The Weirdest Funeral Attendance

Throughout my life, I have attended four funerals; thank goodness for that, because I hate funerals.

The sadness in the air, people moping and crying, greeting each other like the world has ended and we are about to die in the next few moments, just creeps me out, and I never know how to really feel or react.

A room full of people crying just instantly evaporates my happiness and then my throat gets all dry and tight and I feel like bursting out in tears for the apparent reason.

I was eight years old when my uncle died and I attended his funeral, then I was maybe eleven or twelve when my cousin Nina died, and I attended her funeral, then the third funeral I attended was for the grandmother of my high school sweetheart. I happened to be visiting the old neighbourhood and learnt that she had passed away after a long life of 93 years; some of those years I know personally, having met her on a few occasions.

So when my ex asked if I would accompany her to the funeral, I gladly obliged; it’s the least that I could do after not being in touch for so many years.

All three funerals had a few things in common which made them fairly normal. They consisted of the same air of sadness and sorrow, people cried and I felt like crying or probably did, because most importantly, I personally knew the persons who died.

But my fourth funeral attendance is the one that took the cake, the one which caused me to be writing about funerals, in this instance.

My best friend recently informed me of a loss in her family, news that her cousin died sparked funeral arrangements and an invitation.

She hadn’t seen her cousin in years, but I could still see that the news knocked her boots off and that she was not the best of herself. Seeing this, I proposed without thinking, what I believed a best friend should do in a moment like this; so, I offered to accompany her, to the funeral, in the capacity of personal support.

And that’s where the weirdness began. I attended a funeral, for the first time, of someone I didn’t know nor ever met, but then it got even weirder.

“You know those program pamphlets that they give to you at funeral services?” Well, I got one and OMG! and WTF! were all in order, even though, I had to control myself.

Before the funeral, she did mention the cousin’s name, but what the heck, many people have the same first name, it’s a common thing, and maybe throughout all the distress and sadness, my best friend forgot to mention the OMG, WTF factors; at least I could have braced myself.

This funeral service pamphlet bore my first and last name.

Like I said, usually I never knew how to feel at funerals, but this funeral freaked me out, and of course I wondered if I was dead. Throughout the whole service I felt drunk and numb, I doubt if I even heard any of the service; no, that’s not true, around the time when people were reminiscing on moments spent together with this person who had died, it became too surreal for me; I am sure that I blacked out for a moment.

But I just had to see who was in that coffin, so when all were invited to show their last respect by viewing, I took that as my opportunity to see who was laying there. “Could it be me, am I dead?” were the questions in my head as I approached the coffin, but it turned out to be a stranger, to me, seemingly peacefully asleep, who happened to have my exact name.

Dead, Debt and Deceived

Struggling to get it off my mind, I furiously said to my wife, “If you ever do something like that to me, I’d fucking kill you!” only to realize how stupid I sounded for saying that; after all, what I was referring to would mean that she’d be already dead.

“Do you ever realize how at funerals, people always talk about the dead in a positive light?”

“Fucking Tradition!”

No one ever referred to the Decease as a fucking prick, an ass-hole, a whore nor a good-for-nothing-son-of-a-bitch; of course not, that would be so disrespectful and untraditional.

But considering this shitty world, we live in, where glimmers of kindness are adored as poetry, it’s obvious that people are more ass-holes and good-for-nothing-son-of-bitches more than they are decent and sincere.

And while some people are afraid of spiders, snakes, and violent outbreaks, my phobia has always been to live a lie; you know, to die with a secret or to then realize that what or who I thought was real, wasn’t even real.

For me, that would be so fucking tragic.

But unfortunately, like I said, people are ass-holes so it does happen.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones were married for sixty years and had three children together. I don’t know all of the details, but with sixty years of marriage, our imaginations can run wild with the bond that they shared, how much they cared and the storms they weathered. Still, I was a little blown away to learn that those storms included an act of infidelity on the part of Mrs. Jones, some forty-plus years earlier.

I guess that I just can’t see past the innocence of a frail old woman known to me as Mrs. Jones, whom might once had been drop dead gorgeous, chased by many men and gave into temptation. Still, that’s irrelevant to my point.

Mr. Jones, on the other hand, who had been sick for years, eventually died last week and as expected the now widowed Mrs. Jones was devastated. Her lifelong love is no longer here. His death burdened her and because most of the money that they had, had been spent on hospital fees, she was again burdened by the cost of funeral expenses.

Pitied for being broke and heartbroken, she scraped together donations which allowed her to afford a half-decent funeral for her husband of sixty years.

And in her beautiful eulogy she embarrassingly expressed their financial strain, based upon her husband’s deteriorating health which led to his demise, before thanking friends and family for their support.

But a few days later, while going through some of her husband’s belongings, Mrs. Jones was gobsmacked to discover that Mr. Jones had a secret sole-access bank account with over a quarter of a million dollars in it.

The expression on her face said it all; it said that if she could retract the words from her eulogy, they would read “Son of a bitch!” but the only thing Mrs. Jones managed to murmur amid her tears was “He never forgave me!”

My Pen Bleeds for Mom

Every time I have to write about my personal pains or the loss of a love one, It is described as my pen bleeding, even though these days I very rarely write with an actual pen, you know, with having accesses to high tech mobile phones, tablets, laptop and PCs.

Still, I like to be identified by a pen because that was my original choice of tool when I started my writing career, and today my pen bleeds again.
My mom is dead!
Yes, that’s what I said.
Today, my mom passed away.

Well, she’s not actually my mother she’s my wife’s mother, but to be honest, I never really knew her name, well I knew it, but I have never referred to her by her first name and I never referred to her using her last name neither; come to think of it, I’ve always called her Mom, so in all accuracy, let me say again, “Today, mom died!”

She was 83 years old, lived a long eventful life and gave birth to six children, all girls, and I was fortunate to marry the baby of the lot. Plus she’d been married to dad for more than 52 years; wow, right?

So I’ve always thought too, and me and baby girl sat that milestone as a reachable marker for ourselves too.
Mom had been poorly for years, tough as steel I usually say, that’s from the numerous amount of times she’d been in and out of the hospitals and we thinking that we’d lost her, but no, every time we thought that, old girl pulled through to be here for us one more time.

However, today it wasn’t so, no hospitals, no drama, just a long lengthy sleep.

When I got the news, I felt pressured with the responsibility to break it to my wife and son, it was as if an apple was stuck in my throat. I was afraid to say it, but knew that I had to. I was wishing that at that very moment, some magical force could change the reality and give Earth another day or another week with mom, but again it wasn’t so, and I had to utter the sad truth.

My wife wailed in sadness and my son muffled his pain as much as he could, until tears seeped from his adolescent eyes.

Me, I was still struggling with the apple in my throat, trying to stay strong for them while suppressing my own tears.

But in the midst of that, at a split second, I thought, “C’mon, why moan?”

And after giving it thought, I realize that mom’s passing was a beautiful story in itself.

She lived a fulfilling 83 years, had 6 children, grandchildren and even great grandchildren, she never lived to see any of them get buried into the ground and she found a matrimonial bliss which lasted until her passing; two rare luxuries, which are only achieved by few humans. And although mom was sometimes alone, she was never lonely, the walls of her home is overran with her life’s journey and memories, photographs of family members and events, which framed some particular treasured eras of her life, gifts and personal collectables, legacies of mom’s existence.

The last time wife spoke to mom, she was out of breath from just walking to the phone, and after questioned, she suggested that her time was nearing, but amazingly her suggestion was without fear and duress; it was as if she was welcoming her long last sleep.

Old girl was tired, and as much as she’d like to hang in there one more time for us, she just couldn’t; not this time.

I will miss mom, miss her timeless smiles, miss her words of wisdom and encouragement, I will miss her resentment for family feuds, the Peacemaker that she was, and I will miss being silly around her just to get a little more of that sunshiny smile she possessed, but I will not cry, at least, I will try not to. And I will try to model her life and hope that my wife and I will make her just as proud of our union as we are of hers with us, dad and the extended family.

I’m sad that my pen bleeds again but I write with joy in Mom’s memory.