On the Death of my Grandmother
My grandmother died last week.
And for the record she did not pass away, pass on, cross over, or expire like a magazine subscription and she was not, god forbid, born into eternity. Like the sensible intelligent woman she was, she died. I had thought that I should eulogize her in some way, and I've been trying to think all week (away from a reliable computer) of what I would say. My perspective of her is somewhat narrow. People ask "Were you close?", and I don't really have a solid yes or no for that. As far back as I can remember, when Christmas would roll around, I would spend the weekend before at her house making candy for family and friends. That was my Christmas, even moreso than gifts and trees and Santa Claus. In that time she never judged or disparaged me, but accepted whatever I was wearing, wherever I was pierced, what color my hair was, and what I was doing with my life. Apart from Christmas though, I never saw her. I didn't call her or come visit. She rarely told me stories about her life, and looking back I realize I didn't know much about her apart from my candy-making relationship with her and that I liked her. So were we close? I guess you can judge that for yourself.
One thing though, that did occur to me was that the mourning process is not about the dead. It is about the living dealing with loss. Here then, in my usual short-attention-span, "toilet reading" style, are some observations, not about Grandma, but about things I was thinking during the week we buried her:
People under stress revert to habitual patterns. Some of the patterns are positive, some negative. These patterns reach farther and deeper, and I daresay more abstract than you would think. Gender roles are a big one. In dealing with the prep for the service, I, the only male in the house , was not to be trusted within the house. I, despite my degree in fine art, my lifelong commitment to intellectual, aesthetic and mystical pursuits, and the utter lack of calluses on my hands, was sent out to clean up the yard, just like when I was a kid.
"Bereavement" doesn't sound right. Since the verb form is "bereave", it sounds like the noun form should be "bereaf".
My sister, the reserved, buttoned-down, polite Mormon lady farts loudly and a lot.
Catholics and sheep farmers need to have some sort of conference on the real nature of sheep. Since Grandma was among other things a sheep farmer, the funeral service invoked much of the lamb and sheep and good shepherd imagery that you find in the bible. People that don't have much interaction with sheep apart from movies and seeing them cleaned up at the fair seem to have this idea that a sheep is a big cotton ball with hooves, as clean as a Q-Tip. There's a reason anthrax came originally from sheep: They're filthy, smelly, unsanitary animals. They are also stupid. They're smarter than turkeys, but just barely. I'd think Catholic sheep farmers would have a hard time feeling good about themselves.
Everyone has problems. In fact I'd go so far as to say everyone has at least one thing that they feel is completely unmanageable and daunting. One measure of someone's character, is their ability to temporarily suspend those problems out of respect for their fellow mourners. In other words, it is admirable and mature to remember that everyone at a funeral has lost someone, otherwise they wouldn't be there, and your sadness is no more or less important than anybody else's.
There is no good barbecue in Salem, Oregon. There is however some fine Mexican food.
It has been 25 years since I've seen a dead body. It was Grandma's husband, coincidentally dubbed "Grandpa". As I was just a kid at the time, I was more freaked out than philosophical. This time I got a good look and time to think about it. This is not a new idea, in fact it's quite cliche, but the reason I bring it up is that I knew this intellectually but not quite viscerally. Grandma was not home. There was no part of Grandma in the body I viewed. It was an empty Grandma suit.
Funerals and burials, being rituals of endings, should not be photographed or video taped. I 'd almost go so far as to say they shouldn't be remembered, but I'll stop short at "they shouldn't be dwelled on".
There's currently a drought in the Salem area and coming back to Seattle, I realize that I'm okay with mud. Mud is just fine. It's much better than dust.
I don't want to get old.
Morticians and funeral directors perform the same function, but are an entirely different species.
Up till dealing with the funeral and funeral prep, I had wanted to be cremated. This was primarily about not taking up space. I still don't want to take up space, but I've changed my mind about cremation. Having seen the morbid circus surrounding the empty Grandma suit, I've realized that I want to be disposed of in the most convenient and cheapest way possible, whatever that happens to be. I'm fine with a party in my honor, but don't fawn over my retired jersey. Just get rid of the body; it won't be me in any real sense. Oddly, my sister and cousins and I all seemed to agree on this point (maybe it's a generational thing), in a conversation not three feet from the casket. This conversation eventually devolved into thinking of funny things we could do with our corpses, something to freak out the mourners; that's just the kind of people we are. I'm sure Grandma would have appreciated that if she had actually been in the box.
Finally, while I will miss making candy with Grandma and Christmas will have to become something else, I'm not sad. Of all the authority figures in my life, parents, aunts, uncles, teachers, bosses, priests, directors, cops, elected officials, the only one I never learned to say "no" to was my Grandma. She was 92 years old, and was trapped in a broken down, dilapidated body, and despite the grace and dignity she exhibited, she was clearly not happy about it. She wanted out, and really, who wouldn't, and who am I to say no?
And for the record she did not pass away, pass on, cross over, or expire like a magazine subscription and she was not, god forbid, born into eternity. Like the sensible intelligent woman she was, she died. I had thought that I should eulogize her in some way, and I've been trying to think all week (away from a reliable computer) of what I would say. My perspective of her is somewhat narrow. People ask "Were you close?", and I don't really have a solid yes or no for that. As far back as I can remember, when Christmas would roll around, I would spend the weekend before at her house making candy for family and friends. That was my Christmas, even moreso than gifts and trees and Santa Claus. In that time she never judged or disparaged me, but accepted whatever I was wearing, wherever I was pierced, what color my hair was, and what I was doing with my life. Apart from Christmas though, I never saw her. I didn't call her or come visit. She rarely told me stories about her life, and looking back I realize I didn't know much about her apart from my candy-making relationship with her and that I liked her. So were we close? I guess you can judge that for yourself.
One thing though, that did occur to me was that the mourning process is not about the dead. It is about the living dealing with loss. Here then, in my usual short-attention-span, "toilet reading" style, are some observations, not about Grandma, but about things I was thinking during the week we buried her:
People under stress revert to habitual patterns. Some of the patterns are positive, some negative. These patterns reach farther and deeper, and I daresay more abstract than you would think. Gender roles are a big one. In dealing with the prep for the service, I, the only male in the house , was not to be trusted within the house. I, despite my degree in fine art, my lifelong commitment to intellectual, aesthetic and mystical pursuits, and the utter lack of calluses on my hands, was sent out to clean up the yard, just like when I was a kid.
"Bereavement" doesn't sound right. Since the verb form is "bereave", it sounds like the noun form should be "bereaf".
My sister, the reserved, buttoned-down, polite Mormon lady farts loudly and a lot.
Catholics and sheep farmers need to have some sort of conference on the real nature of sheep. Since Grandma was among other things a sheep farmer, the funeral service invoked much of the lamb and sheep and good shepherd imagery that you find in the bible. People that don't have much interaction with sheep apart from movies and seeing them cleaned up at the fair seem to have this idea that a sheep is a big cotton ball with hooves, as clean as a Q-Tip. There's a reason anthrax came originally from sheep: They're filthy, smelly, unsanitary animals. They are also stupid. They're smarter than turkeys, but just barely. I'd think Catholic sheep farmers would have a hard time feeling good about themselves.
Everyone has problems. In fact I'd go so far as to say everyone has at least one thing that they feel is completely unmanageable and daunting. One measure of someone's character, is their ability to temporarily suspend those problems out of respect for their fellow mourners. In other words, it is admirable and mature to remember that everyone at a funeral has lost someone, otherwise they wouldn't be there, and your sadness is no more or less important than anybody else's.
There is no good barbecue in Salem, Oregon. There is however some fine Mexican food.
It has been 25 years since I've seen a dead body. It was Grandma's husband, coincidentally dubbed "Grandpa". As I was just a kid at the time, I was more freaked out than philosophical. This time I got a good look and time to think about it. This is not a new idea, in fact it's quite cliche, but the reason I bring it up is that I knew this intellectually but not quite viscerally. Grandma was not home. There was no part of Grandma in the body I viewed. It was an empty Grandma suit.
Funerals and burials, being rituals of endings, should not be photographed or video taped. I 'd almost go so far as to say they shouldn't be remembered, but I'll stop short at "they shouldn't be dwelled on".
There's currently a drought in the Salem area and coming back to Seattle, I realize that I'm okay with mud. Mud is just fine. It's much better than dust.
I don't want to get old.
Morticians and funeral directors perform the same function, but are an entirely different species.
Up till dealing with the funeral and funeral prep, I had wanted to be cremated. This was primarily about not taking up space. I still don't want to take up space, but I've changed my mind about cremation. Having seen the morbid circus surrounding the empty Grandma suit, I've realized that I want to be disposed of in the most convenient and cheapest way possible, whatever that happens to be. I'm fine with a party in my honor, but don't fawn over my retired jersey. Just get rid of the body; it won't be me in any real sense. Oddly, my sister and cousins and I all seemed to agree on this point (maybe it's a generational thing), in a conversation not three feet from the casket. This conversation eventually devolved into thinking of funny things we could do with our corpses, something to freak out the mourners; that's just the kind of people we are. I'm sure Grandma would have appreciated that if she had actually been in the box.
Finally, while I will miss making candy with Grandma and Christmas will have to become something else, I'm not sad. Of all the authority figures in my life, parents, aunts, uncles, teachers, bosses, priests, directors, cops, elected officials, the only one I never learned to say "no" to was my Grandma. She was 92 years old, and was trapped in a broken down, dilapidated body, and despite the grace and dignity she exhibited, she was clearly not happy about it. She wanted out, and really, who wouldn't, and who am I to say no?
posted by John McKenna at 10:05 AM
1 Comments:
i like it
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