Posted by:
GayLayAle
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Date: January 24, 2011 05:11PM
The morning came too soon. The fallout from the night before had done a lot of damage. My body, my brain, my soul, even my hair seemed to be sore and defeated. With the fuse still blown on Mikey’s Magic Autopilot, I once again had to dig deep and find what little momentum I had left, and get dressed for my mom’s funeral. I hadn’t really looked at myself in the mirror in days. It was the Help The Sky Is Falling fear I had experienced going outside for a cigarette the morning my mom died. I think I was more afraid of seeing my own face than I was seeing my mom in her casket. As I was attempting to tie the standard Elizabethan knot in my necktie, I looked, REALLY looked at myself in the mirror. The reflection I saw was that of a stranger, someone who had been severely beaten within an inch of his life and left for dead. But when all was said and done, wasn’t that precisely what had happened to me? My eyes were nearly swollen shut, and the skin around them raw and burning. What little I could actually see of my eyes themselves had taken on the glassy, far-away look of the glass eyes in one of my mom’s many porcelain dolls. I could barely recognize myself. I had aged ten years. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking and the more I tried to finish the knot on my necktie, the more it refused to cooperate with me. Evidently, it didn’t find the idea of the funeral appealing, either. As I had done when I was a young kid, I asked my dad to tie my tie for me, which he gladly did. That simple moment between father and son was filled with a lot of significance for me. My dad and I had always had a pretty good relationship, but the mere act of him standing behind me, helping me with my tie brought us so much closer.
As is customary with most Mormon funerals, there was to be an additional one hour viewing just prior to the funeral itself, which was held in the Relief Society room of the LDS church down the street from the house. As we were waiting for the funeral director to arrive with the body, I sat in one of the back pews in the chapel and listened to my dear friend Christine beautifully rehearse my mom’s favorite song from the pulpit. The song itself had caused a bit of a tiff with the bishop, who incidentally was NOT the bishop that had masterminded Project Rehab. Bishop Smith was a very kind man, who had lived next door to us for over a decade, and whose family had always been very close with ours. I hold no ill will against him whatsoever. Having said that, he didn’t think a secular song like “The Rose” would be appropriate to sing in the chapel. The song, which my dad had always found to be really cheesy and overly sappy, took on a large significance for him. When put in perspective, the song’s lyrics captured everything my mom had been longing for so many years. My dad could not be moved. That song would be sung during the service come hell or high water. The bishop reluctantly relented.
Sitting in the back of the empty chapel listening to Christine singing that song, tears rolling down my face is another very significant time for me during all this, and I honestly can’t say why. Even through the viewing and all the preparation for the funeral, the reality didn’t truly sink in until that moment. My mom was gone, and nothing I could do would bring her back. I became a little angry, because it felt like all the years she had fought, all the fear, the worry, the panic, the declining health, had culminated in this; in vain. As more tears rolled down my face, and the burning in and around my eyes became almost unbearable, the funeral director arrived, which gave me an excuse to leave the chapel and the haunting song.
The second viewing was a bit of a different experience. I don’t know whether it was the light, or the change of venue, or the lack of sleep, or what, but the feeling was much more subdued. I was in a place of numbness, but at the same time the numbness was ringed in searing pain. The feeling that my heart was being squeezed returned with a vengeance. Once again, the line was forming at the door of the Relief Society room, and before long began to stretch down the hall.
Most of the people that came to the second viewing had not been present during the first. My piano teacher came, which meant a lot to me. Friends of mine from high school were there- people I hadn’t seen since I graduated. The fact that these people came to support me brought me a lot of solace.
Because my mom had such a quirky, fun personality when she wasn’t in the midst of the crippling anxiety and depression, several fun things were put into her casket: Mint M&M’s (her favorite), a Big Hunk candy bar (another huge favorite), little trinkets she had loved, and a small wooden box with a print of Michelangelo’s Cherubs framed under glass on the lid. In this box were placed some of the most meaningful keepsakes from my brother, my sister and me.
As the second viewing was winding down, it was coming time to clear the room of everyone but family, and say a final prayer and close the casket for the last time. I had been dreading this moment all morning. The finality, the Last Time, the End had come. My dad’s brother, Brent, had been asked to say the prayer. I stood close to my aunt Suzanne, my brother and my sister. We held each other during the prayer and cried.
When the prayer was over, the funeral director asked if we would like the veil placed over her, or in a halo position framing her face. We opted for the latter. After the veil was positioned, my dad leaned over and kissed my mom on the cheek and whispered something to her. I’ve never known and never asked what he said.
I had once again reached a crossroads. Kiss my mom for the last time, or say a silent goodbye from a distance. I swallowed my fear and kissed my mom gently on the forehead, leaving two tears resting on her face. After tributes were paid a final time, one of the funeral directors swiftly, and without lingering, closed the casket for the last time. As cliché as this is, it was like pulling off a Band-Aid. Before I knew it, it was over.
We as a family followed the casket into the chapel. The room was packed to the hilt with people. The doors to the adjacent gymnasium had been opened up to accommodate all the people who had come. I didn’t really take note of who came; I was concentrating so hard on making my feet move, I couldn’t really think of anything else.
The casket was positioned just below the pulpit in front of the first row of pews. An absolutely beautiful casket flower arrangement had been placed on top. As a package, it was quite something to behold. When the family was seated, the organist concluded the prelude music, and the funeral began.
The particulars of the funeral itself and what was said are pretty fuzzy. What I do remember is so many kind words were spoken about my mother by everyone who spoke. Happy memories and all the wonderful things my mother had done in her life were opened to everyone who was there, including all the horrible people who had neglected and mistreated my mom. My aunt Suzanne finished her eulogy and it was my turn to play the piano.
I walked up on the dais and sat down at the black baby grand piano. I remember my right leg, the one I use to control the sustain pedal on the piano wouldn’t quit shaking. My hands quickly followed suit. I didn’t have any excess energy to will my hands to stop their tremor, so I took a deep breath, put my hands on the keys, closed my eyes and began to play. The song didn’t come easily. For the first few bars, my fingers stumbled over the keys clumsily, but not long after I began playing, The Calm returned. The magical place I go to when I play the piano took over, and my fingers and hands felt nimble and relaxed. It was a sensation that someone else had taken over my body and was playing the song for me. I finished without incident.
I believe there were one or two more talks given, and then Christine made her way up to the pulpit to sing. Of all the moments in the funeral, this was the one I feared the most. I had kept my composure throughout the funeral thus far, but I knew as soon as the song started, I would crumble again. And I did. My burning eyes, that I didn’t think had any more tears behind them, began to well up, and choked sobs came from deep inside my body. At one point during the song, I looked up at Christine, our eyes locked and we exchanged words without speaking. The song was flawless, and even more beautiful than I could have imagined.
The funeral concluded, and it was time to head to the cemetery.
The plot was purchased in the city cemetery. I remember my mom always saying she would rather be tossed in the Great Salt Lake than to be buried there, but this was the most affordable plot, and my dad insisted he wanted her close, which I couldn’t fault him for. I had chosen the location of the plot. It was directly beneath a beautiful little tree that had just been planted. I knew when it grew up, it would be there to protect and watch over her.
Oddly enough, through everything I had been able to muster strength to do during this whole ordeal, I couldn’t get enough emotional fiber to be a pallbearer. I didn’t want any part of it. I didn’t want to carry my mom’s casket, not only from an emotional standpoint, but I literally didn’t think I had enough physical strength left. I remember my dad telling me that all I could do was all I could do and he would never think less of me for opting out of being a pallbearer.
We arrived at the cemetery for the dedication of the grave and the interment. It was bitterly cold outside, and there was still snow on the ground. Astroturf had been laid out over the snow that allowed a small path from the paved road inside the cemetery to the actual grave itself. The casket was put on wooden slats over the open grave.
Tradition has always been very important in my family. One tradition that has always been constant is my aunt Suzanne bringing intricate balloon bouquets that are let into the sky at every significant family event: weddings, graduations, and funerals. As I mentioned earlier in this story, my mom was a huge fan of The Beatles, so after the dedication of the grave, we were going to play her favorite Beatles song, “Yesterday” while releasing the balloons into the sky.
After the beautiful balloon release, it was over. The casket was lowered into the ground, and there was almost a sense of relief that the whole ordeal was over with. It was time to Move On With Life, whatever that meant.
People often ask me how I was able to get through losing my mom, that they didn’t think they’d be able to handle it when the time came for their moms to go. The fact is, I learned how strong I was. I learned how resilient the human brain is. It is able to ‘hibernate’ when necessary to shield the body from the shock of something that devastating. It’s a testament to the ability for human beings to be able to survive the many horrific events we all experience throughout our lives.
To close this chapter, I think it’s appropriate to share the final verse of “The Rose” as these are the words that still ring so true when I think of my mom and her life:
“When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long; and you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong; just remember, in the winter far beneath the bitter snows; lies the seed that with the sun’s love in the spring becomes The Rose.”