Posted by:
GayLayAle
(
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Date: January 24, 2011 02:43PM
Since there was still so much financial turmoil swirling around, my dad was feeling pretty scared about how he was going to pay for my mom’s funeral services. Because both he and my mom had had so many significant medical problems in the last few years, my dad had a lot of trouble finding an insurance company that would give them coverage they could afford. The housing market was still in a pretty big slump, so there still wasn’t much money coming in. To supplement his income, and to be able to have insurance, my dad took a part-time job working customer service for Discover Card. He worked an early morning shift, then came home and did drafting out of the home office. At the time my mom died, he had only been working for Discover Card about three weeks. He hadn’t even had a chance to elect his medical benefits.
Now, whether or not you believe in God, or fate, the Universe, or some other divine presence that has the ability to intervene in your life, one of the many phone calls that came in the day my mom died made me very aware that the news that was delivered on that call could in no way be coincidence. We were all sitting in the living room. People were coming and going, offering their condolences. The phone was ringing off the hook most of the day. About two hours after I arrived at the house, the phone rang again. My dad answered it and within about 30 seconds, his eyes widened and he burst into tears. We were all watching him intently, and when he hung up the phone, he was just looking around in bewilderment.
The phone call my dad received was from the Human Resources coordinator at Discover Card. Despite the fact that he hadn’t yet elected company benefits, Discover Card was issuing a retro life insurance policy for my mom in the amount of $50,000. On top of that, they were cutting my dad a check for $5000 in addition to the life insurance policy to pay for funeral expenses. Keep in mind this was the morning of my mom’s death. Only a handful of hours had gone by since the paramedics had arrived. We were all in shock over the phone call. To this day, I refuse to believe that this insurance money was a coincidence. As I said, my dad had taken this job only three weeks earlier.
As difficult as the day had already been, I could see a lot of relief flood over my dad’s face…over all of us, really. Having to deal with trying to figure out where thousands of dollars for funeral expenses were going to come from, on top of everything else, was a burden I don’t think my dad was really equipped to handle. I’m sure it would have worked itself out somehow, but the fact that no one had to worry about the cost of all this was something of a miracle.
As the day wore on, more information transpired about the circumstances of that morning. My dad had left for work around five that morning. He came downstairs and kissed my mom goodbye. She held him for longer than she normally did, and whispered to him how much she loved him. When it was time for my brother, who was 17 years old at the time, to get up for school, he came downstairs to say good morning to my mom and noticed she wasn’t moving or breathing. He rushed over to her and shook her, trying to wake her up, to no avail. Not knowing what else to do, he attempted to perform CPR. He rushed to the phone and called 911. He kept asking the 911 operator what was going on or what he should do, but all she would say is that the police and the paramedics were on their way. Frustrated, he ran across the street to get help from the woman who through all of the hell of the past few years had unconditionally been there for my mom. If there is a heaven, Marcia will be seated at the highest echelon. She was Mormon, yes, but had a mouth like a truck driver, and was the feistiest little spitfire of a woman I’ve ever met, and at the same time had the biggest heart. She would come over and help my mom when my mom’s anxiety attacks were at their peak. She helped my mom get out of the house and go for short walks. She had helped contain the damage of Operation Deployment of Relief Society and Elders Quorum to Come Ransack Our House.
Marcia came rushing over with my little brother and waited with him while the paramedics arrived. She contacted my dad at work, and his boss drove him home.
As long as I live, I will hold my brother in the highest respect for being able to do the things he did to try and revive my mom; for having the presence of mind to call the paramedics, and go get Marcia. A seventeen-year-old kid all alone in the house discovers his mother dead…I’m not sure what my reaction would have been. I have grappled with guilt over this for so long. I have always felt like if I had just stayed living at home and been there to help my little brother so he wouldn’t have had to go through that alone. But, it’s something I can’t change.
The next day, we went to the funeral home to make arrangements. It was the strangest experience. I hadn’t set foot in a funeral home since I was four years old. The mortuary we chose to take care of the arrangements is a small, independent funeral home just down the street from where we were living. The owner of the home was very kind, very professional, and didn’t attempt to upsell. He presented choices for us, helped us write the obituary, but for the most part left us to decide the specifics. We selected a beautiful mahogany casket with a light blue interior, my mom’s favorite color. A wood etching of the Salt Lake Temple was to be placed inside the casket lid.
The next task on the list was by far the most bizarre and disconcerting one of the entire day. We had to go to the shop at the Jordan River Temple and select the clothing my mom would be buried in. This was also something that was completely foreign to me. I had no idea it was standard for worthy members of the LDS church to be buried in special temple burial clothing.
My sister, my aunt Suzanne, my little brother and myself had been sent on this errand. The woman working behind the counter showed us where the burial clothing was. My sister selected the gown my mom would wear. A new apron and veil were selected. My sister had requested that she be the one to dress my mom for burial, and handle the makeup and hair as well, as she is a licensed cosmetologist. This is something I have always held my sister in the highest regard for. If it came down to it, I really don’t think I could have gathered the strength to dress my mom. In fact, I had already made up my mind that I wasn’t going to attend the viewing, because the thought of seeing my mom in a casket was more than my poor little brain could deal with. The funeral director had cautioned my sister, my cousin and my aunt, who were going to assist in the dressing, that because there had been an autopsy performed, that there would be a large Y-incision down her torso. That is also something I couldn’t have dealt with seeing. My mom had always said that when she had dressed her own mother for burial, it was one of the most intimate and rewarding experiences she’d ever had. I’m strong, but not that strong.
As more preparations were made, the idea was broached that I would sing a song at the service. Considering I hadn’t been able to stop the flow of tears yet so far, I opted instead to play the piano. Trying to choke out a song through sobs and tears is nearly impossible. Even speaking in that condition is a challenge. But the piano was home to me. There was nothing to fear from the piano. It had always been my sanctuary, my rock…the place I could go to when I wanted to block the rest of the world out. My good friend Christine graciously accepted the task of singing my mom’s favorite song, “The Rose” at the funeral.
As I said, I was going to be damned before I set foot at the viewing. I knew if I saw my mother dead, lying in the beautiful casket, the whole thing would become far too real, and I wasn’t ready for that at all. All I wanted to do was stay home and drink myself into a coma.
The evening of the viewing arrived, and my thoughts were troubled. I thought I had resolved not to go to the viewing, but something in the back of my head was nagging me. I hated viewings. I had been to two viewings in the past two years, and both of them had mentally screwed me. In fact, seeing anyone dead was something I had a hard time stomaching. I remember when the paramedics were wheeling my mom’s body out of the family room on a gurney; they asked us if we wanted to see her. I didn’t. As I was rolling all this back and forth in my head, I couldn’t figure out whether it would be worse seeing my mom in a body bag, or a casket. Both seemed equally horrific. But, in the end, as everyone was getting ready to leave the house, I took a deep breath, walked out the door with them, and got into the car with my family. I tried not to think too much about what I was doing. Instead, I managed to put my brain on autopilot.
We arrived at the funeral home, and Mikey’s Cranial Autopilot blew a fuse and failed. The gravity of what was happening to me hit me like a grand piano falling from the top of a twelve-story building. I didn’t even have time to try and move my heart out of the way. This was it. I was about to see my best friend, my kindred spirit, a woman who had given me more unconditional love than anyone else in the world, lying in a casket, stiff and cold like a mannequin. Despite the vise around my heart and stomach, I managed to pick up both my feet and walk inside.
The funeral director met us at the door, shook our hands, and led us to the room where we would be receiving friends and family. I’ll never forget walking into the doorway of that room, eyes down. Like a person about to jump out of a plane and skydive for the first time, I raised my eyes and looked across the room. There she was, my beautiful mother. I could only make out the silhouette of her face, but just seeing it made all my fears, pain, uncertainty and denial dissolve. Resolutely, I moved toward the casket, and looked inside.
What I saw absolutely shocked me. Lying there was a woman who looked more peaceful and at rest than I had seen her in ten years. All the worry, pain, fear, discomfort were gone from her face. For this, the old cliché was true: she really did look like she was sleeping.
They had only had to use a very light coating of foundation, a touch of lip gloss, and the slightest hint of blush on her. There was no waxy pancake makeup, or flaky lipstick. Her hair was loose and swirled around her face in loose, flowing curls. Whether I imagined this or not I still don’t know, but her face seemed to be giving off a faint iridescent glow. She looked like an angel.
I felt more at peace in that moment than I had in days. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. My heart was filled with so much love and sheer, beautiful calm, I didn’t think I could contain it. The closest thing I can compare it to is that feeling you have just before you’re about to drift off into the most perfect night of sleep you’ve ever had in your life. It was almost euphoric.
For a moment I found myself feeling very protective of her. I didn’t want to move away from the casket, or let anyone else see her. I wanted to stay there by her side all night long and just gaze down into her peaceful face, which, in death had maintained her signature half smile/smirk- the playful, mischievous curling up of the sides of her mouth that I had seen so many times. It was almost a look of triumph. Part of me thinks that’s exactly what it was.
For so long, she had longed for a moment’s peace, for just a short season of calm amid the raging storm of her own brain, and a body that had rejected her. In this state, she finally was able to find that moment, and goddamned if she wasn’t going to show the world she was gloating about it just a bit.
I’ve always found it odd when people take pictures of their dead relatives in caskets. That kind of thing has always seemed so morbid to me, but right then, I understood why people want to do it. I wish I had. What I have though, is a very bright picture of that face burned into my brain.
Before long, there was an epically long line forming that snaked across the room, outside the door and down the hall. There were people in that line I hadn’t seen in years; people I knew really loved and cared about my mom. It wasn’t all good, though. People came through that line who had put my family through hell for years, the Relief Society Harpies who had ripped apart our home, and in the process, broken my mom’s already fragile heart. People who had reveled in uncovering the Deep Dark Secrets of our family, and laid waste everything that should be kept only within a family.
It was like twanging an exposed nerve. The calm I felt was sliced through with anger. How DARE these people show their faces here? How could they possibly have the balls to come here and put on the show of fake sympathy and grief, when I had seen how cold they really were inside? I wanted to leap into the line and shake these people, and demand they go back to the holes they crawled out of. But I didn’t. I kept my composure and continued concentrating on my mom’s face.
At some point, when there was a small lull in the crowd, I walked back up to the casket. I wanted to touch her hand. Gingerly, I reached out and placed my hand on hers. I immediately recoiled as if bitten by a poisonous snake. The serenity I felt popped like a balloon. I was horrified and literally jumped back. Her hands were ice cold, and completely stiff. I knew she would be cold, but I had no idea exactly how cold. Her hands felt like the frozen turkey that’s left in the freezer until a day before Thanksgiving when you take it out to thaw.
The hot stone in the pit of my stomach came back. I walked across the room and sat down, my eyes once again downcast. I regretted so badly that I had touched her. It had completely shattered the cloud I had been enveloped in all evening. I sat on one of the floral patterned sofas for what seemed like hours. Eventually, the feeling of disgust and revolt subsided.
I’m so glad I fought against my brain and actually went to that viewing. Had I not gone, I know I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. There would have always been that sense of not knowing. Whatever your ideas about spirits, and life after death and all that, I know as sure as I know anything else that the calm and almost euphoric feeling I experienced all night was my mother’s soul, spirit, essence, energy or whatever you want to call it, enveloping me like a down blanket on the coldest evening of the year. I have to have faith in that.
After the viewing was done, and the quiet of the night settled in, my poor, exhausted brain and heart that felt like they had been through a war, collapsed in on themselves again. I sat with my dad’s arms wrapped around me and sobbed. I cried like I had never cried before in my life. My heart felt like it was imploding. There was quite literally physical pain happening in my chest. As cheesy as it may seem, I knew this is what it felt like to have your heart break.
My dad stayed up with me until well after three in the morning, but since we had to be at the church for the funeral at 9 a.m., he eventually retired for the evening. I was left with nothing but silence. There wasn’t a sound coming from anywhere. The world felt like it had come to a halt on its axis, as if it had taken a deep breath and gone underwater.
I went in the living room and lay on the couch. There was no way the temporary relief of sleep was going to give me respite. My eyes were burning and raw, and the Hot Stone was bouncing around in my stomach ceaselessly. I closed my eyes and tried to invoke the peace I had felt earlier. After an hour of intermittent crying, and ceaseless pain, I felt the soft tendrils of The Calm creeping into me again. My eyes were closed, and the peace drifted over me. As I finally drifted toward sleep, I felt fingers lightly stroking my forehead. I opened my eyes for just a moment, and for the briefest fraction of a second, was able to faintly see my mom sitting there beside me.