Single in Saint Louis: The Funeral Trilogy

Angels for Armrests!

Fri, 23 Jun 2006 21:19:04 GMT

On the plane back to St. Louis, I cracked the window against the wishes of the people sitting in the seat behind me. I love the window seat. I like to watch the clouds. I like the clouds because as a little girl I thought angels sat on top of them. I am sure that came from some television commercial, but I liked the thought. The kid sitting behind me was kicking my seat, which normally would have annoyed me, but today, didn’t. I was to captured by the clouds. I wondered if my granddad was on a cloud right now. Silly, I looked. I’m 25 and still thinking angels sit on clouds. I turned back around. The man next to me had taken my armrest. The lady behind me reached up and shut my window. I was angry. I wanted to see the clouds just in case. It doesn’t matter how rational my reasons for seeing clouds were, I wanted to see the clouds. Then I thought again about my granddad. What would Grandad do? In his old age he could be quite cantankerous. I took it upon myself to use a little of his attitude. I reached to my side and pushed back open the window the woman behind me had shut, and glanced at the seat behind me. Her two kids were fast asleep. I heard her huff and got a small sense of satisfaction. She had no right shutting my window anyway. She can shut her own. Then, I naively put my elbow on my stolen armrest, which freaked the guy next to me out, because I was that chick on the airplane that was touching his elbow with mine. I quickly regained control of the armrest. Kicked my feet up into my seat to take up as much space as humanly possible, and stared out the window at the clouds. We make what we want of our lives whether by friendship or force, and he was so proud of me!

Saying Goodbye

Fri, 23 Jun 2006 02:35:34 GMT

All weekend I held my own fine until I had one thought…”He was so proud of you.” It was odd that something so wonderful brought tears to my eyes every single time I thought it. I avoided the thought with avengence.

Our family stood outside the church to greet the friends of the family. I wasn’t sure what to say to anyone. I couldn’t talk for too long because inevitably law school would come up and the “He was so proud of you” thought would creep into my head and I would start crying. I did my best to make conversation and joked when someone brought up the recent graduation. It took the edge off.

Then a little hand grabbed mine. My 2nd cousin, he is a toddler. He was carrying a little book about ducks and had something urgent he wanted to show me. He dragged me to the North wall of the church where there was a huge stain glassed window. He pointed very matter of factly at the last supper. Then he looked at me and very pointedly opened his book and pointed to a duck then back to the last supper. At first I told him, “no, there was no duck at the last supper. I think they ate bread.” He protested. I asked, “Are you asking where the duck is?” He nodded shyly. “Not every story has a duck. Just yours.” He smiled. Then reached his arms up to have me pick him up. I carried him with me and we talked about ducks for awhile. Well, I talked about ducks. He made razberry faces and spoke a whole other language than me. I was happy to have the distraction of ducks to remove me from the gravity of the entire situation. Then I started to wonder where the duck was in the last supper too.

I had successfully avoided my critical thought. As the family readied to go into the church I took one last look at my granddad. I grabbed his wrists where they crossed just to make sure that I could not wake him up. Immediately, the thought came screaming into my head, “HE WAS SO PROUD OF YOU.” Only worse than just the thought…my entire last memory…him looking at my graduation pictures, smiling, laughing, bragging about his granddaughter to the nurses. I found my cousin in line. They closed the casket and began the service. My Aunt read first…”There is a time for everything…” My thoughts were totally in the moment. Then my father “We do not want you to be unaware, brothers, about those who have fallen asleep…” Then my Uncle’s choice, the story of Lazarus.

Slowly, over the course of the service my spirits were lifted. Then, we sang the final song “On eagles wings”, the casket was blessed, and taken out of the church. As we were walking through the lobby of the church, I heard the voice again in my head. “He was so proud of you.” The memory again. Followed quickly by a memory standing outside of church as a little girl waiting impatiently to find out where we were going to breakfast with Gram and Grandad. Two big sobs. Tears rolled down my cheeks. My cousin, who was also crying, I am sure for a similar reason, was armed with Kleenex. She had it in my hand before my mascara began to run down my cheeks. My mother hugged me.

At the cemetery there were two navy men standing at attention. I tried hard not to cry as taps was played and the American flag was lifted over his casket, folded, and given to my grandmother. I remembered the story about the airplane he flew to see Gram even though he had never flown a plane before. I thought of how patriotic he was, proud of his country, and embarrassed by every single liberty and right the people of our country gave up. He was always quick to tell you to vote. I remember one year, I didn’t. It slipped at a family dinner and I got a lecture about my duties as a United State’s Citizen.

And then it was over. There was an eerie calm after the storm. A dinner at the church, which no one from our family had contributed to. I was on the verge of another memory. A memory from the church parish hall, when my dad came in looking for my mother. Then the thought came back, “He was so proud of you.” It kept repeating itself in my head. I was happy that I could honestly say, I saw him proud of me. Slowly I started not to cry at the words.

The Visitation Party

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 04:12:47 GMT

After a fun filled day of food with family, attempts at making floral arrangements, and looking at old pictures. We had my grandfather’s visitation. A visitation that was not normal at any angle. It was a joyous occasion. Filled with laughter and love. Hugs and happy stories. There were a few tears, but they could easily be swept away by a happy memory. The workers at the funeral home seemed somewhat perplexed. Most people are quiet and solemn at times like this. Not our family. Our family was like we always are, big, Italian, and noisy…even when we are quiet. We all share the same mentality, The workers at the funeral home checked on us all several times to make sure we were okay. Then even they seemed to have their spirits lifted.

I couldn’t help but think this is the way these things were supposed to be. Not a mourning in your own loss, but a celebration of another person’s life. Funerals should be more like birthdays, and less like funerals. People poured into the visitation. Not only did they pour in, they stayed. They stayed and talked, some for hours. They flipped through my gram and grandad’s wedding album. Seven people commented on how I shared my gram’s smile. A trait I had never really noticed, but upon closer inspection myself, was an absolute. Three generations of family friends hoarded the room. The friends of my grandparents, the friends of my father, Aunt, and Uncle, and even some of my own friends. Many originally showing up in the usual solemn mood and quickly realizing this was no ordinary visitation, dropping the mood, and smiling and laughing with the rest of us.

After the only people left were family and I was walking out the door, I thought about how lucky we all were to have been loved by this man and to love each other so much. I thought about how easily we could love each other, and how somewhere in us was instilled the idea that "You love your family, whether you like them or not." I realized how many lives can be touched by one life, for generation after generation. Refreshing.

"I have been loved!"

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 15:10:49 GMT

“I have been loved.” My grandmother said as I she sat on the couch, while I sat in my grandfather’s favorite chair in a rare conversation alone with my gram. I thought of how strange it must feel to know that your companion of nearly 60 years is not in the next room. She had spent a good portion of her life caring for him and carrying him. Now, she consoled herself with one phrase, “I have been loved.” Oddly, that seemed enough. Every time she mentioned how much she had been loved all weekend, gram had a smile born across her face.

All of a sudden, I formed a connection with my grandmother I had been making for years. I realized that she too, was now single. Single in a very different way than me. A single that prior to this very moment, I had no real experience with. But I knew I had something to contribute. I know the feeling my grandmother is dealing with. I know lonely. As she sat on her couch and described the awkwardness, I understood. Her place in life had now become the same as mine. Only, instead of searching for love, she had found it. She had found it in a cute little Navy man a long long time ago. A cute little Navy man that she was still proud of at his funeral. Every time she saw his picture in his navy blues she would say, “How could you not fall in love with that?” She wore his wedding ring on a chain around her neck.

I watched the uncanny resemblance between the two of us as gram made a verbal list of everything she needed to take care of. I knew this list was a reminder to herself, I know because I do the exact same thing. I tell someone else so that I remember. Then we started to talk about groceries. I told her about the Farmer’s Market in Soulard where I sometimes gallyvant on Saturdays, and we reminisced about going to the Farmer’s Market in Oklahoma City when I was a little girl. We talked about how much cheaper the food is and how you can get just enough without having to buy in bulk. Then I remembered roasted peanuts. My grandfather used to buy a bag and share it with whatever grandchildren he had about. It made me smile. I thought of why I must really love the farmer’s market. It has less to do with produce than with a fond memory of my grandparents.

My younger cousin walked in the door. There was a no knock, no call policy this weekend. We went with my gram to buy groceries. She had not been without my grandfather, and you could see the memories soar through her head as she scanned the store. As we passed the bakery my cousin shouted, “Granny! Do you need a cake?” and in unison we volunteered to help her eat it. She laughed. As gram walked ahead of us through the bakery, cakeless, my cousin informed me she had been living the last couple of days off of ice cream and pie. Then we giggled, both of us knowing well that the diet seemed very much like something we have both eaten while alone and stressed. I wondered if this habit was genetic or purely environmental. As Gram paid for the groceries, my cousin and I watched as she became a little more quiet than usual. We understood without saying a word that granddad must have been the one to do this.

We helped put away groceries, and both had to leave. We made it a point to hug gram extra long so she knew, not only that she had been loved, but that she still was loved. I can only hope that someday, I will be able to say the same thing.

And he will watch from Heaven Part II

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 03:32:34 GMT

My evening was filled with play by play long distance phone calls, friends, hugs, tears, stories, and somewhere in the midst of the commotion, a sandwich. I sat down before bed still feeling empty and checked my email. I had an email from my sis-in law. New pictures. The most recent ultrasound. 3D. You can see what my nephew looks like at 7 months. I am amazed, overwhelmed, and overcome with love. That emptiness I had been feeling all day was filled ever so slightly with the joy of seeing this new baby swimming in the womb.

I looked at the picture of his tiny little hands. I counted his little fingers four times. All of them there. I stared at the little face of a little boy I have yet to know. I am in love. I can only imagine what it will be like to hold the little guy. That is if I can get him away from his Nonna. Which reminds me of grandad. The love he must have felt for me. Then I have an interesting thought...

Luke will never know grandad, but he will forever have a connection to him. A connection through stories. I think of how important it is to tell stories. How it keeps us in touch with all those before us. It is our job to pass on the stories of life.

I am overwhelmed by the day. I am overwhelmed by the story of just today. The rush of seeing Luke in the flesh for the first time v. the loss of my grandfather. Birth and death all in the same day. I am amazed at the organization of life. The consistency. There must be a higher power. There must be some kind of Life Regulatory Commission whose job it is to make sure that for a birth there is a death. Then I think to myself there must be a reason for all of it. Something in me believes that from somewhere far far away, my grandfather will be watching Luke grow every day of his life from the 50 yard line alumni seats and cheering him on.

And he will watch from Heaven...

Sat, 17 Jun 2006 21:31:14 GMT

I wish I could tell you what it is like to receive the call I just received. The way your heart drops well beneath your stomach. The way for a few seconds the entire world stops. I held in my hand my first graded essay from barbri. In the other hand the phone. The tears streaking my face as I tried unintelligibly to say something, anything. Something that would allow me to remember that I am alive, that this is life, that this is all a part of life. I look at my barbri schedule. Somewhere inside I think to myself, he picked a good day. God must have known I wanted to go home for this.

My cousin and grandmother were with him when he died. My last memory of him is of him smiling as he looked at my graduation pictures, bragging to the nurses, and handing me graduation money. I gave him a hug when I left the hospital. I knew deep down, it would be the last time I would see him. He has seen me all the way through law school. It was what I had wanted. I wanted to make it through law school and see that proud look on his face before he died. My prayer was answered, and now forever, that look will be one of my fondest memories.

I hung up the phone with my mother, only to weep harder. So hard I pulled a muscle in my side. A deeply felt loss. The kind of loss where you can feel your heart ripping apart. Your body aches. Your head throbs. I took an aleve. I look around and I am alone. Very alone. I want to go home. I want to go home now. I want to be with my family. I check my schedule again. I will be back in St. Louis for the practice exam. I will not have to miss work. Prince Charming is coming over. My side is stinging with pain from the pulled muscle.

I run a hot bath. Use my stress relief aromatherapy for the bubbles. Crawl in and feel empty. I just laid still for a moment. Completely still. Like if I moved life would move with me. For some reason I didn't want it to move on just now. I cry a little more. I think of my dollhouse. My undergraduate school. My picture with my grandparents at my first OSU game when I walked all the way around the stadium to his alumni seats on the 50 yard line. I remember him teaching me OSU's version of boomer sooner. And the way he always talked out of the corner of his mouth and mumbled. I remember the smell of cigars. He never smoked them, just chewed on them. His story about meeting my grandmother. About how he took a plane up during WWII and flew it even though he was really an engineer. I remember the stories of how he went off roading with my grandmother in a 1940's ford.

And I remember rabbit stories. The rabbit stories I used to tell. Strangely enough it was just earlier today I was chasing rabbits. 4 little bunnies whose mother was nowhere to be found. they were huddled down and scared in the grass. One of the little ones had fallen onto the sidewalk off of a ledge and was trying to find it's brother's and sisters. I reached down and petted the little guy. He wouldn't let me help him back onto the ledge. He was ready to find his way on his own. He hopped around the sidewalk looking for home. I remembered my very first A+. Then I looked down at my hand. There it was, the first graded barbri essay. I dreaded looking at it. This day was already going great.

I opened it. I scored high. I thought of my grandad.

There was a summer worse than this one once...

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 14:38:59 GMT

At least that is what I keep reminding myself as I grasp the reality of a do not administer treatment/do not resuscitate order for my grandfather. At least he got to see me graduate. I know he was proud. He bragged to all the nurses in the hospital the day I came to visit him. But it is still hard to think that someone who has always been there, through every concert, graduation, and major holiday, will not be there anymore. He might be somewhere better. At least that is what we always tell ourselves in tough times. But right now, in this very moment, that is too difficult to think about. Mom said, the doctors give him 7 days without treatment before he dies. I wonder if that is a hopeful look at the situation. Something doctors tell patient's families that makes it easier to tell them their loved one is dying very soon. Or maybe it is the outright truth. The best the doctors can estimate. 7 days from now... I look at my calendar. Great. The same day as the practice bar exam.

There is a chance I can't go home. It breaks my heart to have to choose between my future and my past. I think of how proud my grandfather was when I graduated. He would want me to stay if that is the situation that presents itself. He wouldn't want me to quit or to turn down any opportunity on account of him. I think of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. My whole life I have felt like Amy. In this very moment I feel like Jo.

As people move through your life, they become a part of your spirit. A part of who you are and who you are to become. I am sure that at some point as I toil over those bar exam essays I will remember my grandfather and his "don't quit" that pulled me through those rough times during law school. I will think of the look on his face when I showed him the pictures of graduation in one of his final lucid moments. His spirit was there with me at graduation. It will follow me the rest of my life.

Helen Coit, my piano teacher, died when I was 16. A third grandparent. I can still play the duet I played with her. It is the only song I still have memorized. Instilled in me an appreciation for art and a love of the artist.

My Uncle Ricky, my mother's brother, died when I was 10. Gave me my first nickname. Showed me how to have fun in life, and never take it too seriously.

My papa, died when I was 19, had gone into the nursing home at the same time I went to college. Commiserated with me about roomates and made the whole experience more tolerable. Taught me incredible lessons about people and relationships like that an 18 year old and a 75 year old can have the exact same roomate issues. A situation that formed an inexplicable bond that allowed him to tell me goodbye when the time came.

Now, my grandfather, for pushing me to not just reach for dreams, but to acheive them with hard work and diligence. Don't Quit, and fight to the end. My most zealous advocate.