitchen. We're still working to get back into our life full swing, but we're still trying to figure out if that definition has changed. I think it has. I am a pretty simple person who can put on quite the facade. I want the facade to come down and my authentic self to come out.
In this year plus, I have learned so much about myself: I am a happy homebody; I do not enjoy socializing; I like my time alone; I'd rather spend time with Karl over any other person. I am not willing to waste time on ANYTHING that is not relative to my own growth or that of my students. In this year of learning about myself, I've finally come to terms with not having children. I was most concerned that I hadn't given my dad any grandchildren (luckily my sister did), and feared it impacted his feelings towards me. Thank god I brought it up in the hospital, and I know his answer.
Some of this time has given me a look inward, and it's dramatically changed my outward appearance. It feels lighter, easier. My weight is still an issue; at just around 100 pounds, I'm on the edge, but I am working on it. Now I fear getting old, for the first time. With both parents gone by age 66, what does this mean for me? While nervous, I feel cautiously optimistic. The therapy, physical exercize (promise, that's coming) and experiencing the grief bursts whenever they appear, all help me come to terms with this.
I will miss you, Mom and Dad, and will always wonder what the rest of my life would be like with you in it. How Mom would dress up and tell her friends about my upcoming concert at Carnegie Hall; my father would tell his friends, too, but in desultory way: "She never sings in English, but I think she's good. Why can't she just sing in English?" For you Dad, our Carnegie Hall program is almost ALL in English. If it's not on the written program in will be in my heart that the concert is dedicated to you.
Tired. Lots of loud, exhuberent (sp) midwesterners, sad but happy. Revelling in memories. I am wiped out, with the memories of my own. Ciao. un bacio
About Me
- Catherine
- In this blog I have created a haven, a place I allow my deepest emotions to go and sit. I can write easily about what I’ve accomplished. This biography I can recite in my sleep. But I’ve always written poetry and in diaries since I was a teenager. I continued to write poetry in my journals, and not until 2006 did I show them to anyone. I generally write every day, at the present in memoir form. I haven’t written poetry since my mother died in January, 2007. I didn’t write at all between her death and the death of my father three years later in January, 2010. On my father’s birthday in March, 2010, I began this blog, to honor my father and to help me grieve. But I also desperately needed to write, and this stream of conscious style emerged. I needed to find my organic voice.
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