The Day Before the Funeral

Today my Mother's body was being cremated.  That thought made me shiver.  My sisters and I decided to clean Dad's house, to keep ourselves busy, as well as to make things nice for Dad before we left. So I cleaned and cleaned like I've never cleaned before.  I cleaned like my Mother taught me.  She would have been proud.   

The day was a day of busy work for my Father.  I'm glad he had things to do.  He had to visit the funeral home to settle his "bill."  Imagine that, in the depth of his grief he had to go write a check.  My parents had visited this funeral home, together, thirteen years prior to my Mom's death to pick out their caskets and flowers and whatever else you pick out when you are pre-planning your funeral.  The ironic thing is my Mother died on the exact day they signed their paperwork, thirteen years earlier.    Dad modeled his suits for us so we could help him decide what to wear to the funeral.  Somehow he looked so small in the suit he used to wear to the office.  His shoulders hunched, his stance not as tall as it once was.

I remember so many years ago now, my Dad arriving home from the office, on the dot, every day at 5:30pm.  He would come in the garage door, mumble a hello, take the mail out of the mail slot, and walk to his room to change.  He would go into the living room, sit in his Lazy-Boy, and begin reading the newspaper.  He seemed especially unapproachable at this time, than any other time.  Things change over the years and, as I was aging, so was he...I didn't need to approach him just as he was becoming approachable.  How I wish I could go back in time and savor that moment...the moment that, at the time, seemed insignificant, but now..the sounds, the smells....you really just can't appreciate it in real time, can you?  Anyway...

The day ended, with nothing spectacular happening.  I went to bed, dreading the next day, when my Mother's ashes would be placed into the hole in the wall...forever, or at least until the return of Christ.

That Day, part 2

Orchid

We sat in that room for what seemed like days, however, from start to finish it was only about two hours.  We sat there, taking turns going up to the casket, either by ourselves or with each other.  I watched as my Dad touched her hand and her cheek. I listened as he whispered to her.  How many times, during their fifty-four years of marriage, did my Dad touch my Mother's cheek in an intimate moment, or take her hand to cross the street?  How often during their fifty-four years of marriage did he whisper in her ear?  I watched this unfolding in front of me and, although I would have thought it impossible, my heart hurt even more.

Each time someone went up to be with her, the tears began to flow anew.  It is hard to believe that one person could be loved so greatly.  That her death could be so far reaching.  Yet, each one of us loved her dearly.  She was the wife to one and the mother to four, but she was so much more.  She was a whole person, who started young and grew old.  She had hopes and dreams, some fulfilled and some not.  She laughed and she cried, she had joy and she had pain.  She was there the day I got on the school bus for the first time and she was there the day I graduated college.  And she was there all the days in between. And all the days after. But she isn't here any longer, perhaps this is the hardest pill to swallow.

My last memory of her alive is from October, sitting on the couch next to her, in her embrace.  She was frail but she held me like a mother holds her child, as tightly as she could.  She whispered in my ear, "I love you soooo much."  I think my mother knew, as well as I , that this would be our last embrace.

My mother was an amazing woman, I see that now.  She had unwavering love, but that is, after all, a mother's heart.

That day

We went to church with Dad the Sunday after Mom died.  What a hard day.  Later that afternoon we would make the short trip to the funeral home, to see mom one last time.  I sat in church thinking about how much my mom looked forward to church.  This was her only time to socialize. She had a circle of friends there who she sat with for a few minutes each Sunday before mass, catching up on the week and showing the latest pictures of her youngest granddaughter.   One friend, Phyllis, sat in the same pew with my parents. Phyllis was older than my mom and often fell asleep during mass.  My mom used to joke about how she would have to nudge her awake in time to take communion.  (A side note: Phyllis told me that, in conversations she had had with my mom, that my mother was ready to die...what did that mean?  I never had a chance to ask her). These were some of the few times that I saw my mother smile and laugh in these last few years.  When she would talk about her zany friends at church and her youngest granddaughter, my daughter, she would smile.  My daughter could make my mother laugh out loud.  How I savor those memories.

I can't even remember what happened between church and the funeral home, strange huh? I know we ate, but beyond that, it is gone.  I guess it is because the memory of what happened at the funeral home is so strong, so intense, that everything around it, sort of, disappeared.  Today, more than three months later, I can close my eyes and see the scene as though it were right in front of me.

We arrived at the funeral home right on schedule.  My stomach was in my throat as we met up with my brother  in the parking lot.  I didn't want to go in.  If  I could have, I would have taken off.  I would have run far, far away.  What I was about to see and experience was something that you can not prepare yourself for -- ever.  It is something that now, in hindsight, I wish I had not done.

My Dad and sisters went first.  My brother and I, arms locked, paused at the door.  He asked me if I was ready, I said no...but we walked through the door anyway.  He and I gasped when we saw her, and  I started to cry from what seemed like the deepest part of my soul.  It hurt so much at that moment that I didn't think I could go on. The intensity of that moment, the intensity of the grief I felt, if it had been a sword, would have slain me.  Yet, even in the intensity of the moment, I felt the arms of my Heavenly Father.   He was holding me up, allowing me to walk forward.

And there she was.  She looked like she was sleeping, like I could nudge her awake.   As I looked at her, the reality of the past few days began to hit me.  It rang in my head: My mother is dead, there is no waking her, she isn't here, she's gone - forever

.