A funny funeral story, on this, the anniversary of my father's death

so I'm going to tell you a funny/horrific story about it, while I'm stuck here in memory lane:

My father hooked up with this creature (you'll see why I call her that, I hope), about three years before he died.  She was only the second of his girlfriends that I had ever met - he made a big deal about taking my brother and I out to dinner with them, once.  They both drank all during dinner, and I didn't drive, so I spent a good 30 minutes trying to get Big/Only Brother to take their keys away and drive us home, but instead wound up getting yelled at for being a baby, and driven home by an angry drunk, his semi-sloppy girlfriend, and my silent brother: such fun!

Their relationship was more like an episode of Cops than anything else: They both drank excessively, they both lost work because of it, they both had severe anger management issues, (and children under 10 -) It was obviously a match made in heaven!  They were on-again off-again to the extreme, having lived together at least twice over the course of their relationship.  To the best of my knowledge (mostly secondhand through my sister, who was 6-10 years old at the time, but also through Daddy himself, then and later on), there were physical fights, a lot of screaming matches and thrown telephones, holes punched in walls, and eventually, my daddy, during one of their mutual tantrums threatened her dad that if he didn't put her back on the phone he would kill him, and so there ultimately were restraining orders and jail time involved.  Which didn't stop them from getting together again when he got out of jail, or breaking up again after losing a baby the spring before he passed away.  (To this day, I don't really know if "losing the baby" was code for "she didn't want the baby, so she got rid of it" as my father professed, or not.  I actually didn't want to know anything about any of it, but my father was not the type to cry into his beer: he was the type to drink his beer, and everybody else's beer, and then try to cry on the closest available shoulder.)

So, when he died, they'd been broken up, after yet another mega fight, in which he screamed that she was a "murdering whore," and she collapsed in tears, drove away and called Child Protective Services on him.

Obviously, star-crossed lovers. 

So a month or two later, when he died, nobody thought to contact her, but his death was in the papers, of course, and they knew some of the same people, and her kid went to SisterK's school, so she found out.  And when we showed up at the funeral home for the viewing that night, early, like family does, my grandmother was over inspecting the flower arrangements (because, please, God, don't let her have to see her son in that box any more), and she noticed that the Ex-Girlfriend had sent a flower arrangement.  Which she promptly told the undertaker to dispose of.

They were removed from the room with very little fanfare - I figure most people didn't even know it had happened - and we continued with our torturous vigil (I Hate Wakes!  They Are Hideous! Please Don't Have A Viewing For Me ~ Just have the Post-Party Food Section, and then everybody can go home). 

About three hours in, I am sitting in the chair nearest the casket - nobody else could sit there, so it's where I sat - and one of my uncles (Daddy was one of 9 children) and my brother coming zipping across the room towards me, and my uncle asks me if I'm ok to walk.  (The funeral home was not accessible, but I was more walkable back then.) I just sat there trying to understand what the hell was happening, and he repeated himself: "Can you walk?" 

It was said so urgently that I thought something horrible had happened and we were leaving - somebody passed out (common both in my family and at our wakes); there was a fire; I didn't even know.  But as I stood up, I noticed that we were walking (as quickly as I could) with a crowd of people, but we were all headed toward the smoking room, the back of the building, instead of the exit.  I went along, still having no idea what the hell was happening, and then my uncle starts telling me that the Ex had shown up, and that Grandmother had said that she refused to be in the room with her (when she called CPS, she had made entirely false claims against my grandmother, as well), so that's why the mass evacuation.

There must have been 75 of us who scrambled from the two larger outer rooms and squished into that one tiny room for a good five minutes, before one of my uncles asked my grandmother if she wanted the Ex to leave.  When she said that she did, an embassy of uncles, brothers, and cousins stepped out into the main room, and told her that she was not welcome here, and that she would have to go.  I remember so clearly that the undertaker didn't seem ruffled by this at all - I assume family feuds are part of his routine - but later I had a cousin from my step-dad's family tell me that it was the 'craziest, most intimidating thing he had ever seen at a funeral', so it must have been shocking to some of the other people too.

She left when she was asked to leave, and stood outside crying for a while.  Which is where the funny comes in.  SisterJ (then 16) and a few of the younger cousins had been outside the whole time, and so they didn't know anything about the drama that had occurred inside.  When SisterJ saw the Ex, who she didn't know or recognize, crying, she went over and hugged her, offering comfort.  Two of our male cousins came outside as this was happening, and, after the Ex had left, told SisterJ about how she'd been comforting the enemy - the same person who'd upset Grandmother and had been asked to leave.  She was mortified, but it seemed to cheer everybody else up when they heard it, even Grandmother, who just put it down to SisterJ's sweet nature.  

And that's a little glimpse into the 'normal' of my family.  We evacuated a wake, forced someone else to leave, somebody hugged that person as they were ordered out, and then we all had a good chuckle about it.  If you don't know what to do with that information, I can't really blame you.  It's been ten years since my dad's funeral, and neither do I      

Here is something from my drafts folder, a piece I started working on the summer I was living with, and losing, my grandmother.  I've been thinking about her a lot lately, about how much she made me feel capable and loved, and how difficult it is for me to make LilGirl feel that way. How it doesn't come as naturally to me, as it must have to her, and how I wish she were around to talk me through it.  So, I've been wandering back and looking at some of the things I've written about her, and about our relationship.  Here is something I think that's worth posting... I don't know why I never finished it, then.  Probably it hurt too much. But, it's a tribute to her, so I want it out there, on this the fifth anniversary of her death.  

-  

She talks in her sleep; probably all sorts of things that she wants to say when she's awake, but doesn't dare.  "Shut up ~ I'll only listen to that for so long;"  "Who do you think is the boss around here, Mister?"  "Well, I'm smarter than that, which you'd knew if you listened to me at all."

But it's not just that: sometimes she opens her eyes and talks to people who aren't really there, except for her.  "What are you doing here?" she'll say, "Where have you been for so long?"

The other morning: "Is that Brian's chin? Do I recognize Brian's chin? I know it's you, because you have my chin, boy: why won't you talk to me?" Her voice is sweet, and cajoling; later it's hurt and quiet. 

Brian is my father, and he's been dead for 13 years.  He was not, contrary to her beliefs, 'necking in the living room the other night with some girl.'  At least not that I could see, and I had a pretty good view of things, since I was sitting on the couch she claimed he was sitting on.

"I'm glad that he has someone;" she reports back, "but did he have to ignore me?  What kind of evil have I done that my own child would pretend I didn't exist?"

When I suggest that he didn't hear her, she gives me a look that says she knows I am not that stupid, and I should know that she isn't that stupid either.  She's right: neither of us is that dumb, but what else can I say?  He's gone: If she saw him in the living room, it certainly wasn't the Brian that either of us used to know, and trying to explain about hallucinations to a person who is hallucinating all the time, is like trying to explain about breathing: you don't do it consciously, therefore you can't think about all the bits and pieces that go into it.  You don't think to yourself "Diaphragm in" before each breath, and she doesn't think to herself "this could possibly be fake" before she has a chat with the person she sees so clearly.

Don't try to convince her that she's hallucinating, all the experts/books/hospice workers agree: so now I've got a woman who's sure she's seen her dead son, and that he ignored her, that he hates her enough to not even say hello, when she is clearly ill and needs his company.

 Even my father, whose memory is pretty tarnished (if only in my own eyes) was never that bad.

She pines for a little boy (sometimes two little boys) who is/are missing, but she can't recall their names or their faces, only that they are her littlest boys and that someone has taken them from her.  My uncle is sometimes cast as the willing accomplice, other times the clueless and cold father, still other times the evil mastermind behind this whole plot: he doesn't know where the boy(s) are, and he doesn't seem concerned enough with finding them, in her opinion.

We don't know how to search for pretend boys, or how to explain that no one has absconded with any of her children, and so she longs for them, brings them up in every quiet moment, wonders if they are fed and clean and happy and "where could they be?"

"Safe and happy; sound and cared for", we promise, but we haven't got enough details for her. There could never be enough details to satisfy a mother who is looking for her missing children.  What is the address, the phone number, the house like?  Where does the father work, the mother shop, the school bus let off?  Do they ever get an extra cookie at night, does the mother wash their hair with that special lice shampoo, are we sure they don't do their homework while sitting in front of the television?

Obviously my worrying genes did not come from the ether.

But what a wonderful mother she must have been, back then, when her kids where little.  To still worry so now, all these years later, about whether or not someone is making sure the little one brushes his teeth because 'he hates to brush his teeth and will just wet the brush and pretend he's brushed, you know'.  To have in her head that there are little hearts out there that it's her job to protect, and to be un-moving in that conviction - it's both awesome and horrible all at the same time.

Because I can so clearly see her in that mom mode - living through the daily struggles of raising nine children, one with a very severe disability in a time where kids with disabilities were hidden from sight more often than not; in the projects of a city she never liked, close to in-laws who treated her like a slave, and far away from the life she lived with her Grams in New Jersey. 

And yet, she excelled - she knocked it out of the park, if you ask me, even if she made mistakes along the way.

But how horrible, to feel that connection, to feel that pull, and to be able to do nothing about it.  This is a feeling I have my own experiences with, that wanting of a child, that feeling that your child is out there somewhere, waiting for you, but you can't get to them.  Our realities are infinitely different - she's reliving the life she's already gone through maybe fifty or sixty years ago, now and I'm looking forward to the life I want in my future - but that pull, that pang and hollow feeling, yeah: I know it too well.
-

This summer with my grandmother is awful.  It's an endless wait for an end you'd do anything to avoid; like you're constantly slipping towards a great big hole, and you know you're going to go into it face first, eventually, but the fall is taking an eternity and you can't figure out where to put your hands out to stop yourself, so you just keep slipping, closer and closer to the big fall.

She has days where she's fine, mostly, and those days of just sleeping for hours and eating and watching Judge Judy, well they're almost normal, except you can still feel the slide happening, deep down, under your feet, under your skin, in your heart.  It's there in the way that she asks what time it is, again, and you can tell her internal clock has run hours ahead of the actual time, and she's lost again.  The way she tilts to the side while we're watching the news, like a curious puppy who can't quite make out what he's looking at.  The way it takes her 15 minutes to get food onto her fork, into her mouth, chewed and into her stomach: It takes her so much energy to eat, that you want her to eat only the highest calorie foods, to make it worthwhile.  All those little steps, little bumps, all part of the slipping.

And then there's days where she's never here: she eats, but she doesn't taste it.  She talks, but her eyes are empty when she looks at you.  "Where's the mail?" and "What's the time?" over and over again, and they have as little meaning to her as they would to a two year old - all she knows is that those things might happen, and it might mean that something would be different than it is now.  And god, does she want things to be different than they are now.

I can't interest her in anything: the plots of television shows confuse her, peppered with commercials that annoy her.  Movies take too long, and have too many people talking at once.  Books are too heavy for her sore arm, too tiny for her eyes, too confusing if you read them to her.  Puzzles are not her thing, nor are cards - "I used to get berated for playing a card in bridge; your uncle" (my great uncle, actually) "would scold me so for not knowing what everyone else had played." And music is, for the most part, out: I turned on a Pandora station with her favorite song, and she took out her hearing aids and went to sleep.

We talk about a long time ago, but I never know how much of it is true anymore - was there really a woman named Bridgey, who lived above them in the Towers and would shout at Grandmother's misbehaving children as easily as she'd take her own to task?  Did my grandfather lace up his Hessian boots, or was it her father, her grandfather, one of her brothers?

We talk about yesterday, today and tomorrow - who's coming and what's on the schedule, and "does your list make you the boss of everybody?" About the weddings coming up, and how they're not today, or tomorrow, or even next week: "I've missed the bride" she'll tell me at least once a week - but no, Grandmother, it's alright: The wedding isn't until the end of September.

 "I need silver shoes," she shouted as she woke up this morning, before even hello, "add it to your list and we'll go shopping for some on the next nice day."

Never mind that we don't go shopping - that the doctor's appointment she went to last week wiped her out so badly her skin was grey - or that her feet are two different sizes due to the swelling.

 "Silver shoes to match my dress.  And a petticoat, with lace."

Here's how it happens

I go to visit my grandmother after she gets out of rehab, following a nasty tumble down the stairs. I've talked to her, as usual, on our Friday night phone calls, but ... something seems off. She drifts, seems to forget she's talking to me, seems ready to hang up as soon as she answers the phone. I'm worried, but my uncle has assured me that it's just a medicine mix-up, and that it's all under control.

Shortly into our visit, I realize that nothing is under control. My uncle is somehow missing the fact that my grandmother is not acting lucidly, that she's easily confused, that her pain is not being managed well. As we talk, he seems to realize that things are worse than he recognized, and I can see that neither of them are sure what the hell comes next.

I have no idea what comes next, except now I am volunteering to stay on the couch, and help with meds and her PT almost before I knew I was thinking it. I was meant to stay for a few days, but - on the first free day that I went home, to shower and refill my pills and gather some supplies and whatnot - I don't make it as far as my house before I am filled with an overwhelming fear, only manage to make it to my room and close the door behind me before I am sobbing uncontrollably.  The only thing I am sure of is that I need to be there, because they need me, even though I will be able to solve nothing, even though there is no possibility of fixing this.

And that was the last night I spent anywhere but my Grandmother's couch until three weeks after she passed away.

----

This time, my mother and I have planned to come down to my brother and sister-in-law's house every Thursday, and at least one other day during the week, to clean the house and distract & feed the children, and just... be supportive. The cancer is stage 4: we are hoping for miracles, but know how unlikely they are. We do not care. She does not care, and so treatment continues.

We are there two consecutive Thursdays, straightening things up and moving all their shit into neater piles, and helping the (not so) littles with their homework - basically doing the busywork of life that falls to the side when you're too sick to do anything but sleep and take your meds.

 My brother slowly seems to understand that we are here to help and not to just mess with his shit, and starts confiding how scared he is, how desperately hard this is becoming, how he doesn't know if he's going to be able to do it. On Facebook, he cracks a 'joke' about Stage 4 Cancer and spousal weight loss, and I can see how tightly he is holding on to his edges, how close he is to his private apocalypse, and I ask how I can help.

He tells me he trusts me more than anyone else, and he needs someone he can trust. He needs someone. I know how to be someone, and I push aside the thoughts of how often I need a someone and can find no one, push aside all of the non-essential elements of my own brand of being sick, and transition into helper-mode. I make schedules and organize paperwork and calendars. I make sure someone else will always be here, even if that someone else usually winds up being me.

Not being able to drive, and Mom having a job now, and scarce/uneven coverage during the day, mean that it's much easier to just camp out in their comfy chair, to claim a corner of the living room as my own. Sleepover almost never-ending, for now. For today.

And here there is hope, and here there are treatments, and here there is still that irreversible diagnosis waiting for us at some end, but it isn't now.

 For now, I try to coax my sister-in-law to eat more than three bites of noodles, of pizza, of absolutely anything, and lament that radiation makes everything taste like chalk. For now I keep med schedules and daily logs and ask otherwise inappropriate questions about bathroom habits, and hope that, somehow, she will forgive me. For doing her kids' homework with them and making decisions about whether they can go over their friend's houses; for camping out on her couch when she probably just wants to be alone; for following her into another room when she can't really tell that her feet are tangled in the oxygen cord.

For all the little things that piss me off the most when I'm sick, and I try so hard to avoid, but somehow, occasionally, still slip out. For poaching and nagging and making a sad face when I think she's not looking.

That's how it happens - how, piece by piece, I become a fixture in someone else's story, someone else's home, someone else's days. How I turn off my own life - just for this little while - in the hopes of helping. Just Helping. Sweet jesus, just Let Me Help. 

In case you were wondering. -

And a lot of people seem to be, and aren't exactly nice when they inquire - "How can you take care of someone else, when you can barely take care of yourself?" they ask. You're right - taking care of me is a struggle. Every. Single. Day. But a lot of that struggle is sitting around, laying around, distracting myself from the pain. Turns out; it's not that much harder to do in somebody else's living room, watching over them while they rest. Waking them up every few hours to try and get them to eat. Reminding them to take their pills when your alarm goes off for you to take your own.

Not saying it isn't hard. Because it's draining as hell and I couldn't be sorer outside of a 5-alarm-flare, but ... it's worth it. To be able to make her smile when I poke fun at my brother. To make my brother be able to go to work without having a panic attack. To hug some kiddos and let them pretend during a game of War. To talk to her sister and let her know that she matters to us too, that Sister-in-law is a part of our family, and that means that her sister can cry on my shoulder any day. To learn more about her, filing away bits and pieces for tomorrows.

If it's something that winds up being too physically taxing - and it already is, it always is - then that's a thing I'll deal with. Because there are a lot of parts of my life I have had to shut down, turn away from, pretend don't matter, and this is one area I'm just not willing to do that with. 

But in case you were wondering, that's how it happens.
 

So this happened...

For a serious Jeopardy geek like me, that's a big deal.  In my family? We're not just game players, we're game show players - always have been. (Not all of us - half of my sisters, for example, roll their eyes when I turn it on, used to say "I don't need to watch school stuff after school." But that's OK. I still love them.)  But for those of us who are game show players? Jeopardy is it.

I started watching Jeopardy at my grandparents house sometime before I was 8 years old: I only know that because the first time I beat my Grandfather at a game, I was eight, and by then we'd been watching for years. Every night we were at their house, at 7:30 (except for the unfortunate years that the local channel decided to switch up the routine and but it on at 7:00, before Wheel of Fortune, which - if my Grandmother was any judge - was tantamount to trying to put the New Testament before the Old), everybody who wasn't currently doing the dishes or putting a baby to sleep would congregate in my grandparents living room and watch the show. Over the course of the last twenty-however-many or so years, that specific combination of people has included - at various different and/or overlapping points:

My brother and I - fresh from baths, tucked into our pajamas and with backs eager for scratching - sitting at my grandmother's feet; my Uncle Mark,  who had Down Syndrome, sitting in his rocking chair, thumping along to the music and waiting for the end of the show when someone would tell him it was time to get ready for bed, at which point he'd stand in the doorway and say "Good. Night. Mum. Good. Night. Jack." and so on, until each of us had been properly bid farewell; any number of my other uncles, usually found stretched across the floor, one pillow propped underneath their head, quiet enough so that you'd think they weren't paying attention, until the game started and the answers questions would pop lazily out of their mouths; my grandfather, always at his end of the couch, tucked into his corner, probably also listening to either the ballgame or classical music, and most likely working on an embroidery project or crossword puzzle at the same time - he was another one you didn't think would be much competition - with all that noise, how could anybody concentrate? - but he beat me 4 nights out of 5; various cousins on various holidays or school trips or summer vacations, nights when we'd file in from the front porch only long enough to watch the game, laugh about the sports questions I missed or the ballet questions my cousin and I had smoked everyone else on, and then file back out to sit with the mosquitoes until it was time for bed; and, of course, my grandmother - especially during those later years when I would stay with her and it would be just she and I, it seemed Jeopardy, Judge Judy, & NCIS were the only shows that she could tolerate - and both Judy and Gibbs were questionable.

I can think of a million different configurations of my Grandmother's living room, and a million different Jeopardy games we watched from any of them. We watched in the summer, with the windows open and the screens down, so that you could still hear kids playing outside on the street, or all bundled up under blankets or hovering over her heating vents in the winter.  We were watching one Friday night when the house across the street burned down - although, to be fair, we did also, you know, pay attention to the fire. We watched last September, after we lost her, when that room was as cold as I've ever felt it, and that house was as empty as is has ever been - I sat with my sister and my aunts, none of us really paying much attention, but it was enough to have it on, enough that every now and then, we were distracted enough to give an answer.  I've watched with my uncle since then, in the new quiet, the new normal of the house, at least Jeopardy, and a cup of tea and a couple of cookies seems familiar.  I watched by myself, there and here, in tears, more than once, thinking about her and how something so ridiculous as a game of answers and questions can bring her back to me so clearly, how I can almost hear her still sighing over the loss of Alex's mustache, or some 'doofus's' incorrect response.

And it wasn't just there - I played Jeopardy with my mom and my other grandmother the summer I was in the hospital, and then bed bound - we'd keep score and add our tallies, spent the whole summer trying to beat each other, and I have no idea who actually one, but I know my Nana - one of the smartest people I knew - was a horrible wagerer and came in last.  I played with the girls in my dorm at college, my roommate and I would watch while we gobbled down Chinese food or macaroni and cheese from the hot pot in between our day classes and our night classes. And now I have to schedule my phone calls with my 13-yr-old nephew so as not to run over into Jeopardy time, because he plays with the boy down the street (although he plays with an ap somehow? and that makes me feel very old).

Anyways. I can you could see that this would be important to me.  And - of course - because I used my blog twitter instead of my personal twitter, I can't tell my family about it... but I figured you guys would understand.  I mean if you can't talk about being a total quiz show nerd on the Internet, where can you talk about it?

By the way; the poem that they quoted? My Grandmother's favorite (and not coincidentally one of the last things she remembered almost to the very end)?  From the category Lit-Tree-Ture : This self-described "fool" wrote, "a tree that looks at God all day / and lifts her leafy arms to pray".  The contestant answered incorrectly.  Here's the correct answer, and the complete poem:

119. Trees

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,	5
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.	10
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

                                                                                        Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918