On March 17, 2009 my mother died. Not from lack of trying, I was among the last to learn, which is appropriate since it was the last thing I expected or wanted to hear. I vividly remember the call and the mental process that took place. I stepped into the pantry of my mind and began rummaging for things on the shelves. I pushed emotion to the side and gathered extra portions of rationality and practicality. I had already detached so all that was left was to grab the game face I kept near the front. Suited up, I made it through the week of ritual without a great deal of fuss.
The process was not new or unfamiliar. Over the years, I’d watched my grandfather. I marveled at the ease with which he went about the business of death. It was as routine as altering a pair of trousers. Just as I had watched and learned to stitch a cuff, I also learned the other thing. I first stepped into the pantry as paramedics worked on his lifeless body. I searched the shelves, compiling an invisible checklist and sprung to action once it was clear he would breathe no more. It’s a process I’ve repeated more times than I can count. Had I known I was also burying a little of myself each time, I may have done things differently.
With Aunt Sarah I became aware something was amiss. With little to do besides get to Georgia, I poured all my energy into arranging what I would say at her service. The process lulled me so completely; I was unprepared for the emotional break that gripped me at the church. I never even viewed her for the last time. Somehow, I realized that seeing her in death would put me in a place from which I could never return. I would have been shut up in that ebony box with her earthly remains. I wish I’d recognized it with Aunt Frankie. As she lay in the hospitable unable to breath on her own, I was so engrossed in “the process,” I calmly prepared and signed a statement pressing for her removal from life support. Disregarding how much I wanted her to live, I latched onto the reality that she wouldn’t care to live in that manner.
With a good deal of experience under my belt, the arrangements for my mother’s final disposition came together, but I was not completely present. Very little was done that she and I had discussed years before when death seemed so distant. Since she had failed to put in any of it in writing, I went in the direction with which the rest of the family was most comfortable. The rituals around death are for the living. The deceased has already done their part. In the finally analysis I knew that my mother only wanted everyone to gather and acknowledge she was here. We did that.
Kissing her dear face and closing that casket should have been the most difficult task of my life. It all happened too soon. She was supposed to age into one of those hip old ladies that young people like to be around. She was supposed to cheer at her grandchildren’s graduations and dance at their weddings. There were more Christmas trees to decorate and cheesecakes to make. So much was left for us to do, but I buried it all, choosing to adhere to “the process.”
Fearing reactions and the ultimate outcome I have failed to adequately grieve my losses. While attempting to appear confident and capable, I have made myself physically and emotionally ill. During the brief periods I allowed the wave to sweep over me, I’ve snatched myself together because no one likes a crybaby. I’ve grown angry, bitter and toxic to those who could care, distant to those who would and dishonored the memory of some phenomenal people; none of who would be happy, especially my mother. I believe they would all understand and forgive as I am learning to understand and forgive myself.
On this first anniversary of my mother’s passing I resolve to live well and fully. I’m going to pause before going into the pantry and when I do, I’m not going to move a damned thing. I plan to cry when I feel like it, sing when a song is on my lips and dance when the beat is hot. I hope others join me, but will understand if they don’t.
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