Stories from the Crowd: Putting The Fun In Funeral

by Angela De Los Santos

Two days ago this Christmas was looking damn good. Mom’s suicide attempt a failure, she was happily and safely encamped at our favorite inpatient rehab hospital. Jail time and hospital stays are bright, shiny presents from God. They protect mom from herself and make her easy to find.
“I feel great. They’re wonderful here, and I really think I’ve got it this time.” Mom sounds great. More herself than I’ve heard in years.
“That’s wonderful, mom!” I’m relieved. Last week she called to talk to me after swallowing a bottle of pills. The ambulance I called for her cut our conversation short. Perhaps a longer conversation tonight?
“I’m sorry about last week.” Let’s play, ‘Guess who’s the mom.’ The older sounding lady with the smoker’s voice? Or the younger sounding girl with the authoritative role?
“Do you remember what it felt like to lose your mother when you were young?” “Yes.” She’s crying.
“I don’t want that life. I love you. I need you healthy.”
“We’ve covered this material countless times.”
“I’m so sorry.” Ugh, I hate when she cries.
“It’s done. You’re getting sober now. Put it behind you.” And hurry it up, please. This teen mom role is tired.
“I’m a horrible mother.” My favorite.
“You’re not a horrible mother. If you were a horrible mother, I’d be a horrible kid. Am I a horrible kid?” Yes. Yes. I am.
“No. You’re amazing.”​
“Well there you go!” I fake my smile, so I can sell it.
“I love you. What are you doing for Christmas?” Mom maneuvers an excellent change of subject.
“John and I are heading over to a friend’s house in Denver. Chilling out. We both have to work this week, so just staying close. I sent you your Christmas present, I added some books for you to read and some clothes.” I’ll take any opportunity to lighten the mood. I hate the ‘emotionally fragile tap dance.’ It gives me hives.
“Awesome! I need new bras! Mine are getting old. I’m going to have old droopy boobs.” “You already have old droopy boobs!” I tease.​
“You’re a rat!” she laughs.​
“I’m kidding. Already on it. There are bras in the box I sent. Am I good or am I good?” “You’re good.”
“What are you doing for Christmas, mom?”
“Robert and his mom are coming to spend the day with me! We’re going to have Christmas here!” Robert is my mom’s new boyfriend. Who didn’t call the ambulance when she swallowed the bottle of pills. Not my issue… Not. My. Issue.
“Good. I’m glad you won’t be alone, but do we really want to keep dating Robert?” Aaaand I can’t stop myself.
“He’s a good guy.”
“He almost let you die.” Define, ‘good guy.’ I think we have very different interpretations of ‘good guy.’
“He just didn’t know what to do.” I hear the stubbornness in her voice. This line of conversation is over. At the very least, I’m convinced Robert’s an idiot. “Hey baby, I have to get off of here soon. I have the worst heart burn, and I want to go see the doctor about getting an antacid or something.”
“I’m sorry, mom. Yuck. I hope you feel better.”​
“Me too, I saw the doctor yesterday, but I just can’t get rid of it.” “Are you eating spicy foods?”
“No. You know me. Doesn’t take much to rile up my stomach. We’ll get it worked out.” She pauses, “Hey, I want to tell you, just in case anything should ever happen, my will is back in Mr. Black’s safe, and my insurance policy is under the living room table at my apartment.” Mr. Black is the last attorney mom worked for back in Austin.
“Please, so not necessary mom.” “I’m serious, Angela.”
“I sigh, “Alright, mom. Noted. I’ll call you on Christmas. Call me if you need anything before then. Love you!”
“Love you too, baby. Give John a kiss for me.”
“Will do. Bye, mom.”
Christmas in Denver was great. My fiancé, John, and I drove home from our friend’s house, stomped the snow off our shoes, and started to unlayer. While I took off my coat, John checked our answering machine.
One of the many gifts given to the child of an alcoholic is the ability to feel the mood of a room. I can read the hidden details… tone-of-voice, facial expressions, body language… like Rain Man counts dropped tooth picks. It’s that easy. The mood in this room just got ugly.
My skin prickling and hair standing on end, I place my coat on the couch and start paying closer attention to John. To be honest, I’m not sure what was said or done that gave it away, but my heart clenched, and I knew…mom was dead.
John walks up and hands me the phone.
“What is it?!” I can hear the panic in my voice.
In shock, he barely gets out, “It’s your Uncle.”
I take the phone, “What is it?”
My uncle’s crying, “Baby, I have to tell you something about your momma.”
“What is it?!”
Silence.
“WHAT IS IT?” I’m screaming now.
Silence.
“IS SHE DEAD? ….IS SHE?…. JUST TELL ME!….. IS SHE DEAD?”
“Yes, baby. You’re momma’ died today.”
I drop on the couch. Holy. Shit.
I half-listen to everything else my uncle tells me. The coroner moved her from the rehab hospital to the funeral home. Aunt Linda wants to do her makeup for the funeral. …Wait… “what?”
I might be having a nervous breakdown. I half laugh, half sob and blow at least a tablespoon of snot out of my nose. Only my family.
“Aunt Linda wants to do what?”​
“Her makeup for the funeral,” Uncle Charlie repeats. “Whose makeup?”​
“Your mom’s”
Can I not have one normal relative? My mind briefly reviews key scenes from the movie, My Girl. I refocus, and becoming alert, begin to recall my mom’s emphatic insistence over the years that I not take up space for the living by burying her in the ground with the dead.
“Mom wanted to be cremated.” I respond with no emotion.
“Oh, well, you may want to call Aunt Linda. She had her heart set on it. She asked me to give you her number and have you call her anyway.”
I hang up with Uncle Charlie. Aunt Linda had her heart set on doing mom’s postmortem makeup? I can’t think of anything less appealing right now. I’d never look at makeup the same again.
I watch from the couch in stunned silence while John arranges our trip-o-trauma. My parents have been divorced, in-amicably, since I was five, but my dad is graciously helping to coordinate. He lists our boarding options: My uncle on my dad’s side who won’t let John and I stay together because he can’t support us living in sin, and my Grandpa Fred, my dad’s dad, who doesn’t give a shit about us being sinners. Grandpa it is.
Flights and lodging arranged, I get up and call my Aunt.
“Hi Aunt Linda” is all I get out. Keeping the phone to my ear, I sit back down, lay my head down on the dining room table, and quietly weep. My tears fall directly from my eyes to the carpet below me.
Aunt Linda sends her heart break across the telephone line. “I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry, baby. I don’t know what to do. The last time I saw your momma she was drinking and being ugly. We argued, and I told her not to contact me again unless she was sober. She was my best friend! My heart… I just don’t know what to do! She always took care of me! Always. But when she needed me, I let her down.” I hear her anguish.
Ah, that’s a familiar scenario. I’ve been there myself. The guilt. I send a small thank you out to God that mom and I at least talked this much through before she died. That small bit of resolution is clearly a gift Aunt Linda doesn’t have.
“Aunt Linda, what mom needed was for all of us to stop putting up with her drinking. You did exactly the right thing. The rescuing was killing her.”
I sit quietly listening as she cries. John puts his hand on my shoulder to check on me. I look up at him. He gives me the ‘what’s going on?’ shrug. I give him the ‘I don’t know’ shrug, back.
“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I work in a funeral home. I want to do her makeup for the funeral. I’ve already called the funeral home she’s at to ask if they’ll let me.” She’s pulling herself together.
“Oh, Aunt Linda,” I hesitate, “Mom wanted to be cremated,” I know this is going to hurt her. “What?” She starts crying again. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. We talked about it numerous times. She didn’t want to take up space.” The truth of that statement hurts deep.
Aunt Linda is quiet. I know I just stole her opportunity for desperately needed closure, but the word ‘cremation’ is pounding in my head like a flashing neon sign. Mom, talking to me.
Growing up mom always had a special gift. She knew things. She saw things. We moved a lot from place to place, and I had to ask her more than once not to tell me what ghosts shared our new living quarters.
“Have you seen it?”​
“Have I seen what?”​
“The ghost?”​
“MOM, NO. Don’t start. We just got here. Ignorance is bliss?” “It’s not angry.”
“STOP! No!”
“There’s no reason to be scared. It’s a little boy and a cat. I see them mostly in the back hallway in front of the garage door.”
“Awesome. I’ll be sleeping with the lights on.”
Mom is speaking to me now. If anyone could, it would be her, so I just accept it. Three things come across loud and clear: 1. CREMATION. 2. Remember where I told you my will and insurance policy were. 3. Get the pictures.
“Fuuuuuck.,” in a broken voice, Aunt Linda replies, “Okay. I want to see you when you get here.” “I know. I’ll call you when I get up there. I’m staying with Grandpa Fred.”
“Your dad’s dad?” She asks concerned. My mom and my dad’s dad were not on good terms either. So her concern is valid, but I’m going on gut right now, and my gut says, “stay with Grandpa…stay with John.” I’m not lasting two seconds separated from John. “You can stay with me,” she offers.
“No. This is settled. I’m good.” It would be rude to shuffle around now, and my momma didn’t raise an ass.
“Okay, baby. He was always nice to me, so don’t worry. Be careful. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”
“I love you too. Hang in there.”
The friend we just left in Denver picks us up to take us to the airport. As we drive down the highway, Boyz II Men come on the radio. “Mama, mama you know I love youuuuu. Mama, mama you’re the queen of my heart…”
Are you kidding me? I’m in the back seat, so I wait to see if it clicks that this song is not good. Realizing that waiting for two college-aged men to determine on their own that the song on the radio might be pushing the girl in the back seat over an emotional edge might be asking a lot, I speak up, “Uh guys?”
“Yes, baby?” John responds with verbal kid gloves.
“Can we please channel this?”
“Oh shit, yes.” John changes the channel lightning quick.
“Sorry,” my friend Kevin says awkwardly.
And we get Celine Dion singing, “near…far…where ever you are…I believe that the heart does go onnnnnnn.”
“Ya, not this one either.”
I listen with relief to the new meaningless song. I focus on my breathing, which doesn’t seem to be coming naturally anymore. It’s taking a lot of effort to drag a breath in and push a breath out. Almost as if breathing is no longer autonomic. With anxiety I worry I might forget to breath and die.
My mortality weighs on me.
I don’t recall arriving at the airport or checking in, but it must have been done successfully because we’re loading the plane. Again, I’m overwhelmed by the awareness of my mortality. I feel stalked by death. My anxiety steadily builds as we prepare for take-off.
In Atlanta, we transfer planes.
We line up to load our new plane, following the people in front of us through the sky walk. Straight, to the right, down the stairs, and WHAT. THE. FUCK?
Our tiny ass connecting plane is sitting out on the tarmac with stairs attached to it. There are visible propellers, two…only two…on either side of the plane. Honestly, I only thought these planes existed on Fantasy Island. I briefly look around for a tiny man in a spiffy white suit, but this isn’t paradise. My
mortality siren blaring, I pause in my walking. Whoa, whoa, whoa. This plane has “La Bamba” written all over it.
John notes that my feet have stopped moving, and gives my hand a squeeze. Against my better judgment, I force myself toward the plane. Each step takes effort. Peal foot off tarmac, pick foot up, set foot down, repeat… repeat… repeat.
Inside the plane is a horror show. Two seats on either side of a very narrow aisle. It’s the matchbox of planes. Once we’re seated, the flight attendant begins to review the plane’s safety features…in a thick Scandinavian accent. Eyes wide and wild, I look around at the other passengers to have one of those shared “what the hell?” moments, but no one else is concerned, so I’m left hanging.
I don’t normally pay any attention to this portion of my flight experience, but I’ve never been on a plane this small, and I’m pretty sure it’s going down. Unable to understand a word coming out of the flight attendant’s mouth, I frantically find my safety pamphlet in the seat back in front of me and attempt to follow along. Seat belt, got it. Exits, got it. In the unlikely chance we survive a water “landing,” our seats become flotation devices, got it. John is snoring before the plane leaves the ground. Meanwhile, I assume impact position.
After our initial ascent, the plane banks hard to the left to circle around and head North. The result is me, looking straight down at person across the aisle at me. I hate this tiny-ass plane. An hour-and-a-half and several panic attacks later, we arrive in Louisville, Kentucky. We’re greeted by my grandpa and the biggest statue of Colonel Sanders I’ve ever seen. I’m reminded that I haven’t eaten in hours.
Grandpa drives the final leg of our journey from Louisville to Evansville, Indiana. We eat and prepare for bed. I take out my contacts, wash my face, and sit down to pee. Relishing this moment to myself, I linger to do an emotional inventory. Am I depressed? Am I numb? Am I going to have one of those sneaky nervous breakdowns? Am I going to make it? I think I’m going to make it, but there’s what feels to be a giant gaping whole of a wound in my chest where my heart used to be. Mentally moving on, I review everything I need to accomplish tomorrow. Funeral home. Mom’s apartment. Family visits.
Sitting here a bit longer, I remember a conversation I had with my mom long ago.
“No freakin’ way.” We’re watching Unsolved Mysteries. My mom loves this scary shit.
“What do you mean ‘no freakin’ way?’ Wouldn’t you want to be visited by the ghost of someone you loved?” Mom is all starry eyed with this ghostly episode and the idea of being visited by our ancestors, apparently.
“Uh, no, no I would not.”
“I would. I think it would be beautiful.”​
“I don’t. I think it would be a nightmare. I already have nightmares. No, thank you.” “I think you’re wrong. I think it’s peaceful.”​
“I’m fine with death being the end of a relationship.”

Before I finish up with my toilet bowl meditation, I decide to have a word with mom.
“Mother, I would like to state for the record that I am not okay with being visited by you. I don’t find ghosts, any ghosts, peaceful, and any contact with you would result in me never being able to go to the bathroom by myself at night again. Don’t make me a bed wetter, mother. I’m serious. Thank you. I love you.”
I can sense her displeasure, frustration, and acquiescence at my request. I’m sorry, but GOOD.
I finish my business and get up. When I do, my ass is shaped like a toilet seat and numb, but I feel a little bit better.
I lay down next to John and sob myself to sleep. Somewhere in the middle of the night I have to pee again.
“John.” I nudge John.
“JOHN.” I shake him a little.
“JOHN!” I shake him a lot.
“What’s up, babe?” he asks.
“I need to pee, and I’m too scared to go alone. Come with me?”
“Sure.”
John gets up and follows me two feet to where the bathroom is. I quickly turn on the light. He stops at the door.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” He asks.​
“Sadly, yes. You just never know with that woman. Just in case.”​
Again, I sense my mother’s eye roll.​
You’re not getting me alone in the dark, woman. NO.​
I finish up, and we go back to bed. Wrapping up the first of many chaperoned bathroom trips.
I should have restless sleep, but I don’t. A blessing of 24 hours of trauma and travel is that it knocks your ass out, cold. I wake slowly in the morning, curled up next to John. For a few seconds I actually have a normal moment. Then I open my eyes, and the pain of peeling tear-swollen, crusty eyes apart reminds me that my whole life has changed, and it’s wrong, and broken, and unreal. And I have people to meet looking like this. Somebody get me a cucumber.
Works in the movies, anyway.
We get dressed and meet my Uncle at the funeral home where they’ve taken mom.
The director of the funeral home brings us in to his office.
I do not envy this guy his job. I don’t like sales, and I don’t like death. He is selling death. He starts talking to me about funeral arrangements.
“No, sorry. I know there was some initial confusion, but my mom wanted to be cremated.” The funeral director turns ashen.
“Mm, okay. Will you be wanting to see your mom’s body?” He asks in a strained voice, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Yes, of course.” No not really, but ya.
“Well, that’s a little complicated. You see, because your mom died so young and unexpectedly in the treatment center, we had to have the coroner perform an autopsy to determine her cause of death. The autopsy was performed right away because we were under the impression that we would be preparing your mother’s body for burial.” Poor guy is super nervous.
“Okay. I’m okay with that, I guess.” I respond.
“Do you still want to see her?” He asks.
“Well, ya, of course.” I reply, confused. “What has one got to do with the other?”
“You see, because you want your mother cremated, we won’t be preparing her for a viewing. So the coroner’s work is visible.” He’s looking horrified.

I’m still not understanding, but if the funeral director is scared for me, I’m thinking I should be scared. I start responding accordingly. I look at the floor trying to imagine what the “coroner’s work” might look like. Are we talking Tales from the Crypt? Gross Anatomy? What?
The funeral director begins to speak again, “So, I think it’s best you not see her.”​
“Not possible. I haven’t seen my mother in over a year. I have to see this to believe this.”
Also, because of the nature of mom’s “condition” the last few years, it hasn’t been uncommon for me to go long periods of time without hearing from her, without even knowing where she was. I’m conditioned. If I don’t see that she’s gone, I’m always going to be waiting for her phone call. I can’t live like that.
“I encourage you to reconsider, Miss Seib.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.”
Resigned, he sighs. “Can you give us some time to prepare her?”
“How much time do you need?”
“A few days.”
“How long will the cremation take?”
“About four days.”
“Then no. I’m going to be here a week. Before I go I need to spread my mother’s ashes on my grandmother’s grave.”
This is another “mom whispers from the dead” item. I briefly, and I mean for two seconds, pondered what to do with mom’s ashes. I “received” my answer immediately. Her constant presence right now is why I can’t pee without John.
The funeral director is now horrified and frustrated. “Okay, let me see what I can do.” He leaves us in his office to imagine the waking nightmare we’re about to walk in to.
Can’t be that bad, right? Wrong.
”

He comes back and looks even worse. “I just want to prepare you, she’s just had an autopsy. We’ve placed her skull cap back on, but nothing is sewn back together. We’ve covered up what we can.” He pauses, “You’re sure?”
Oh. Dear. God. What is a skull cap? This is some fucked up shit. “Yes.”
Appropriately, he takes us down the elevator into the basement of the funeral home. It looks a like the hospital morgues I’ve seen on TV. Everything is white. John, my uncle, and I follow him down the long white hall to one of the white doors. Inside everything is white. White walls, white floors, and there lies my mother under a white sheet, on a silver table.
Every hair on my body stands on end.
I’ve heard stories of people dying and having out of body experiences. I’m fully alive, but I’m having one now. I feel completely detached from my body. So much is going on with me, I can’t even focus. My uncle, older and more experienced, goes directly to my mother. I stand back doing diagnostics on myself. Where am I? Is this real? THIS IS REAL. That’s really her. She’s really gone. He wasn’t lying. This is bad. Something’s not right. I’m going to faint. Can my legs hold me up? If I faint will they let me stay. If they take me away, can I come back? Is this a nervous breakdown? Maybe. I feel myself slipping away.
And then I feel strength from outside myself hold me up, and I know it’s my mom. It feels like I’m attached to a generator. My body vibrating with energy and stiff, but now able to stand and focus. I walk closer to mom’s body, not looking too close at anything covered by a sheet, but trying to absorb everything else that’s safe to see. Her hands, her face, her…….hair.
Oh, so that’s what a skull cap is.

My uncle is running his fingers through it. Well, through the hair attached to my mother’s unsecured skull cap. I wonder how badly the funeral home director wants to warn him to stop. I want to warn him to stop, but I don’t have the heart to remind him that his beloved sister’s lid isn’t on too tight. I pray to God that skull cap stays on.
I want to touch mom, but I know better.
I touched a dead body once. My favorite cat died when I was in junior high. My mom and step-dad broke the bad news to me. When I asked to see her, they warned me that Precious wasn’t our Precious anymore. My step-dad led me out to the garage. Precious looked just like Precious. I reached out and ran my hand across her side. The shock was powerful. She wasn’t soft or warm….she was gone. I jumped and ran from the garage. They were right, she wasn’t our Precious anymore.
Remembering Precious, I never touch mom. I know she’ll be hard and cold and the shock will snap me. Besides, this isn’t mom. This was her body.

Mom is definitely dead. I’m convinced. I stay in the room longer to allow my uncle all the time he needs. I’m still being held up by invisible energy, but I’m getting more light headed by the moment. I don’t want to breath through my nose, because I don’t want to smell death. Barely breathing through my mouth is making me dizzy. But I hold on.
My uncle slowly walks away from mom. The funeral director asks, “Ready?” I nod and follow him out and down the long, white hall. It feels longer now, and after what seems to be forever, we reach the elevator. As I step on to the elevator, my supplemental energy ceases. I’m immediately exhausted. I just want to lay down, here, now. But I don’t.
“So, I just want to speak to you about a few more details before you go.” The funeral director speaks up.
“Okay.” I follow him to his office, where we discuss the logistics and financial aspects of cremating mom. Do I want a service? No. My mother hated funerals. She always wanted a party when she died.
The last few years have been such an ugly downward spiral, there’s pretty much no one left to attend a party. The few people left standing are in no condition to party.
Do I want an Urn? No. I’m not taking her home with me.

Alright, so the process of cremation does not incinerate everything. It’s not like the movies. Often times, bits of bone and teeth are visible in the ash. I just want to prepare you so you’re not caught off guard.”
I guess the benefit of seeing your dead mother post autopsy is that you’re completely unphased by the idea of seeing chunks of her bone and teeth in her cremated ashes.
“The ashes will be given to you in a small plastic boxes, and the ashes themselves will be in a sealed plastic bag inside the box.”
Strangely, the idea of my mother being in a small plastic baggie weirds me out more than the prospect of seeing her bone and teeth later this week. None of my sensibilities make sense right now.
“You said there was an autopsy, how did she die?” I ask before I leave.​
“We don’t have the results yet. The coroner will call you when he’s come to some conclusion.”

We wrap up our morning at the funeral home, and John and I meet my Uncle, Aunt and little cousin for lunch. My uncle who was worried about protecting my little cousin from the influence of the sinners.
“You can stay with us. You don’t have to stay with Fred.” My uncle says almost immediately. This is my dad’s brother. Fred is his dad. My dad is the only one who speaks to his father. This family has been feuding since before I was born. Nobody can hold a grudge like my family.
“No, we’re good. Grandpa’s been great.” I say and try to change the subject.
Growing up, this was my favorite uncle. We were inseparable, until my parents moved me to Texas. Always happy, always joking, always joyful. But things change. He spends all of breakfast campaigning to get me away from my evil grandfather. I spend all of breakfast wishing I could have kept my childhood view of my uncle. Instead, it’s being replaced by the image of a man more concerned about family feuds than he is about the fact that I just saw my mother’s skull cap.

“Everyone’s getting together at Memaw’s house to see you. Can you come over?” My uncle asks.
Wanting nothing more than to escape, but knowing I have to do this, I respond, “Sure! That would be great.”
I haven’t seen any of my family in five years. Definitely not as an adult. This should be interesting.
I follow my uncle to my memaw’s house. It looks exactly the same. I love this house. It makes me happy.
Inside, I find my Memaw and Papaw, and a few of my aunts, uncles and cousins. Not all, but some. Certainly the ones I’ve been closest to throughout my life. Papaw is my grandmother’s second husband. Grandpa Fred was her first.
There are of course tears and condolences. My dad’s family has always loved my mom. In fact, they have always been pretty vocal about preferring my mom over my dad. Mostly because my dad kept up a relationship with my Grandpa Fred.

The business of my mother’s death aside, the campaign to get me out of my Grandpa Fred’s house continues. In full force. I sit in complete shock, as every one of my relatives tries to convince me. “He’s evil.” “Do you know what he did?!” Story upon story of what he did. And the piece-de-resistance, “You know your mother never liked Fred.”
And so I finally speak up, as only my mother’s daughter could, “My mother encouraged me not to hold a grudge, and given her recent death, I’m more aware than ever of the importance of that advice. Grandpa offered to take John and I in when no one else would. He’s never done anything to me. It’s done.”
With that, my closest cousin, Amy, speaks up and says, “Y’all leave her alone already. Damn.” And my Memaw retires into her room, shutting the door. Shortly thereafter, my Papaw asks us to leave because the Fred talk upset my grandmother and “we’re going to kill this woman.”
In shock, I’m hustled out the door. My favorite Aunt, Jenny, bitches at my Papaw as he shuts the door. Aunt Jenny was best friends with my mom. Amy is her daughter, and Amy’s daughter is my mother’s God daughter. Aunt Jenny apologizes for what’s just happened. Then, in what becomes a common occurrence over the next few days, she pours her heart out to me about how devastated she is to have lost my mom.​
Eroded relationship, drunken arguments, unresolved guilt, undying love. John waits in the car while I listen and counsel. For two hours. Mom left a lot of broken hearts behind.​
When I get in the car, John looks at me. I stare blinking at him.​
“Remind me who the sinners here are? They do know you just lost your mother?”

I bust out laughing. John, always keeping it real. He’s never met my family and having stayed quiet through the inquisition and our abrupt exit from my Memaw’s house, he’s letting me know, he’s done on my behalf. “We’re gonna’ make it babe! We’re gonna’ make it! …..Let’s pick up mom’s favorite pizza.”

We pick up the pizza and head back to evil Grandpa Fred’s for a quiet and pleasant evening. Grandpa spent the day finding old pictures of my mom. Mom, in 70’s glory, slopping through the mud catching catfish in my Grandpa’s drained pond. Awesome.
Grandpa’s daughter, my dad’s half-sister I’ve never met, joins us. She looks over the pictures with us and tells us all the wonderful memories she has of my mom. Lucky her, they never reconnected after mom became an alcoholic. She only has happy memories. It’s so refreshing.
After another night of chaperoned bathroom trips, John, my grandpa, my uncle and I meet up at my mom’s apartment.
My mom’s boyfriend greets us, and any anger I had about last week’s botched suicide and rescue attempt is relinquished. This man is a mess. His mother is with him. A very nice lady, she tells us how much she loved my mother and provides us with a recent picture that we can include in mom’s obituary.

I go through the house, collecting the insurance papers that are exactly where mom said they’d be, and anything else I think I want or need. Mom’s long since pawned anything of value, so there’s not a whole lot to pack. I pack everything I must have in two suitcases I can take on the plane with me. Mom’s favorite dress, books, paperwork, and THE pictures.
The story goes, that when my mom’s mom died, my mom’s Aunt (Aunt Linda’s mom), and my mom’s shady half-brother, held a gun on my mom and Uncle and took everything of value out of my grandmother’s house. My mom snuck away with a few pieces of jewelry (as I said, long since pawned) and the entire family archive of pictures. Mom often passed time lovingly flipping through all of the pictures. I don’t know who-the-hell any of these people are, but mom’s message has been very clear…GET THE PICTURES. Pictures…check.

When I find the box of things I sent for Christmas, Robert explains that he and his mother took it to her Christmas morning. The staff went back to mom’s room to let her know she had visitors. She had laid down for a nap. They didn’t come back for a while, but when they did, they informed Robert and his mom that my mother had been found dead. She had passed in her sleep.
I step outside for air, then continue packing in shock.

(Ironically, the suitcases filled with things I had to have, including THE pictures, were never opened again, though they move everywhere with me. I call them “Pandora’s Suitcases.” And we later learned that I packed several boxes with nothing but other empty boxes.)

We finish up, promising Robert we’ll let him know when the ashes will be spread. When we get in the car, I say “wounded bird.” And John responds, “WORD.”
My mother had a habit of taking in wounded birds. I say wounded bird, but it applies to pretty much all of her boyfriends, friends, random strangers, and animals. Care taking the broken was a hobby of hers. This boyfriend is not an exception.
The next few days are filled with more family, including my mom’s dad and my poor Aunt Linda; and several more ‘addiction, loss and grief’ counseling sessions.
I get my counseling from John in the evenings…. after my last patient leaves.
Aunt Linda passes on a message from her mother, who has now taken an interest in THE pictures. “My mom wanted me to ask you for the pictures.”
“Aunt Linda, I can’t. I know it sounds crazy, but the message is loud and clear, ‘don’t let them get the pictures.’ I just can’t,” I respond.

Aunt Linda drops her head sadly. “Okay, well maybe I can help you go through them and put names with faces, but mom knows better than me. Maybe I could take them to her to label and make copies, then bring them back?”
“I don’t trust your mom, I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” She says quietly.

I really hate this shit.
The coroner calls to set up a meeting with us. They’ve finished the autopsy report. The next morning we head down to his office to learn what killed my mother.
Dissected Aorta.​
“Sort of like an aneurysm.”
He explains that it was small and she bled into her chest cavity for days. The symptoms were mistaken for heartburn. She eventually went septic then died in her sleep.
I have a pretty good case for medical malpractice. My mother had high blood pressure and a history of atherosclerosis. The doctor should have checked. Instead they kept giving her antacids.
Still, I can’t sue. Remembering the last conversation I ever had with my mother, though I didn’t know it was at the time, I recall her talking about how she felt better than she had in years. I don’t want to sue and rob other patients and families of healing. It’s too hard to come by in addiction.

A huge snow storm blows in, and we use it as an excuse to stay indoors at Grandpa’s. Later, the funeral home calls to let us know mom’s ashes have arrived. I call the cemetery where my mom’s mom is buried to ask when we can come by to spread the ashes on her grave. Another of my mom’s wishes.
“We’re closed due to the storm.” “When do you anticipate reopening?” “A couple of days.”
“That won’t work! I fly home tomorrow!” I cannot take these ashes with me! No! And I can’t come back here anytime soon! I’m barely making it out sane this time!
The gentleman on the other end of the phone sits quietly for a moment, then says, “Alright, tomorrow morning I’ll see if I can clear the drive and grave site for you. I’ll call you to let you know when you can come.” I guess my desperation translated.

“Oh my goodness! Thank you so much, you have no idea what this means to me. My flight is at 8:00 PM. “We leave town at 5:00 PM.”
“Okay, I’ll do whatever I can.”
We pass an anxiety ridden night and wake up in the morning to find it cold, but no longer snowing. We load up our suitcases, and wait for our call.
At noon, my guy calls to tell us we can come. THANK GOD.
We call everyone who expressed an interest in joining us, pick up our box-o-mom, and drive to the cemetery.

I’ve never seen my Memaw Margie’s grave. Mom flew home alone to bury her without me. The few times we came back to visit, she always came to the cemetery alone. My mom never recovered from losing her mother at such an early age. I think they had unresolved stuff. I’m guessing, anyway, from what I’ve witnessed here this week. Every year after losing her mother, my mom would cry spontaneously and inconsolably on the anniversary of her death. Sometimes she wouldn’t even know why she was crying until she realized what day it was.
If this happens to me, Christmas is going to be a bitch.
As promised our guy cleared the drive and grave site for us, and our little group begins to gather. My grandpa barely made it because his wife didn’t want him visiting his ex-wife’s grave. She was my mom’s babysitter, and she apparently never got over the anger of winning my grandpa from his wife and children. Sore winner.
Wounded Bird is here too, and he’s brought a friend. A very tiny Asian woman with long flowing black hair. She introduces herself, explaining that she was mom’s friend and next door neighbor. With no further ado, we form a circle around my grandmother’s grave. I pop the lid off mom’s box and pull out the baggie of ashes. The baggie is sealed shut. I struggle to tear open the bag and pray it doesn’t explode all over me. Luckily someone offers a pocket knife with which we gently slit open the baggie of mom’s ashes. I pour mom onto grandma’s frozen grave, and she comes out in a little pile. It’s cold, but there’s no wind. I try to spread her out by weaving side to side down toward the foot of the grave, so she comes out in a pile shaped like a snake.

This isn’t how I imagined this going. I imagined that a gentle breeze would catch mom’s ashes and gently blow them across the grass. Flowers would start to bloom. Bees would immediately come visit the flowers. And the circle of life would continue. Also, there would be little bunnies and maybe Bambi.
I stare at the snake of mom, which includes, as promised, little bone and teeth fragments. For a moment, I consider taking off my glove and spreading the ashes out, but I remember immediately that the ashes are not just ashes. They’re mom. And as much as I loved her, I don’t want to take her with me…carrying a piece of her around in my coat pocket. No thank you.
My thoughts are still hanging in the air, when my mom’s friend/neighbor bends down with her gloved hand and spreads mom out. My eyes wide, I stare in shocked silence as she finishes, looks at her gloves like “oh shit,” attempts to brush mom off, gives up, and pushes her hands back in her coat pocket.

It’s not flowers and bunnies, but it’s certainly a new twist in mom’s circle of life journey. I see John out of the corner of my eye, trying very hard not to smile. It’s contagious, and I take up struggling along with him. Being of absolutely no help, my mom’s boyfriend begins a rambling, intimate, borderline inappropriate eulogy to my mother. John and I are holding hands. Offering each other a tight squeeze that says, ‘We can do this! We can make it through this cremation with out laughing. We can make it out of this town! We. Can. Do. It! You and me, babe.”
Blah, blah, blah. Finally, Robert runs out of material. I thank everyone for coming and we head back to our cars. All except my grandfather, who hangs back and kneels alone beside the grave of his ex-wife and daughter. I don’t know much, but I know I wouldn’t want to be looking down at a grave and a pile of ashes that represented some of the choices I had made as a man. The scene is sad and sobering. Ironically.

Doing my duty, I say my goodbyes to each attendee. “Goodbye, Robert. It was nice to meet you. Take care of yourself.” I’m not even going to lie and offer to stay in touch. It’s not going to happen. Wounded Bird abruptly grabs me to him, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug. Caught off guard, my arms are locked to my sides, and I make eye contact with John over Robert’s shoulder.
“Mmmm, you feel just like your momma’.” Robert mumbles as he embraces me tighter. Still looking at John, my eyes widen. I mentally communicate, “Get me the fuck out of here.” John’s body language says, “I don’t want to get in a fight in a graveyard in Indiana, but I will if I have to. I hope I don’t have to. Still, this shit is funny.”
John taps Robert on the shoulder and says, “Alright buddy, nice to meet you. You take care of yourself,” and pulls me to his side as he shakes Robert’s hand.
When we get in the car, John says, “Whoa.” “I know.”

“When that lady spread mom out with her glove…” “Trust me…I know.”
Grandpa Fred gets in and begins driving us to the airport. As we pull out of the cemetery, another vehicle slams into us.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I say.
The other driver is Black, and I sit and watch as he and my grandpa get out and yell at each other. Horrified by racist comments that flow so naturally between them. I say a silent ‘thank you’ to my mother for moving me away from all of this. Like her, I don’t have the heart for this kind of dysfunction and ugliness. She knew that. I also say a silent prayer to please, please, get me out of this town.
They exchange information, Grandpa checks the damage and returns to the car. “Please tell me the car is drivable, Grandpa.”​
“Oh ya, it is. Don’t worry sweetie.”​
I hear John breath the same sigh of relief I do.

We continue our drive to the airport. It takes everything I have not to have Grandpa stop the car so I can get out and kiss the ground at the Kentucky state line. On the plane… the big plane, gratefully… I sit down and try to free myself of the mental and emotional dirt I’ve picked up in the last week. I close my eyes and start to decompress. I never finish because the guy sitting next to me is completely drunk. He wants to talk, and flirt. John asks if I want to switch seats, but I turn him down. No. It’s strangely soothing and this is the perfect end to this week.

Bring it, crazy, let’s talk.

Excerpt From
Stories from the Crowd
Scott Ballew
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