Death Comes in Threes

Death Comes in Threes…



         In the year 2007 my mother, father and grandmother all died. It was a year of crazy thinking and doing. Grandma was first, she beat them all to the punch. She died on a frigid February morning at 5:30 am. She was always an early riser. I hated that when I would try to sneak in after clubbing all night, she would be up humming, cooking and cleaning. She couldn’t breathe. She had a lingering chest cold and cough for weeks that prevented her from taking a deep breath. My sister took her to the hospital in the back of her Ford Explorer. I ran across the hospital parking lot, afraid I would miss something or cause something to happen. Panting when I reached the doorway, my nephew ushered me down the crowed hallway, past the gurneys, and the sick people. That thick hospital smell tried to overtake me, but I kept going, the smell of death, dying, pain and disinfectant. I hate it. I tried to hold my breath. I collapsed in the doorway of emergency room number six, I couldn’t cross the threshold as I saw seven or eight people holding her down trying to revive her. My oldest nephew caught me under my arms as my sweater and coat went up over my face and head. She fought them for her dear life, at 89 she was confused and instead of fighting to stay, she was fighting to leave. They tried to restart that old heart that had three valves that were 90 percent clogged. That old heart that loved unconditionally, forgave easily, and marveled at small things like a lush green lawn and the vivid hue of the deep blue sky. She was cremated and her ashes went to my youngest nephew who expressed the loudest desire to own them. Part guilt, part bravado. 



         Not to be outdone, my father was next. It was October 28th when he was called home. I think sometimes to call him daddy. But, that never really sat well on my tongue. Daddy seems like a title to be reserved for one who bounced you on his knee, taught you how to treat and be treated by a man and showed you how a woman should be loved through the eyes of your mother. Hallmark card aside, this was not the case. Instead, he cheated on my mother, and used her to further his aspirations of being a pastor and a business owner. However, in all fairness, he had nowhere to get that example from. He did the best he could with the equipment he had. He had been abandoned as a child and had to fend for himself. Maybe that left him bitter about women and unable to fully trust them, says the pseudo-psychiatrist in me, excuses, excuses.



         He cheated on my mother and married a woman who resembled her in roundness and skin tone. The resemblance stops there. She was less educated and a great deal more gullible. She thought the buildings that housed my father’s church and restaurant belonged to him, instead they belonged to my mother. I would have paid to be there for that revelation. However, I did get to witness her gasping for air and clutching the arm rest of her Hoveround Scooter when she found out that my father’s life insurance had been transferred to my sister’s name, long before this tragedy. The expression on her face was priceless. She was outraged, and defeated. She tried, but could not manage to conceal her anger and disbelief from the small town funeral home director and his wife. She thought she was going to have money left over after his final expenses were tallied. Instead, my sister had to kick in an extra $500 to insure that he made it into the ground. The visions of sugar plums quickly faded from her head.



         He had been sick, he was hospitalized and there is something to be said for small town hospital care. That something is … that it sucks. Apparently, they operated on him and left something inside that resembled a battery. He died from complications, kidney failure and crappy care. It was the saddest funeral I ever witnessed. There were not many people in attendance, no more than thirty. The officiating minister seemed to struggle with the proper words. At the time, I thought it was because he relocated to the south for his retirement and didn’t know too many people. I was being kind. The truth is that it was a reflection of how he lived his life, as an opportunist, in my opinion. I had trouble with the casket room. I trembled as I held on to my sister’s hand tightly. We had to select from a small variety. We had to select carefully as to not go over our budget and thoughtfully, as to not to appear to be cheap. He was buried in his church robe, rather than a ratty old suit. We designed and created prayer cards at the local Kinkos. It was very cheap and very depressing. When all was said and done, he was buried and left down south without a head stone or a chance for visitation.



         Mommy was last. Like a headliner at a concert, she drew the most attention and fanfare. She died exactly 18 days after my father. I was reeling. There was no time to mourn. We were headed back to the casket room. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I was walking around stunned, I was robotic. I knew what had to be done. This was becoming old hat. I knew she had given up, she chose to die. All the doctors, specialists and prayers in the world can’t help you, if you decide to die.  She was a shopper, so she had to look good. I selected a winter white wool suit, with a beautiful silk scarf to cover the scar on her neck and chest from the autopsy. November 15th was too close to Thanksgiving. How ironic, what was there to be thankful for? I thought to be thankful that I didn’t kill myself, but I was more thankful for my children. We couldn’t decide if she should be buried before or after the holiday. We needed to give people a chance to get here, but keeping the body above ground for so long is frowned upon. Let’s interrupt your family holiday with a funeral. Let’s not, it wasn’t like she was going to decompose, although I thought about it at some point. 



         People came from all over. I worried about her staying in the church overnight, alone in the dark. The night that passed between the viewings and the funeral made me sick.  The days that passed between the death and burial made my flesh crawl, I couldn’t gather myself. My mind was on auto-pilot. I spoke in a matter-of–fact manner. I was careful not to let people see the crazy that was right beneath the surface. I smiled a sad smile, and nodded with acceptance that the world was over, there would be no reprieve. The funeral seemed to last forever. I whaled and moaned and held my breath. At some point, I switched seats twice. I moved from my husband to my sister to my son, searching for the right fit under the arm, searching for a solid hug, searching for an answer. I was told afterwards that I screamed and cried and sobbed “What are we gonna do now?” It was a very real question and the world came to an end. My mother, my best friend and trusted confidant was gone. As they lowered her into the ground, I went crazy, just a bit.   



  I bought a $900 pocketbook that I couldn’t afford. I ate out so much I gained 20 pounds, and I cried so much I thought I would die. I chased my anger with shots of Patron and tall glasses of ice cold Hynotique. I prayed and I cried some more. I clung to the familiar and hated that it was old, and familiar. I cried and whaled inside my head, mustn’t scare the children. I bargained with God and I secretly cursed God. I didn’t think his sense of humor was funny and I didn’t want to see the lesson and hear about the stupid strength that I was supposed to gain from this torment. I hated everything and everyone. I was annoyed by the biggest and the smallest of things. I was anxious, I had panic attacks on planes and in the dead of the night when my voice inside my head tried to rationalize and reason with the big black hole that threatened to swallow me alive. I hated the people who left and the people who stayed. I wanted to fight and I wanted to crawl up into a fetal position and return to the womb. I was strong, or at least I thought I was. Strength is an illusion, control is an illusion and the more I ran after it trying to grasp and wrangle it and pin it down and dead arm it into a strong hold of submission, the more it slipped away. I wanted to die, but I wanted to live. I wanted to win, but I wanted to give up. I wanted to fight and I wanted to surrender and collapse on the floor. My children kept me alive.



         I hated the way people looked at me with pity and sympathy. I hated that people didn’t know what to say. How many times can you offer condolences to one person without secretly wondering what the fuck they did to bring this on themselves? Oh yes, I’m sure people felt bad, but I’m sure they wondered about the black cloud that had engulfed my family and I’m sure they were hoping that this grim reaper who had favored us did not decide to come in their direction because of their close proximity. People came out of the woodwork. People you thought cared, did not. People who you had long forgotten about came and stayed and offered what they could to ease the pain and sorrow. People gave money, took money and gave things like Peace Plants that were supposed to live forever, as a token of love. It was dead in two months. People brought food, and I only ate what came from a store or a restaurant. I remembered my mother telling me that not everyone washes their hands when they cook, don’t trust it. The family splintered and people picked sides not to honor the dead but to dishonor the living. Survival mode was in full shitty gear. Who gets what?  Who’s in charge? People thought there was money to be had, but instead there was nothing but a lot of debt, outstanding loans, credit card bills and a sour smelling room and that was filled with a lot of QVC boxes containing a lot of useless crap that was purchased to fill a void in a heart that was broken into tiny pieces. My mother was afraid and broken.



         The funeral home didn’t accept insurance, they wanted cash. Let the full on campaign to beg for the casket funds begin. The funeral director suggested a “regular” sized coffin for my mother who was overweight even before the fluid they pumped into her added another 15 pounds. He said we would cut down the cost and they could prop her arm up on the side of the casket for the viewing and stuff in inside when it came time for the burial. Who says these things? Was it insensitive or crazy or both? Yes, it costs more to have an over-sized coffin. Note to self: be a reasonable size when you die.

         People took full and complete advantage of the vulnerable and chaotic state of affairs. People came and stayed and took things as mementos. They took the handbag they liked as a reminder of my mother. Bullshit, they took the handbag that they liked – period. They asked for things like the iron. They stole skirts and scarves. Many people gave money I never saw. As I scrambled to get the payment together for fear of being in even more debt, people from as far away as Switzerland sent money. Whoever answered the phone had the money sent to them, in their name and that was the end of that. There was no money for a head stone, a cheesy plastic grave maker stood in lieu of shiny black granite.

 

         Then it was over. All the choices were made and all the requirements that needed to be satisfied to say good-bye to the three most important people in my life were finished.  The people left, the phone stopped ringing, the mail stopped coming. Thank you cards were mailed and final bills were paid. It was quiet, eerily quiet on the outside. Inside, I raged on. I could not have a conversation without crying, all I wanted to do was sleep. I am an orphan now. My children kept me going. I was watching out for their trouble, so I couldn’t focus on my own. They soothed me. They calmed the rage and reminded me of the good that was left behind. They gave me reasons to smile and eventually to laugh. They loved on me and tickled my feet; they would not let me go without a fight. Some days when I’m in second-guessing mode, I wish I had fought harder to make my mother stay, but death comes in threes…