Five years
I made it through another July 12th. Five years ago, Aunt Julie died of ovarian cancer. A month and a half later, we left New Orleans for higher ground. Five years later, several family funerals later, and--get this--two college degrees later, I made it through the day without any giant emotional outbursts--a first for the date.
However, it's probably because I spent the weekend in such emotional places that by today I was rather spent. Wednesday of last week, I drove to western North Carolina for my grandmother's funeral. Mamaw's been a decline of Alzheimer's for the past several years, so her death wasn't really a surprise--and is in a number of ways a relief--but it still hit me rather hard. Mark simply couldn't get off of work--his last day is this week, and he's been swamped--so my wonderful friend Rebecca went with me. About halfway through the visitation, when I got yet another strange look from a preacher, it occurred to me--as I haven't seen most of Mamaw's family since the 70s, and didn't know any of the preachers there, introducing myself and "my friend Rebecca" probably means that half of Canton, North Carolina, now thinks I'm a lesbian. Which Mamaw would probably find quite funny.
Except my great-uncle Frank, who kept hitting on Rebecca. As my brother pointed out, if you find yourself explaining to someone that you're not really a dirty old man, that's probably a clue that you are. I don't really care for my Uncle Frank--but as several of my relatives would explain, he's not blood kin.
Funerals are such a bizarre mix of joy at seeing long-missed relatives (or never met, or some I've seen a million photos of, but have never met in real life) and sadness at missing others. I love talking to my relatives, and hearing stories--so many stories. Apparently, when my great-grandparents were first married and had their first three kids, they lived in a boxcar in a lumber camp, where they one night hid a man accused of murder. According to Uncle Chris, Paw-Paw said that they were okay hiding the man, because his victim needed killing.
In case one wonders where my interest in southern literature comes from...
The funeral was hard for me. It was in the tiny Plains Methodist Church in Canton, where not only my mother grew up going, but my grandmother went there as a child. My cousins sang a couple of surprisingly moving songs, so much so that I kind of wished that I had gone before the singing. I was a bit afraid that I'd go up to the podium and burst out crying.
I didn't. Despite my shaking hands and nervous feelings (seriously? nerves about speaking at Mamaw's funeral? I love speaking in front of people. I was really surprised at how difficult it was), I got up and talked a bit about Mamaw's love for working with her hands and poetry, two loves we shared, and then read the poem "My Life is but a Weaving," one of her favorites (which I later found out was also a favorite of my great-grandmother). Despite my worries about reading such verse without sounding sing-songy, I discovered while reading it to the congregation that, per Rebecca's advice, if I simply paid attention to what I was saying, the meaning of the words, it wouldn't sound like doggerel. And I don't think it did.
And then I carried the ashes out of the church, in my brother's car, to the cemetery. Such a responsibility. Such a surprisingly heavy (in all ways) responsibility. Funerals do ultimately end up being about ourselves--I felt such loss. I felt the loss of Aunt Julie all over again, it seemed. I felt worry about Uncle Rick in the midst of chemo and COPD now.
And I felt the absolute weirdness of the past five years. I am incredibly grateful for the past five years, that I've been as physically close to my family and been able to get to know so many of them. And, quite frankly, I am glad that the funeral took place while I was still here, so that I could go and take part. And I'm glad that my mother can finally start to get some healing, as the past five years have been rough on her: July, 2005, she lost her sister; August, I escaped a hurricane; July 2006, Mamaw's sister died; July 2007, Papaw died, and we realized the extent of Mamaw's Alzheimer's; and finally this summer, Mother had to field the calls from the nursing home confirming that as Mamaw declined, we only wanted comfort care for her.
Those last calls, at least Mother was with Michael and me when they came--and she was able to get back to Georgia and see Mamaw before she finally died. She was with her when she died, which she took great comfort in. I'm glad that I saw Mamaw last when she was still able to talk some, and understand who I was. I take comfort in that.
I should watch Angels in America again, at least the end, when Prior chooses more life. It's a very hopeful ending to a movie for me. I do feel hopeful, but I feel the weight of change and sadness, too.
However, it's probably because I spent the weekend in such emotional places that by today I was rather spent. Wednesday of last week, I drove to western North Carolina for my grandmother's funeral. Mamaw's been a decline of Alzheimer's for the past several years, so her death wasn't really a surprise--and is in a number of ways a relief--but it still hit me rather hard. Mark simply couldn't get off of work--his last day is this week, and he's been swamped--so my wonderful friend Rebecca went with me. About halfway through the visitation, when I got yet another strange look from a preacher, it occurred to me--as I haven't seen most of Mamaw's family since the 70s, and didn't know any of the preachers there, introducing myself and "my friend Rebecca" probably means that half of Canton, North Carolina, now thinks I'm a lesbian. Which Mamaw would probably find quite funny.
Except my great-uncle Frank, who kept hitting on Rebecca. As my brother pointed out, if you find yourself explaining to someone that you're not really a dirty old man, that's probably a clue that you are. I don't really care for my Uncle Frank--but as several of my relatives would explain, he's not blood kin.
Funerals are such a bizarre mix of joy at seeing long-missed relatives (or never met, or some I've seen a million photos of, but have never met in real life) and sadness at missing others. I love talking to my relatives, and hearing stories--so many stories. Apparently, when my great-grandparents were first married and had their first three kids, they lived in a boxcar in a lumber camp, where they one night hid a man accused of murder. According to Uncle Chris, Paw-Paw said that they were okay hiding the man, because his victim needed killing.
In case one wonders where my interest in southern literature comes from...
The funeral was hard for me. It was in the tiny Plains Methodist Church in Canton, where not only my mother grew up going, but my grandmother went there as a child. My cousins sang a couple of surprisingly moving songs, so much so that I kind of wished that I had gone before the singing. I was a bit afraid that I'd go up to the podium and burst out crying.
I didn't. Despite my shaking hands and nervous feelings (seriously? nerves about speaking at Mamaw's funeral? I love speaking in front of people. I was really surprised at how difficult it was), I got up and talked a bit about Mamaw's love for working with her hands and poetry, two loves we shared, and then read the poem "My Life is but a Weaving," one of her favorites (which I later found out was also a favorite of my great-grandmother). Despite my worries about reading such verse without sounding sing-songy, I discovered while reading it to the congregation that, per Rebecca's advice, if I simply paid attention to what I was saying, the meaning of the words, it wouldn't sound like doggerel. And I don't think it did.
And then I carried the ashes out of the church, in my brother's car, to the cemetery. Such a responsibility. Such a surprisingly heavy (in all ways) responsibility. Funerals do ultimately end up being about ourselves--I felt such loss. I felt the loss of Aunt Julie all over again, it seemed. I felt worry about Uncle Rick in the midst of chemo and COPD now.
And I felt the absolute weirdness of the past five years. I am incredibly grateful for the past five years, that I've been as physically close to my family and been able to get to know so many of them. And, quite frankly, I am glad that the funeral took place while I was still here, so that I could go and take part. And I'm glad that my mother can finally start to get some healing, as the past five years have been rough on her: July, 2005, she lost her sister; August, I escaped a hurricane; July 2006, Mamaw's sister died; July 2007, Papaw died, and we realized the extent of Mamaw's Alzheimer's; and finally this summer, Mother had to field the calls from the nursing home confirming that as Mamaw declined, we only wanted comfort care for her.
Those last calls, at least Mother was with Michael and me when they came--and she was able to get back to Georgia and see Mamaw before she finally died. She was with her when she died, which she took great comfort in. I'm glad that I saw Mamaw last when she was still able to talk some, and understand who I was. I take comfort in that.
I should watch Angels in America again, at least the end, when Prior chooses more life. It's a very hopeful ending to a movie for me. I do feel hopeful, but I feel the weight of change and sadness, too.