To Honor Special People, To Lend My Personal Support

I recently attended the funeral of a dear friend’s husband. I hadn’t been to a funeral since I was 21, but I could still remember it, and the one before that, and the one before that.

I was slightly unsettled at the funeral of my grandmother when I was 2. I remember my white, lace-up shoes, a fluffy white dress and being hoisted up by a neighbor’s hands to view the contents of the casket.

I remember recognizing her lying there.

“That’s Grandma, asleep in a big white box,” I thought.

The neighbor lifted me up without grasping me, much as a forklift would raise a load of bricks. His touch was caring but hesitant.

I have no other pictures in my head. Not of my father who was undoubtedly grieving the loss of his mother, nor of my mother who without question comforted me. I have no remembrance of my immediate family; they were busy with arrangements and details.

Just the vision of my grandmother in her casket.

My remaining grandmother became my closest friend and confidant during my pubescent years. She lived near my high school and it was actually almost acceptable to skip a class, walk the two blocks to her gracious home and share teenage troubles and secrets.

We would eat Bumble Bee tuna from china dishes and share a jar of green olives stuffed with pimento from a crystal bowl. She would send me away with her ancient handwriting on linen paper to explain my time out of class. I could smell her, even after the paper had left my hands.

She made me feel important and valuable and when she died, I thought I would die too. Never had I experienced anything so painful, or so deeply draining.

Over the next few years our family experienced losing an aunt, uncle and the tragic death of an 18-year-old cousin. I felt the opposition to life was winning. And then, when I was 21, the loving neighbor who had lifted me up to view my first grandmother passed away.

With each death my pain was compounded, my grief so intense that no thought, no memory could keep me from crying until I was sick. At 21, I vowed never to attend another funeral.

Maybe if I didn’t go, they would stop having them. Don’t participate and they would stop. Ignore what you can’t control.

The funerals didn’t stop, but I wasn’t a part of them. I was able to write the cursory note to the ones left behind but a two-state separation made attendance impractical. I was able to dismiss the deaths and remain functional. It served me well.

Then, there I was, attending a funeral. I had decided I had a responsibility to separate my personal pain of the past from the anguish my friend was feeling over her loss.

It was time to reach out instead of fall back. It was time to accept instead of ignore.

I am going to inch my way back into the community function of funerals. People who supported me in this life deserve recognition upon their passing. People who remain behind need to know they can count on me to listen and share their sorrow.

The joy of a life lived has many positive components and I will seek to find them. My children deserve to be prepared for what a funeral means and its purpose. I need to he prepared for the inevitable passing of my own parents.

My father wants to be buried at sea. I plan to be there, wind in my hair, sea spray on my face and memories in my heart, to salute a life well lived.

xxxx