The Worst Day of My Life
I woke up at 5am on Sunday after about an hour of sleep. My sister and I left the house at 6:30am. We drove 130 miles and arrived at my Aunt's house in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania by 8:30am. We then drove to the funeral home in Pennsylvania.
The funeral was uneventful. People spoke. I got to know my grandmother a little. I was a pallbearer. It may have been the first meaningful thing I ever did for her.
From the funeral home we drove another 2.5 hours and 100 miles to the cemetery in Queens. After a few minutes of waiting for people, we walked to the plot. We watched as they put the coffin on the lowering device, and lowered it into the ground at a rate resembling that at which my grandmother's health deteriorated.
More words were said, and then the shovels were produced. Most people took turns doing the mitzvah of shoveling in some dirt, until the coffin was covered. A few more rituals were performed, prayers were said. My 32-year-old cousin Adam and I, as well as the two rabbis present, got to work with the shovels and filled in nearly all of the grave. I think it was the first bonding moment Adam and I have ever had.
I felt strange crying at her funeral; I never really knew her. But it wasn't just her I was crying for. My friend Steve Fagan died July 22nd, but I didn't find out until after his funeral. Despite visiting the site of his accident and his grave on two separate occasions, I guess I still hadn't really gotten closure. As I watched my grandmother's coffin sink slowly into the ground, I imagined it was his coffin also. And as I shoveled the dirt into my grandmother's grave, I imagined it was his grave as well.
In my mind, I buried two that day.
We left the cemetery, and drove another 2.5 hours and 100 miles back to my aunt's house in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania. I knew I really had no purpose there. I would rather have gone home from Queens. I'm not very close with this side of my family, and I wasn't very close with my grandmother. But I wanted to be there for my dad, so I submitted.
My aunt always makes my dad an asshole. This day was no different. My sister and I were made to be there so that "all [four] of the grandkids are there", so that all of my grandmother's friends could see us, meet us, experience her legacy. My grandmother was 94 years old. Her friends are dead. My sister and I knew none of these people. We wanted to go home. My dad couldn't figure out why. He was too concerned with entertaining the guests that had come to pay their respects, too consumed by his fear of his sister. It was impossible for us to be of any help or use to him. We could not console him, nor would he have been capable of consoling us. We wanted to go home.
Here, my father's mother has just died, and this is what his priorities are. Here, my father's mother is dead, and I have to explain to him what life is really about.
Thankfully, he got it. Eventually. Getting there was not easy.
My dad and my sister left my aunt's house at the same time I did. They went to stay at a hotel overnight, as planned. I began the 130 mile trek home.
Just before the toll plaza in Fort Lee, NJ, I realized I was about to miss my exit. I put on my turn signal, checked my mirrors, and changed to the lane right of me. Unfortunately, I didn't see the car coming up that lane. He must have been coming up fast, because I hit the driver door. That crunching sound is one of the worst ever to have entered my ears.
Mercifully, the accident was minor. Everyone was fine. Slight damage to my car, a ruined door on his. But that was all. It could have been much, much worse.
After tending to my first car accident, I drove the remaining hour home. It was relievingly uneventful. I arrived home with no further complications, let my mother know I was home, called a friend, and went to sleep.
When I got home, my mother remarked that I probably had the worst day of my life. Maybe. Maybe not.
The funeral was uneventful. People spoke. I got to know my grandmother a little. I was a pallbearer. It may have been the first meaningful thing I ever did for her.
From the funeral home we drove another 2.5 hours and 100 miles to the cemetery in Queens. After a few minutes of waiting for people, we walked to the plot. We watched as they put the coffin on the lowering device, and lowered it into the ground at a rate resembling that at which my grandmother's health deteriorated.
More words were said, and then the shovels were produced. Most people took turns doing the mitzvah of shoveling in some dirt, until the coffin was covered. A few more rituals were performed, prayers were said. My 32-year-old cousin Adam and I, as well as the two rabbis present, got to work with the shovels and filled in nearly all of the grave. I think it was the first bonding moment Adam and I have ever had.
I felt strange crying at her funeral; I never really knew her. But it wasn't just her I was crying for. My friend Steve Fagan died July 22nd, but I didn't find out until after his funeral. Despite visiting the site of his accident and his grave on two separate occasions, I guess I still hadn't really gotten closure. As I watched my grandmother's coffin sink slowly into the ground, I imagined it was his coffin also. And as I shoveled the dirt into my grandmother's grave, I imagined it was his grave as well.
In my mind, I buried two that day.
We left the cemetery, and drove another 2.5 hours and 100 miles back to my aunt's house in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania. I knew I really had no purpose there. I would rather have gone home from Queens. I'm not very close with this side of my family, and I wasn't very close with my grandmother. But I wanted to be there for my dad, so I submitted.
My aunt always makes my dad an asshole. This day was no different. My sister and I were made to be there so that "all [four] of the grandkids are there", so that all of my grandmother's friends could see us, meet us, experience her legacy. My grandmother was 94 years old. Her friends are dead. My sister and I knew none of these people. We wanted to go home. My dad couldn't figure out why. He was too concerned with entertaining the guests that had come to pay their respects, too consumed by his fear of his sister. It was impossible for us to be of any help or use to him. We could not console him, nor would he have been capable of consoling us. We wanted to go home.
Here, my father's mother has just died, and this is what his priorities are. Here, my father's mother is dead, and I have to explain to him what life is really about.
Thankfully, he got it. Eventually. Getting there was not easy.
My dad and my sister left my aunt's house at the same time I did. They went to stay at a hotel overnight, as planned. I began the 130 mile trek home.
Just before the toll plaza in Fort Lee, NJ, I realized I was about to miss my exit. I put on my turn signal, checked my mirrors, and changed to the lane right of me. Unfortunately, I didn't see the car coming up that lane. He must have been coming up fast, because I hit the driver door. That crunching sound is one of the worst ever to have entered my ears.
Mercifully, the accident was minor. Everyone was fine. Slight damage to my car, a ruined door on his. But that was all. It could have been much, much worse.
After tending to my first car accident, I drove the remaining hour home. It was relievingly uneventful. I arrived home with no further complications, let my mother know I was home, called a friend, and went to sleep.
When I got home, my mother remarked that I probably had the worst day of my life. Maybe. Maybe not.