On death and dying...
**Caution: Do not read the below entry unless you are A) unsqueamish about death and dying, B) Unemotionally attached to Portia Mae Price, and C) not aversed to some highly disrestectful words, thoughts, phrases and interpretations of situations. Thank you, and have a nice day.**
"Yup, she's dead" I think as my father outlines what doctors told him about the situation for my Step-grandmother. Though not a medical student by a long shot, I know enough about brain anatomy to know that there is absolutely no way for her to come back and make it through. She's either Terri Schiavo'd for the next couple of aggravating years, or she's unplugged and allowed to finish dying.
Well, we had put grandma through enough by leaving her dying in pain for a few months, I suppose we'll let Pat die with dignity on this one.
Stubborn in death as she was in life, she held on for a good three days more, or, at least, her body kept breathing well past the twelve hour limit.
I suppose I grade life more on consciousness and ability to comprehend and perceive than on heart beats and breath.
Throw on some black, lipstick and jewelry, and you'll be classier than all the old broad's closest relatives. There we were at the viewing, my Mom, brother, and I looking at the waxy corpse lips pulled back in classic, over-processed death cast and thinking to ourselves, "Why are we doing this again? Why are people crying? And who the Hell else is actually wearing black?" Dinner with the relatives? Nah...we're tired...
What's a nice way of saying, "Fuck off, we couldn't take another twenty minutes of this hypocritical mess?"
"Mom's not feeling well, we'll see you tomorrow at the service."
Right then.
As the only ones at the viewing and the funeral wearing black and not say, blue, pink, or floral prints, I think the Italian part of the family represented at least the most defiantly respectful part of the days services, not matter how ostensibly related we are. Se sit on the family side, eh? Well, I guess we should do it for Grandpa. What’s a nice way of saying, “She was a bitch, and no one liked her?”
“She was a driven woman…”
“She would dig her heels into the ground about things that were important to her…”
“She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind…”
“She let you know what she was thinking...”
“She was very highly opinionated…”
“She pushed people to…”
Yup, that sounds about right.
There’s nothing quite like crocodile tears and a made-up eulogy. The only honest one in the bunch was a woman who had known her for sixty years, and stood up and said her piece more in quips and stories than in odd sentiments and misplaced panache. And with only two dewy eyes in the bunch, and one of them being my grandpa, no one was fooling anyone. But we can pretend that she didn’t send letters to people under my grandpa’s name to get people to do things. We can pretend she didn’t marry my grandpa barely six months after my grandma died. We can pretend that she didn’t meet my grandpa at my brothers’ second birthday party while my grandma was still alive.
“They met in 1984, and by 1985, they were married. They were so in love.”
How wonderful.
Graveside is for the family only, so why are we going?
Ah, we need the boys for pall bearers, fair enough.
A flower from the casket? Sounds morbid…
By all means, have one.
Not for me thanks.
Are you sure?
Positive.
Schmooze, schmooze, schmooze…that’s what these two days are for…hypocritical sentiments and backhanded compliments.
You’re pretty until your sister enters the room…then you’re so “Carangella.”
And they balk when you mention the distinction.
My Aunt gushes to me about how she misses my Mother and wishes she would stop “Throwing away her many letters and cards and just let them be friends again.”
Yes, lie to me about how my mother is. It’s not as though she wouldn’t tell me if you were sending her insincere letters, let alone that you would ask for forgiveness for lying to everyone about my mother, dragging her name through the mud, all to get a piece of furniture you wanted because it was suddenly convenient for you to have. It’s not as though my mother isn’t a hugely vocal person, who would give me the letter and say, “Look at what bullshit your Aunt Debbie is trying to send me.”
What’s a nice way of saying, “You’re a shitty liar?”
“I’ll let my Mom know.”
“You should visit us in Washington, we don’t have quite the nice things that you have, but you could watch the sunset on your porch.”
inst
No, I’d rather not.
“Maybe, we’ll see.”
“We should see each other under better circumstances. Maybe we’ll see each other for a marriage.”
“Oh, none of us are even thinking of getting married soon.”
“What about me? I‘m engaged”
You’ve been engaged to the same guy for well over five years, who are you kidding.
“Oh, I forgot…maybe.”
Never.
“It’ll be great.”
You’ve been married four, maybe five time. I’m not even going to bother learning this guys name.
“Sure.”
How about I go home and write about this stupid fiasco instead.
Sounds good.
"Yup, she's dead" I think as my father outlines what doctors told him about the situation for my Step-grandmother. Though not a medical student by a long shot, I know enough about brain anatomy to know that there is absolutely no way for her to come back and make it through. She's either Terri Schiavo'd for the next couple of aggravating years, or she's unplugged and allowed to finish dying.
Well, we had put grandma through enough by leaving her dying in pain for a few months, I suppose we'll let Pat die with dignity on this one.
Stubborn in death as she was in life, she held on for a good three days more, or, at least, her body kept breathing well past the twelve hour limit.
I suppose I grade life more on consciousness and ability to comprehend and perceive than on heart beats and breath.
Throw on some black, lipstick and jewelry, and you'll be classier than all the old broad's closest relatives. There we were at the viewing, my Mom, brother, and I looking at the waxy corpse lips pulled back in classic, over-processed death cast and thinking to ourselves, "Why are we doing this again? Why are people crying? And who the Hell else is actually wearing black?" Dinner with the relatives? Nah...we're tired...
What's a nice way of saying, "Fuck off, we couldn't take another twenty minutes of this hypocritical mess?"
"Mom's not feeling well, we'll see you tomorrow at the service."
Right then.
As the only ones at the viewing and the funeral wearing black and not say, blue, pink, or floral prints, I think the Italian part of the family represented at least the most defiantly respectful part of the days services, not matter how ostensibly related we are. Se sit on the family side, eh? Well, I guess we should do it for Grandpa. What’s a nice way of saying, “She was a bitch, and no one liked her?”
“She was a driven woman…”
“She would dig her heels into the ground about things that were important to her…”
“She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind…”
“She let you know what she was thinking...”
“She was very highly opinionated…”
“She pushed people to…”
Yup, that sounds about right.
There’s nothing quite like crocodile tears and a made-up eulogy. The only honest one in the bunch was a woman who had known her for sixty years, and stood up and said her piece more in quips and stories than in odd sentiments and misplaced panache. And with only two dewy eyes in the bunch, and one of them being my grandpa, no one was fooling anyone. But we can pretend that she didn’t send letters to people under my grandpa’s name to get people to do things. We can pretend she didn’t marry my grandpa barely six months after my grandma died. We can pretend that she didn’t meet my grandpa at my brothers’ second birthday party while my grandma was still alive.
“They met in 1984, and by 1985, they were married. They were so in love.”
How wonderful.
Graveside is for the family only, so why are we going?
Ah, we need the boys for pall bearers, fair enough.
A flower from the casket? Sounds morbid…
By all means, have one.
Not for me thanks.
Are you sure?
Positive.
Schmooze, schmooze, schmooze…that’s what these two days are for…hypocritical sentiments and backhanded compliments.
You’re pretty until your sister enters the room…then you’re so “Carangella.”
And they balk when you mention the distinction.
My Aunt gushes to me about how she misses my Mother and wishes she would stop “Throwing away her many letters and cards and just let them be friends again.”
Yes, lie to me about how my mother is. It’s not as though she wouldn’t tell me if you were sending her insincere letters, let alone that you would ask for forgiveness for lying to everyone about my mother, dragging her name through the mud, all to get a piece of furniture you wanted because it was suddenly convenient for you to have. It’s not as though my mother isn’t a hugely vocal person, who would give me the letter and say, “Look at what bullshit your Aunt Debbie is trying to send me.”
What’s a nice way of saying, “You’re a shitty liar?”
“I’ll let my Mom know.”
“You should visit us in Washington, we don’t have quite the nice things that you have, but you could watch the sunset on your porch.”
inst
No, I’d rather not.
“Maybe, we’ll see.”
“We should see each other under better circumstances. Maybe we’ll see each other for a marriage.”
“Oh, none of us are even thinking of getting married soon.”
“What about me? I‘m engaged”
You’ve been engaged to the same guy for well over five years, who are you kidding.
“Oh, I forgot…maybe.”
Never.
“It’ll be great.”
You’ve been married four, maybe five time. I’m not even going to bother learning this guys name.
“Sure.”
How about I go home and write about this stupid fiasco instead.
Sounds good.