The Final Journey, Part 11 (Goth Girl)

Thursday October 13

I went back to work Thursday. I didn’t want to, but knew it was a good idea. I needed my routine. Throughout the morning, though, I was consumed with Gram’s burial which was to take place at 9:30.

I went through the motions of work that day. My heart wasn’t in it and I couldn’t focus. I wanted to, though, and a few times I actually did, but my mind would inevitably wander back to thoughts and memories of Gram as I struggled to believe the reality of what had happened this past week.

 “You look lost,” one of my co-workers said as he walked past me in the hall. I was lost.

               I would visit the cemetery after work. My mind became focused on that. In doing so, I would experience something unexpected and beautiful …

Goth Girl

I was shocked when I opened the mailbox. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t expect to get sympathy cards. I did get them though -a bunch of them. I brought them into the house and placed them on the counter while I took care of the dogs and changed out of my work clothes. I was anxious to open them and read them, but at the same time, not. I know these cards would evoke strong emotions. I’d be a wreck again.

This morning, Gram was transported to her final resting place and buried. Gram hadn’t planned for a procession to the cemetery or a service there, so I hadn’t planned to go. Peter, from the funeral home, reassured me, though, that he would go along and stay until she was properly buried. He would then call me at work and let me know that it was complete. He was a compassionate funeral director who was diligent in his service until the very end. The sales manager at the cemetery, on the other hand, was crass and borderline rude. When I explained to her that there was no procession planned and asked, in case I changed my mind, if it was ok for me to come alone and see Gram buried, she replied, “You can come watch them bury her if you want, but be aware that it will be a bunch of dirty, blue collar guys digging a hole and putting her in it.“
            “What?” I replied, “I have no problem with blue collar guys and it certainly doesn’t offend me.” Peter’s kindness and compassion was in stark contrast to her nastiness. I really appreciated him.

I wanted to check on Gram anyway, so I decided to take the cards with me and read them at the cemetery. Seeing her grave would get me bawling so I figured I could do all my bawling at once. The cemetery is right up the street from my house, so it only took a few minutes to get there.

I walked over Gram’s grave wondering if my feet would sink into the dirt indicating that some settling would need to take place. I didn’t sink, not even a little. I walked back and forth and around the spray of beautiful flowers whose tag said “Great Gram.” We had placed them inside the coffin during the viewing and asked that they be placed on top of the casket for the service. Now they would remain on top of the grave until such time that the cemetery staff removed them. They were still beautiful.

I sat down in the cold, but thankfully dry, grass next to Gram’s grave. There were remnants of the dirt from the burial scattered throughout the grass – a dusting that gave the grass a yellowish hue. It was cool outside, maybe fifty degrees, with a breeze and no sun.

I began to open the cards one at a time. I placed each envelope under my shoe beneath my crossed legs so they wouldn’t blow away as I opened each subsequent one. I was sobbing as I read through the beautiful sentiments expressed by the cards and the people who sent them.

“Would you like a cup a tea?” I jumped, startled.
              “Oh my God, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. She was dressed in all-black - blouse, skirt, stockings, and shoes - a self-proclaimed Goth girl, I would soon learn. At first I wondered where she came from as she seemed to appear out of nowhere. I realized she worked at the cemetery office when she repeated, “Would you like a cup of tea while you sit here?” Her voice was soft and compassionate.

“Yes,” I managed to blurt out between sobs.”

“Would you like sugar or cream?”

“No.”

As she walked away, I continued through the cards and I continued to sob. Once finished, I sat quietly, amazed by the support and love I was witnessing and amazed at the life Gram lived. I looked at her headstone. It was propped up using the vase insert, waiting for her end date scroll to be added and for the dirt to settle before being permanently placed.  “Well, Ella, what now?” I asked. (Ella was a name I often called Gram in her pre-dementia days. It was a nickname for her real name, Elizabeth.) I waited quietly as if I expected to get an answer.

The young lady returned and brought me a cup of delicious hot tea in a Styrofoam cup. She also brought tissues. “Here, for the tears,” she said.

“Thank you so much for your kindness,” I smiled at her through my tears.

She stooped down, reached back and smoothed her skirt under her with her hand and sat in the grass right next to me with her legs bent together and on their sides. In addition to her all-black outfit, she had large, round, plastic-framed glasses that were also black. They completely covered her very white face. I commented on her all-black attire, specifically how it seemed appropriate for her job. “People tell me all the time that I look like the Goth girl, Lydia Deetz, from Beetlejuice,” she said. “I love it.”

We sat and we talked for almost an hour. She listened as I talked about my bond with Gram and the large hole that was left in my life. “I know I’ll be ok,” I said, “And I know that hole will eventually fill.”

“It will fill,” she said, “but slowly and over time.”

She spoke of losing her own grandmother and their bond and pain she endured. We told stories about our respective grandmothers. She cried with me. She reassured me that I would be ok.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jennifer.”

“Nice to meet you Jennifer, I’m Mike,” I said, extending my hand to shaker hers.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“You’re so much kinder than your manager,” I said. “She was really nasty the other day.”

“Oh?” she replied, hesitant to go any further. Uh oh, I hope that’s not her mother, I thought, as I dropped the subject.

I stood up. “I have to go.”

“OK.”

“Thank you so much again for your kindness.”

“You’re welcome Mike. Take care.”

I really needed to meet Jennifer, the Goth girl, today. Perhaps that was Gram’s doing.

The Final Journey, Part 10 (The Eulogy)

Wednesday October 12

I got up early again. I would prepare for another day, another viewing, lots more emotions. At the end of tonight’s viewing, I would eulogize Gram. I needed to prepare. I’ve always loved talking about Gram – I wanted the whole world to know about her and what she meant to me. That part would be easy; containing my emotions would not.

I drove through the cemetery where Gram would be buried. Pap had purchased four plots back in the 1950’s. They were in the Garden Of The Water Of Life section, which didn’t mean much to me except that they were easy to find. But there was no garden and no fountain. Pap was already buried there and Gram’s sister, Stella, too. Gram would lie next to Pap and the fourth plot would remain empty and be transferred to Mom with what remained of Gram’s estate.  

I pulled over and stopped the truck as I approached the gravesite. Gram’s bronze marker was standing up, leaning on the vase that would normally slide inside the center hole when the marker was placed in the ground at the base of her grave. It was removed while they dug and left out waiting for the date-of-death scroll to be installed. It was a beautiful but simple marker that she had purchased back in 2009 when she insisted that I take her to pre-plan and pre-pay her funeral and burial.          

The neatly rectangular grave hole was dug and probably had the vault already placed inside. I couldn’t be sure. I was sitting in my truck, unable to get out and look. I didn’t want to see it. I still couldn’t process that Gram would be placed there. After being in my life for fifty three years, her death was still surreal to me.

I noticed there was no dirt pile. This was curious to me. Where do they put the dirt? Later, I would learn that they remove the dirt from the area because it’s disrespectful to pile it on other nearby graves.

As I stared at the marker and the hole in the ground, I thought about that day back in 2009 when we ran around and pre-planned her funeral and bought the headstone. Now that she was gone, I was so grateful that we did that. “Thanks, Mum, for taking care of me,” I said out loud in my truck.

I also thought about those moments, over the last days, where I thought perhaps it was starting to sink in – where I was okay with Gram’s passing and where the fact that I had no regrets; no guilt and no “I wish I would haves” further consoled me. But disbelief kept returning and bringing with it despair and sadness. Again, I’d find myself feeling lost, empty, and directionless. I missed her. I didn’t know what my life could be without her. When this is all over, I thought, everyone would go back to their spouses, children, and routines. I, on the other hand, having no spouse or children, would be lost. Gram was my routine. What would I do?

Back at the funeral home, I felt mostly calm at first. Gram was gone, but being in her presence there – even though it was only her body - was still oddly familiar and comforting.

Just like the day before, there were many people who came to pay respects. There were those from ManorCare who cared for her, old friends that I haven’t seen in many years, my writing friends, even my boss. Many never met Gram, but felt like they had from my stories and Facebook posts. “I feel like I knew her,” they’d say.

Of course there were family members, too. Some were distant, some not so distant. And there was Blainey from Carlisle’s, Gram’s old boss, and his mother, Betty, Carlisle’s owner.

There were so many stories. I loved hearing them all. The room was filled with so much love and laughter – reminders of a life well-lived. That’s how Gram would have wanted it. “Thanks for sharing her with us,” I heard time and time again. The outpouring of love for Gram and support for me over those two days left me overwhelmed with emotion. I was very touched.

Saying my last good-bye would be hard. I knew that. The finality would get me. For Gram I was ok - ok with her passing for her sake. After all, she decided it was time. How could I argue that? Any feelings that I was having were for my own sadness, despair, and sense of loss. Gram’s was a life well-lived. The last several days had proved that, especially for the many people she touched in the last five or so years - and she didn’t even know it. For that, I felt good.

As I walked to the casket for my final good-bye, I reassured myself with the idea that Gram made her decision to go, just as I had figured she would. That idea calmed me. “Good bye, Mum, I love you,” I said softly as I stopped momentarily, took a last look at her, and gently touched her hand. “I’ll be ok,” I whispered to her. “You taught me how to.” And I knew I would. As lost as I was feeling, I knew I would be ok. Time and my wonderful memories would make me that way. I just needed to allow it.

Once everyone finished their final good-byes, Peter, the funeral director, had us gather in the large room where the chaplain would lead a brief service. While we gathered, he closed Gram’s casket and wheeled it into that large room. Richard, the chaplain from Heartland Hospice, started off with a few remarks and a prayer and then introduced me for my eulogy. I eulogized Gram by reflecting on the last several days. I cited hers as a life well-lived. I then read a story that I had previously written about her arrival at ManorCare and her miraculous recovery from near death to a long-term, active force to be reckoned with. I sobbed through the whole thing.

                Chaplain Richard led a beautiful sermon where he talked of how Gram served God through her faithfulness as a wife, mother, and grandmother. He spoke of how she also served the staff at ManorCare by giving them the opportunity to live out their vocations as caregivers and to be the best they could be. He spoke of my and Michelle’s faithfulness to her over the years. His reference to Gram as the “Energizer Bunny” brought laughs. Finally, he entrusted her to God’s welcoming, loving embrace and asked God to grant her happiness and peace forever. We prayed.

The service was brief and when it ended, we all said our good-byes to each other and disbursed. Jude and I went to eat after. The waffle and hot fudge sundae I consumed were much-needed comfort foods. Gram’s solution to emotions was food. This time, I concurred.

I slept well that night, exhausted.

Eulogy:

Anyone who knows me knows that Gram has always been a huge part of my life. I am blessed to have had her as long as I did. I mean, how many people at fifty three can say they still have their Gram?

Gram did so much for me throughout my life, so it’s been an honor to care for her. Apparently I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Over the last several days, even before Gram passed, there has been a steady stream of visitors. Staff and fellow-residents stopped by to say good-bye; to say a prayer; to give a small gift; to hug her; to kiss her. There are those who don’t even work at ManorCare anymore, but came to say good-bye.

Among all the visitors, common themes have emerged: First, a story - always a story - funny and told with smiles and tears. The stories exemplified the personality and specialness of Gram. Words like spitfire, spunky, tough, and determined were interlaced throughout them.

There was expression of deep love, too…and there was gratitude. “Thank you for sharing Gram with us,” is a common sentiment that folks have been expressing over and over again.

Then there’s Gram’s Facebook page. The sharing of love and photos over the last days is overwhelming for me and I can’t even get through all of the posts because the tears are so thick that I can’t see through them.

It’s clearly evident that Gram, even in the throes of her disease, touched many people over the last several years. She didn’t even know it. That is truly a life well lived.

I’m happy to have shared her journey with her. I’m happy for the chance to share her with others.