The day before Easter, my Uncle Norm died. He was my dad’s younger
brother. He lived directly across the street from me. His was the second
sibling death in the family in three years. And it hurts.
And even in dealing with this grief, another death is looming. And my
heart feels like it’s drowning. What do you do when you’re drowning? You focus
on one small thing at a time to get yourself above water.
Everyone else’s lives continue at a frantic pace but you are stuck simply
trying to remember how to breathe.
I don’t live in the same place as my family. It makes death hard. I don’t
have my own vehicle, and I haven’t been able to drive distances since my
accident. My recovery also makes public transportation difficult. For now I
have no choice but to grieve from here. Here, where no one else knew the people
I lose from home, where no one else can or will grieve with me.
For a moment, I wish professional keening was still a cultural thing. I
could hire a handful of women to bring over casseroles and cry with me and let
me tell them my complicated stories.
We still don’t really talk about grief. Not outside of wearing black
while standing inside funeral parlors. My mom had a funeral outfit. I remember
the nights she would come home from work and get dressed up in that blouse and
those slacks, with hose and heels and make-up. Sometimes a friend would come
over and they would go pay their respects together for an hour or so.
I remember. But what I didn’t see was that grief is hard. I sit on that
edge uncertain as to whether or not I am grieving the loss of them or the loss
of the relationship I will now never-get-a-chance-to-have. Maybe it’s both. It’s
probably both.
I think the beginning of grief is largely uncertainty.
One of my first jobs besides babysitting was getting paid to sing at
weddings and funerals. Singing at funerals is so surreal when the families are
unknown to you. You need to be both a comfort and a catharsis.
The main aspect of a funeral is to lay the body, the sacred vessel of the
beloved dead to rest based on their wishes. It’s a way of capping the respect
and affection you had for them. It’s a way to wrap up the end of their story.
And that’s great.
[I do think that there will be a tipping point where we have to be
accountable for the ecological impact the way we dispose of our dead, of the
carcasses left behind. I think that point has already come. No more chemicals.
No more sealed vaults. Our bodies were meant to decay in the earth and feed the
soil. So we have to change our relationship with death. And our bodies. And how
we connect soul/spirit/anima to flesh.]
Mostly funerals are for those left behind to grief. It’s a place we’re
allowed to grieve. The coming together of family and loved ones is a soothing
balm. You’re not the only one who feels like time stopped. You get to share
funny stories and poignant stories, about what a good person they were or
lament the loss of time to smooth the broken edges of your relationship. And in
some way the ritual should serve those who gather together.
I think about this a lot. The funerals I have been to that were
officiated by someone who did not know my beloved dead were laughable. They
were bordering on farce—as if the officiant had never performed a funeral
before. But the ones I have attended, led by someone who could keep themselves
composed, but who had love for the dead were brilliant and moving and beautiful
and stirred the ghost of them in me.
I take notes as I grieve. Connection matters. Without connection we are
just flesh. So we come together to grieve to make it real. To reconnect a new
reality to an old one. If everyone is grieving they are truly gone. When we
know that whether or not anyone grieves a death, they are truly gone.
I regret missing my Uncle Dave’s funeral. I know I’ll regret missing my
Uncle Norm’s as well. But this time I am not well or fit for travelling. So I
gather up my thoughts and I request them to make sense.
I’m still trying to figure out how to grieve alone from hundreds of miles
away.
