Pajiba

My grandmother died last summer. Most of what used to be her had left with the Alzheimers years ago, and my mother and her brothers and sisters had been preparing for the day for at least a year.

So, the time came. My grandmother was essentially in a coma, just waiting to let go. My oldest aunt was on vacation, due home the next day. The home nurse had to check for vitals a few times, every now and then there was almost a minute between breaths. And then my aunt came home, and rushed over. All the kids were gathered and grandma took one last breath and died. I doubt she was smiling, but I guess it's what she wanted.

She's not the first person to wait until people had arrived to die, but I still find it a little bit spooky. I mean, there was nothing left of her. Her mind had been gone for years, and there wasn't much left of her body either. Just this thin shell of a woman, and still she managed to hang on long enough for her child to come see her one last time.

As for me, I want a stroke. Quick and to the point. But considering the fact that both my grandmothers died from Alzeimers, I have a feeling I'll go that way too. And unless there are decent laws concerning assisted suicide when that times comes, I'll start stocking up on sleeping pills as soon as I'm diagnosed.

"Pap said her name and asked her to “come here.” She went to him and said, “What?” He reached out, took her hand, smiled at her and died."

Oh, my God. Perfection. To know you're going, but just beforehand.

Jeremy, little kids are total sociopaths. I'm pretty sure they don't get empathy until maybe eight or nine. That poor little boy, though. That kind of shit terrifies me (having a three-year-old and an infant and all).

When my grandmother died, we were at the graveside service and it was really hot outside. My sister leaned over and whispered to me that she was glad she wasn't wearing any underwear because she didn't think she could stand them as hot as it was.

A little over a year later, my father passed away suddenly. We were still in the cemetery after the burial, and I saw my sister speaking to an elderly man and woman. The shock over my father's death, plus the fact that I hadn't eaten for three days at that point, kind of made me loopy and all I could think of while looking at my sister was "Is she wearing underwear to this funeral?" So I called across the cemetery to her and said "Did you at least remember to wear underwear?" She turned bright red, and the man and woman looked kind of shocked at me, but didn't say anything.

I found out later that the man she had been talking to was her pastor. Her elderly, conservative, Baptist pastor. I still cringe when I think about that.

My grandma moved in with us when she got very sick. She had an oxygen tank and was bed-bound for the last year of her life. One night we met in her room at 7pm, like we always did since she moved in with us, and prayed the rosary to the mass on the radio. I knew my grandma was going to die that night. I can’t explain it. But she raised me for 3 years while my mum was away (my father was never in the picture) so I was very close to her. And I just knew. I gave her a hug and a kiss. She squeezed my hand and in her eyes, I saw that she knew too. Then I went to my room, changed into my pjs and laid out clothes for the next day: all black.

She died in the middle of the night. It was still terrible and heart-breaking. But I like to think that we said our goodbye.

It’s been 16 years, and I still miss her.

Got kind of an awkward one that doesn't involve me directly.

My dad is a Baptist preacher in a small town in Oklahoma, and about a year ago or so a man died and he had to do the funeral. For some reason or another the deceased man's two daughters ended up in an epic catfight in between the death and the funeral, and they both ended up getting put in jail.

Long story short, the funeral had to be pushed back until they got released. Dad said that when they walked in the church they had scrapes, bruises, etc. all over. Sounded pretty awkward.

My grandpa did it right. Went fishing on a Saturday, walked to church on Sunday, watched a baseball game on Tuesday, laid down for a nap and never woke up.

He was a tough old guy, an old-fashioned carpenter. I remember visiting him one day. We were watching baseball (he loved the game and considered cable TV one of the greatest of mankind's inventions. The fact that he could sometimes watch the same game ((Cubs/Braves)) on two different stations was bliss.) when he turned to me and said, "You know, I've outlived everyone I knew. My wife, everyone I grew up with, all my brothers and sisters. I'm the last one." That really got me. Every time I hear John Prine's "Grandpa Was a Carpenter," I cry.

My best friend and mentor passed away from a heart attack a week before production on the last show she directed. That sounds like a sad way to go, but in full context it wasn't.

We were having a nightmare of a production. It got to the point that I had the police on speed dial because a father was threatening to finish us off if he didn't get his little girl the lead she couldn't handle. The principal was stealing money from the production budget and doing everything he could to get the music director (me) fired (long story short: I came very close to getting him fired when he successfully screwed me out of having justice for an actual crime committed against me by another student). The choreographer was a nutjob putting students on blast for missing rehearsals when they were excused from school or even in the hospital having surgery. The cast was getting into actual fights over casting months after the auditions. The whole thing was a mess.

That last Friday night rehearsal, she left with a smile on her face. For the first time, the production looked like a show. The students weren't fighting. The production staff wasn't fighting. And the principal was out sick. A perfect day. She announced cheerfully we had a hit, she was very proud to be part of the production, and she'd be celebrating with her weekly dinner at a local restaurant. After dinner, she went home, said she had to go lay down, and passed away on her bed. She left the cast and crew the way she always dreamed of them being: happy, peaceful, and working like a team.

The fact that both my parents were 40 by the time they had me, and both are the youngest in their family, means that I've been surrounded by death, disease and funerals my whole life. The first that truly effected me though was my maternal grandma, who helped raised me.

She and my grandfather had been married for almost 70 years. He died at 92 of Pneumonia. After the fact, my funny, vivacious, happy grandma became an angry shell of her former self. We ended up hiring a day nurse for her as her health had been steadily deteriorating for years. 4 months to the day after my gramdpa died, the nurse gave my grandma a bath, clothed her, sat her down in the living room...she had a brain aneurism. She was gone instantly.

I love my grandma, but she just knew.

My birthday is march 17th. Technically, my father died on March 18 (thirty some-odd years after my birth) about an hour into this bright new day. of course, in memory he died late on saint patricks day.

I'd been on a bad run for a year and a bit. . .divorce, messy child custody battle, and trying to build something new with a new girl. this too went badly, and we were on the cusp of breakup. but, the gf, openly and verbally said she wanted to give me a good birthday, despite all our troubles. and only after would say a bitter good-bye. who can figure women out?

so, much booze and cocaine ensued, intermixed with what is still the best and dirtiest sex of my life. we're lying on the floor, wheezing and smoking, and polishing drinks as the sun comes up, and the phone rings. she says, don't answer it, we're too fucked up. do i listen to the wise and beautiful voice of reason? nope.

it's 6:18 in the morning, and my mother has called to say my father has died, he actually died about five hours previous, but she didnt want to wake me when i couldn't do anything anyway.

The old man died of systemic organ failure after a lifetime of drug addiction, just so's ya know. he had been dying hard for three years. but he chose to cut out for the last time on my birthday.

that year was a strange year, my family all cut up more than i would have expected over the death of someone who was a violent prick and due to die years earlier. the strange girl who stood by me for an extra three months as though my warantee had been extended by death.

and now, of course, every year, my birthday tainted by his death. keep in mind, i dont even like to celebrate my birthday, my family forces me to, and then derails it with thoughts of good old dad. sigh.

its become a gordian knot that i cant get out of. if i wasnt the black sheep of a black sheep family before, i am now. i'm the dirty bastard who didnt mourn hard enough over dad, and who was on a sex and coke binge when he died instead ov hovering over his hospital bedside. yes, i am that kind of filth. I was that kind of filth hundreds of miles away from anything i could have done, even had i been notified in a timely fashion, which i wasn't.

ok, thats a lot of bitter that i wasnt expecting.

I'll just blush now and wander off.

One of my grandfathers died of cancer while most of his family was around (except me and the other smaller children). I think he appreciated it, in spite of being a grumpy bastard. (But I liked him nonetheless.)

His widow died alone in her bathroom a couple of years later.

My other grandfather had a heart attack while standing in the shop he and his wife owned (he was over 70), came into hospital, suffered another heart attackthe next day and died. Sadly, he was alone at the time, because my grandmother had to work, and me and my family were on vacation.
We hurried home as quickly as we could, but he still died alone. I think he'd would have liked to pass away while standing in his shop, because it was his life, and he was terribly afraid of hospitals and especially of operations. I believe he fled before they could open him up.

I wasn't there when my dad died of cancer this past March (as per his request: he said he didn't want me or my sister to be witness to that), but from what I'm told, it was pretty darn beautiful. He sent my sister to get him some ice chips, and when she left, he summoned my mother to his side. He whispered, "Did I do good?" And my mother was cradled his face, looked him in his eyes and praised him, telling him what an awesome friend, husband, and father he was with tears streaming down her face. When she was done, my father smiled, took a great big breath, and died as he exhaled slowly, staring into my mom's eyes the whole time.

My sincere condolences to Mrs. Tater and you. It sucks to lose a parent.

That being said, sometimes when you lose a parent, you can find the least little thing about the funeral arrangements and whatnot hysterically funny.

The morning after our mom died, my brothers, sisters and I trooped off to the funeral home to discuss her final production. When the funeral director greeted us at the door, I was stunned. He looked EXACTLY like what I imagined Ichabod Crane would look like if HE worked in a funeral parlor. Our Ichabod was 6’3” or 6’4”, and pale as Casper. He was brown-haired, reed-thin and had sunken, anemic-blue eyes with dark circles underneath. Worse, his cheap navy suit was several inches too short in the arms and legs. And his handshake—ooohhh, that handshake— it was cold, dry and limp. I started thinking this was a bad joke. This guy is NOT the funeral director.

All it took was one look from my youngest brother, and we started giggling, quietly at first, trying to pretend to be overwhelmed with grief. But bossy Big Sis zeroed in on us, like, “Are you two going to start NOW?” Unfortunately, Ichabod’s presence set off a chain-reaction among the sibs and me, and we spent the rest of the morning trying to one-up each other in outrageous comments. This totally pissed off Big Sis.

While casket shopping, I suddenly remembered Jessica Mitford’s “The Story of Service,” which I read in high school. I felt this gave me a distinct advantage in the outrageous contest—I had VOCABULARY that none of the others did. “Oh, Mr. Ichabod,” I said, “Mom was really gaudy and tacky and would want a big, SHINY casket.” The sibs looked at me with renewed respect. “Also,” I added, “Mom would want the casket to be coordinated with her outfit. Our cousin who owns a beauty school is going to come ‘beautify’ her—if it’s OK with your team— and she’ll make sure everything blends.” Ichabod looked at me with what could only be construed as ‘nad-throbbin’, lip-smackin’ lust.

“I see,” he smiled, and his purple lips curled up to display his skanky, yellow corn-candy-tipped teeth. “We’ll be HAPPY to work with your COUSIN.”

After we saw the prices of the big, shiny coffins, we had to regroup. Contest or no, real dollars were at stake. I suggested that we find a “quasi-designer-knock-off” one that would “afford the same glitz without the high cost.” Ichabod brought us over to a bronze casket. “Oh, no,” I said, “Mom’s a WINTER. She’d KILL us if she clashed.”

Ichabod looked at me like WTF. I explained. “Mom had ‘her colors done’ and she’s a Winter. That means that she should be buried in things with silvery-blue undertones. I’m a Winter too, so if the casket clashes with my skin tone, then we just can’t have it.” The sibs made me stand by the bronze casket. Big Sis finally joined the party. “With the right make-up and clothes, that color would look great on… um… AROUND you,” she said.

SOLD.

To this day, I know that bronze was not the best color choice for Mom’s casket, although Beauty School Cuz did her best to create color harmony with Mom’s outfit and make-up. The only thing that reassures me is this: Our mom had one helluva sense of humor, and I know she was sorry she couldn’t be there with us, to whack us on our backsides, all the while giggling and snorting, saying, “Oh, stop, you’re KILLING me!”

Most of my relatives passed away before I was born or when I was very young, so I didn't ever attend a funeral until I started dating my husband about seven years ago. He has an enormous extended family, spread out all over Texas (which is where we live, too), and it seems like someone passes away about every three or four months (usually his grandparents' siblings or spouses).
We don't make it to every funeral, but we did get down to south Texas when his great-grandma died. She was 95, and sharp as a tack up until she passed away. I'd only met her a few times, but she was a tough old bird - just under 5 feet tall, raised on a farm and could still beat the shit out of my husband if he misbehaved. She had celebrated a 50 year wedding anniversary with her first husband, buried him, remarried a sweet old man from her church a couple years later, and celebrated her 25th anniversary with Hubby #2 by way of a huge family reunion about six months before she died.
At her funeral, her widower told all of us that life simply wasn't worth it without Fern in his life. Even though he was probably 10 years her junior, he made it about six months without her and passed away at home. Pretty sure he died of a broken heart.

now here comes the sad , my son and his best friend were both diagnosed with Leukemia and his best friedn lost his fight at 8yo , he was like my other son , we basiclly lived together over the 3 years they were sick. When the funeral happened i met his real father and the guy had no idea who we were , i lost it. I left before they put him in the ground. I cried for 3 days.
You should never have to watch a child waste away and die like that .
My son completed his treatment but always asks why adrian is not there and he is . I have no answer.
I just tell him that he will see him one day and that jesus is taking care of him( i am agnostic but what the hell do you tell an 8 yo).

I am now tear-streaked, yet laughing. Mr. Stinky (and the Baby Stinkies) wanna know what gives. I have read some of the most amazing, lovely, heart-rending pieces of writing...ever. You guys, each and every one of you, are so talented.

Mind you, I am on glass No. 2 of Merlot... I'm incapable of sending comments to all (although, I, as a public-school-teacher, have to say, if my students ever wrote like this, I would quit school and publish their writing under the working title of "Pulitzer-Bound.")

Just a few quickie comments before the Merlot takes charge:

Jeremy, I HAVE kids and TEACH kids. What your little brother said is beautiful beyond words. And don't let anyone tell you differently. Be proud that a kid's words rang true. If a kid said that at my kid's funeral, I'd hug him, laugh my head off. AND, fork over the toys.

ZombieNurse-- I know what sleep-deprivation-prior-to-impending-death-of-a-loved-one does to a woman. I can't stop laughing about the underwear comment and am now worrying about whether I wore underwear to my uncle's funeral and IF I said anything about it LOUDLY, for all to hear.

Scully, your all-black outfit, all laid-out for the next day, reminded me of when my fav grandma died. I knew, yet hated to know. Your story made me weep uncontrollably.

Idleprimate, you remind me of my favorite students. I see a lot of perception, intelligence and sensitivity in your comments. It is obvious that you are pretty amazing, even though you don't seem to give yourself credit for it.

And, finally, Pastor of Muppets, I LOVE the excuse of your dad, "Off meds," to explain the hysteria that is attending funerals. My personal belief is: If you haven't had a fit of the giggles at a funeral, then you haven't lived.

My Dad died 11 years ago at 66. He was a 30+ year diabetic so he was not in the greatest health, plus he had always been a rail-thin dude which means he was, to put it bluntly, frail. After an extended stay in the hospital for a broken hip he was deemed well enough to come home. We set up a bed in the living room for him and he stayed there for about 2 weeks. One morning he was sitting on the edge of his bed (he had just woken up) when he suddenly fell over with a thud (he had a heart attack). My Mom and I ran over and got him back up on his bed. She asked him his name, he nodded and replied weakly "Sam", if he knew who she was, he tenderly said "you're my baby", and then his countenance changed and there was a long exhale. I was watching the whole time, not a foot away and it was the most profound thing to witness (I've never seen a birth so this is all I have as far as profound experiences go). To actually see what made him him, leave his body--it was strange, but not in a scary way. I remind myself of that every once in awhile, that it's not scary.

Sorry about your family's loss, Tater. I wish you peace.

My paternal grandmother had the BEST death. She was 88 years old. She had gotten comfortable on the couch under her favorite afghan and was watching her "religious shows" on TV. Apparently she just went to sleep. They found no evidence of stroke, heart attack, nothing like that.

When my uncle came by to have lunch with her (he did that every day), he saw her and thought she was napping. He thought she must be dreaming because she had a little smile on her face. He reached out and touched her hand and said "Momma?" then realized her hand was freezing cold.

To her last day, she lived in her own house independently (my grandfather died eight years before). Both her sons came to see her daily and lived only a few minutes away and she saw her grandchildren and great-grandchildren on a regular basis. She had loving friends, hobbies, she loved to laugh.

She died with zero debt and her burial needs pre-done and pre-paid.

I was actually jealous. I want her death. It was awesome.

autumnwind3 WOW y'all need to stop making me tear up! Damn!

Stinky,

thanks for that comment to all the others who had posted, it was beautiful.

I tend to frequently, and compulsively, credit or praise someone's contribution on this site, perhaps to the point of ingratiating, but I do it more out of immediate reaction, since virtually everything on the internet today is 'immediate', and maybe that's not always the best thing to do. You expressed your appreciation in a way that helped to make this entire subject more complete, wish I possessed that quality.

I get so fed up with constant insincerity, and snarcasm, on so many sites - I'd like to think that the overall thoughtful, intelligent and enlightening discourse on so many recent serious topics Pajiba has featured will continue to be discussed and approached in the same impeccable manner as I've had the pleasure of reading so far.

Tater and Mrs Tater, I am very sorry for your loss. Let me know where to drop off the ham and the casserole.

Wow, I've only had half a glass of wine and I'm crying like all get out. And so many Grammas with the Old-Timers...

Just like my beloved Granny. I have to type through the water works now. My Granny was diagnosed with Alzheimer's and had a series of tiny strokes that basically turned her from the grandparent I knew and adored into a mean, confused, old lady. I still loved her, of course, but it was hard to watch her get upset and paranoid and mean; however, she would occasionally have lucid moments. (I have a pic of her and my mom, not long before Granny passed, and my mom is sitting on the floor by Granny's chair and looking at Granny while she caresses my mom's cheek.) I understand that when the time came, Granny got out of her bed and went to my Papa's room, climbed into bed with him (they always had separate rooms), held his hand, put her head next to his, and died.

When I was little and would visit Granny and Papa, she and I had a special goodbye. She would stand on the porch and shield her eyes with one hand and wave at me while I would do the same until we could no longer see each other. I did that at her grave, waving and driving away until I couldn't see the grave anymore. (I saw her standing there. What else could I do?)

OK, for the funny. My father passed away two years ago (Not the funny part, bear with me.) and one of my cousins is a preacher, pastor, whatever you have in the Baptist persuasion (and let me add "oh so holy rolling"), and he was charged, volunteered, whatever to do the eulogy. Now, I don't even remember this cousin (another story for another time) and other cousins have to tell me who he is and he starts in with the basic eulogy stuff; you know, "good man, kind, blah blah." And he does that for three minutes. The next thing you know he is talking about himself, and how HE would like to be remembered, and how HE lives HIS life, and how HE wants HIS kids to be. We're all, "Buh wah?" But then, then he tells everyone that he wants his daughter to have her first kiss on her wedding night, to be a virgin on her wedding night, "to know the joy of love-making on her wedding night," (W.T.F?) and my great-aunt, sitting right behind me and who is only 5 years older than my dad, makes a snorting sound and pops up with, "Yeah, like that's gonna happen." And we lose it.

OK, so you kind of had to be there but there is nothing like church giggles to blow the wind out of a pompous tool like my cousin. Three minutes about my dad, 45 minutes about himself. Ass.

Well, I have one tale with several deaths, although not Shakespeare, sadly. There may be a bit of redemption, here, too. (Do the redeemed, know it? Are they to be trusted if they say so?)

This is more about the survivors, processing someone else's departure.

Early last fall I moved to the East coast to be nearer to my parents after my father's mesothelioma diagnosis - a disease of ugly ending. I was able to grab a gig about 250 miles from them. Through no plan, this was in the city with my "found family" - people from college and after that I'm closer to than my bio-family. I got lucky.

I'd been on the Left coast for 10 years or so. These people I'd been away from took me in & took care of me like I'd never been away. Two of them, a couple, I'll call P & R. It turns out that while my father was medically flailing, R's father was terminal on a steadier trajectory. He died peacefully, holding his wife's hand, surrounded by family. So, we took shifts and all hit the funeral, viewing, services & etc.

(I discovered at the calling hours that R & I have evangelicals in common off in Africa, missionaries all. Maybe there's a "big board" somewhere with cross-trajectories. Color coded, perhaps? Green & Orange for protestants and Catholics? Metallic gold for Mormons? And yes, I am going to hell.)

About a month later, P's nephew, 26, was killed in a car crash. The nephew was cleaning up while the baby-mama remained an addict. So, P's sister and brother-in-law have an unexpected new child. Custody resolved last month. Throughout, the crew saddled up again. Viewings, services, other events, plus kidnapping R & P for dinner from time to time because that helps.

About a month later my father died. There had been false alarm after complication after new development after misinformation. From the latest complication he was making progress toward coming home (again) when he went down, fast. None of us made it to the bedside, but we'd been there many times already.

The funeral & services were going to be horrible. We were estranged, my family and I. There's a mythology around my father the good man, the saver of souls, the missionary. I was looking at a week or so already wrung out and exhausted, surrounded by the extended family of pious moralizers, plus sycophants praising someone I never knew, celebrating successes paid for in part by silent chunks of my life.

Five people - working stiffs all, none blood-family - took time off & drove 250 miles to hold my shit together for me at the service. I've never before this had help with the hard things.

sorry, it just made me tear up. that's, frankly, a wonderful and heart squeezing moment to share. My condolences to your family, Mister Tater.

About two years ago the mother of one of my closest friends, who also happens to have been my first love, died on my birthday. This has turned my birthday into a strange affair, where he's sad and feels obliged to wish me happy birthday, and I'm happy, because it's my birthday, but feel obliged to send my condolences. The year after that my Father's older brother died the day after my birthday. Maybe there's something bad about late January birthdays.

Most of our family funerals are kind of dour events that I dislike because there ends up being far more religion than I'd like to see, and I often end up sulking over that. But my grandfather's was still the best, there was a mix of bittersweet acceptance and remorse. He was the father figure for several of my male cousins, because my aunts divorced their father's and they were hardly seen from after. What I remember most was a note my cousin Erik had the priest read, which said that he knew he would one day be a good father, and grandfather, because he had the best example in our grandfather that a man could hope for. That was about as poignant anyone in my family has ever been at these things. They played "My Way" by Sinatra as the procession carried out the casket, and it took me about three years before I could hear that without tearing up. I think my mom still resents them for ruining the song with that memory though..

First funeral I ever went to.

During the carrying of the coffin, the DJ somehow mixed up 'Ave Maria' with 'You're the one that I want'

That's right, from Grease.

And it was too late to stop it, so my poor friend's aunt was carried down the aisle by mournful faces to: "You better shape up, becasue I need a maaaaaaan, and my heart is set on youuuuuuu!"

I half expected to see the corpse jump out of the coffin and start jitterbugging with her tearful relatives, who are now, ironically, dying or heart attacks at the fright of Aunt Lucy's reprise

My mother died in October and it was so unexpected and shocking that I still can't seem to wrap my brain around it. She was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of September and 7 weeks later she died. I had been living overseas when she was diagnosed and didn't arrive back in the U.S. until a week before she died. At the time, everyone was still optimistic and I was planning on taking her up to my parents' retirement house in Oregon (that had literally just been finished that week) to recuperate after chemo. Then her liver shut down completely and she passed away.

My father, sisters and I went to the funeral parlor together to make arrangements for my mother's cremation. The whole building was very grand and frou-frou. We were led into a meeting room to pick out her urn. An assistant stepped into the room to help us fill out the paperwork. He was... awkward. And extremely effeminate. And apparently hard of hearing. And could not for the life of him spell anything on the paperwork correctly. Up until that point, I had been in a constant state of tears, but after the fifth time he tried to spell our home address correctly, I caught my sister's eye from across the table...

And started giggling.

Then I started crying. Then I started laughing. I excused myself from the room, found an empty parlor and sat there laughing so hard I could barely breathe. It took a full 10 minutes for me to get my shit together. Finally, my sister came to get me after the assistant left.

I have a history of getting the giggles during Christmas mass, so I probably should not have been so surprised by my own inappropriate-ness. But the sensation of not being able to stop laughing, when you know you should be crying is still very peculiar.

When my great-aunt passed away, i got a quick lesson on why what the funeral homes do to gussie up the deceased isn't always what's best.

My aunt was always known for her excessive facial wrinkles. As young as her 40's she always had them, and by the time she was well into her 80's she looked like 4ft tall upright Shar-Pei . It didn't matter, we loved her anyway. Between her wrinkles, her Harvey Firestein smoker's voice, shock of white Andy Warhol hair and whore-red lipstick she never could put on right, she was very distinctive over family gatherings.

Then came the unfortunate passing. She was brought to the home and I honestly thought they thought she was doing her a favor. They took most of her wrinkles out, gave her this really proper hairstyle and did her make-up perfectly complete with a much more conservative color. She now looked like Barbara Bush and completely unrecognizable. We all watched each relative walk into the room, take a look at the casket and each one without fail would say, "Whoops, wrong funeral", and proceed to start for another room before someone would stop them. As the numbers grew, the urge to suppress our laughter got exponentially hard and harder.

By the end of the calling hours, we all agreed two things; first, that sometimes making a dead person look their best didn't always mean that it was best look on them, and secondly that my aunt would have loved the thought of her funeral being the source of one last bit of happiness. The stifled laughter was a real ice breaker, as we all talked about her life and it turned into one of the least awkward or sad funerals I ever went to.

My childhood best friend committed suicide when she was twenty after dealing with manic-depression since she was twelve (probably earlier). It was awful, she and I had been friends since we were three. I remember the funeral was so packed and her sorority sisters were there (I was not one of them) when we were waiting for them to say the final prayer before everyone left and they would put her in the vault. I suddenly became aware that these vapid girls behind me in the crowd were engaged--not in mourning my friend--but in a heated debate as to whether or not Dawson's Creek was on that night at 8 or at 9!! I turned slightly and shot them an evil look through my tears. They of course didn't care and even left before the prayer was completely done. It confirmed what she had once told me about how she never truly trusted their friendship. Sigh...I miss my friend...I was just thinking about her earlier, too. On a silly note, I'm still waiting for her to come back and scare the crap out of me--cuz it would be just like her to do that and get a kick out of it. I'M WAITING CAITY!!

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Throughout my childhood, my great-grandmother stood as this seemingly ageless, possibly immortal foundation to the family. She was a German immigrant who came over at some point vaguely around WWI, and then a farmer's wife who insisted on living alone in her remote farmhouse, tending to her own garden and wood-burning stove, until she was close to 90 (She finally, and begrudgingly, moved into a retirement community for the last few years).

Though she'd been having increasing mobility issues and bouts of cold and flu, great-grandma made it out for my grandparents' 50th anniversary celebration. More of our extended family showed up to that event than to most of the recent reunions, giving her the chance to visit with a whirlwind of loved ones from all over the place, some of them for the first time in years.

My mom and aunts spent an inordinate amount of time preparing three huge photo collages for the party: one of my grandparents as children and young adults with their respective families, one of my grandparents with their four girls, and one of all the grandkids. As the festivities drew to a close, the crowd dwindled to just the core party-planners doing clean-up and my great-grandma, who was waiting on her ride. As I bustled around, clearing centerpieces, I caught sight of her sitting at one of the far tables, the collages spread out around her as she quietly took in each separate picture, savoring every memory. She looked so incredibly peaceful and happy. I realized, gazing down at all the smiling faces, that what lay before her was actually a life's work in photographs, a highlight reel of the past 70 years of love, loss, laughter, and 26 people who existed, in some part, because of her.

I knew that when my uncles wheeled her out the door that day, I'd be saying my final goodbye, and it felt... right, like I'd just witnessed a perfect, satisfying conclusion to a really amazing movie.

I want an ending like that someday.

Oh, my condolences to you and Mrs. Tater. Losing a parent sucks the big one. My dad will be gone 9 years this Thursday and there are still days I pick up the phone to call him to tell him one of his favorite movies is on. Your FiL went out beautifully.

Most of the deaths I have been around for really blew. My great-aunt, who was my de facto grandmother, died my senior year of high school. She had been in the nursing home for several years, and hated it. BUT, she wore beautiful silk pajamas every single day and had her hair done once a week. She was fiesty, fussy, and a perfectionist until the end. When the phone rang very early in the morning the Sunday before Labor Day, I knew she was gone. No one had to tell me. I felt it. I miss her every day.

Probably the best story in my family is my grandfather. He died when I was 3. My grandmother had died about 10 years before. Story goes that he was on a date. He and his lady friend went back to her place after dinner and a movie, and got their geriatric groove on. After, he was sitting on the sofa while she made him a cup of coffee. He had a massive heart attack, and died during the afterglow.

Not a shabby way to do it...

My dad passed in '03 due to brain cancer. I simplify because he had gone through radiation and chemo to fight it elsewhere in his body (and beat the big C) only to have it migrate to his head where the docs just shrugged and said "sorry, we're done here."

Anyway, my Dad was fortunate and had many good times, but this is the story about dealing with the funeral. Pops donated his brain to cancer research and then went into the urn. He didn't want to be put into the ground where we would have to go and visit and get sad and morose, so he now sits on a top shelf of the house he enjoyed with my Mom. Instead of a big funeral, my Mom had a little memorial service and asked my sister and I and some close friends to speak (as she knew she would be unable to). For days leading up to the service, I was just messed up with sadness and couldn't come up with a single thing to say. Then my Mom said to tell one of many stories of my Dad's mishaps that I was privy to. This got me thinking, and what came to me was a story that made me smile at the same time as the sadness gripped my heart.

Long story short, battling back tears and cracking voice, I stood in front of a room full of people who knew and mourned my Dad, and told how he got his tractor stuck in a pond. Twice. It is a surreal moment when your heart is being squeezed my sadness, and an entire room is sharing a prolonged laugh. The loss of my Dad still springs up on me from time to time, but that one shared laugh with people who I know cared for my father is always the lasting memory of those painful and horrible last days. I like to think that if my Dad was there, he would've laughed loudest and longest.

my Dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer and died after about a month in the hospital. Not an easy time, made less easy by my having to be in close contact with my much-older brother and his wife, whom I didn't like for various reasons.

So Dad dies and I drive 4 hours in 100+ heat with no air conditioning in the car and no food or sleep for several days to attend the funeral. My brother and his wife lived in our hometown and that is where Dad wanted to be buried so they made the arrangements, including the choice of music.

As I am sitting in the pews, surrounded by family and friends, I hear an instrumental version of "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina". WTF? My head snaps up and I say in a too-loud-for-a-funeral voice "Is that Don't Cry For Me Argentina? ARE WE BURYING EVA PERON????" My sister-in-law assures me this was "one of your Father's favorites", which meant it was one of HERS,the self-centered cow!

My Dad would have enjoyed some classy Mozart OR the Monty Pythons Flyng Circus theme, because Dad was a funny guy, but a tacky show tune? NEVER.
Still, I remember that and it makes me laugh, so maybe it was a good thing after all.

Why in the bloody hell would they not allow "Danny Boy"? Its a beautiful song that makes me cry every time I hear it.

As for "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina," I think I would have done a spit-take and laughed myself right out of the service.

I have my music picked out, and NONE of it is the traditional churchy bullcrap. But, I do have some showtunes....

I forgot the humor part. My peeps from elsewhere started cracking wise at the service ...

First,the roads. "What, they put the roads wherever the cow path already is?" It's rural Pennsyltucky, so yeah.

Then, the funeral home decor. I hadn't noticed, the gilding, the sweeping staircase, and ... the ladies in the wallpaper in various states of discrete semi-dress. Yep, it had to have been a "club" where someone might find the love of their life, for the weekend, the night or just right now.

So, dad, the former "Gospel DJ" (Really.), plus inspired flock, plus the missionary preacher's kid relatives who get bent at too much cleavage or leg - at a funeral service in a brothel.

"Why in the bloody hell would they not allow "Danny Boy"? Its a beautiful song that makes me cry every time I hear it."

It's because it's not liturgical. It's a very strict interpretation, which I get because I understand the need to protect the integrity of the service and all, but it does seem a little harsh to not just look the other goddamned way at an Irish-Catholic funeral. At a certain point "Irish" and "Catholic" are pretty interchangeable.

If you're going to play anything for me, though, please play "Fields of Athenry." Sniff.

I question if the juices that family members promote do truly work ? I know a close champion that says it does, I gotta try then.