The (very short) Story of My Mother’s Ashes
Mom died in the summer of 2014 after a 6 month battle of survival from a chemo treatment gone bad. My opinion, not the doctors’. During that period, and only by default, I asked my mom “important questions” like, “What are your passwords?” or “Are there any bills outstanding?” and “What are your wishes after death”?
She didn’t care.
I think it’s because she was so sad. I can give you a myriad of reasons why she would be so miserable and deeply depressed, but whatever. Simply put…she was just very very sad.
I wouldn’t say that my dad was religious, though he did identify with Catholicism “before they stopped the mass in Latin”. He even studied Latin so that he could understand better what the priests were saying. Once his church made the change to English, he decided he didn’t need to go anymore. Like, ever. But, when we got the call that morning that my mother had passed, my dad insisted on a priest and last rites. Mind you, my mother is NOT Catholic and never asked for a priest, but it was important to my non-practicing dad.
Spirituality is often times not obvious. My dad NEVER talked about his feelings. When I asked him about such things he would ponder it as though he had never given it any thought before. Anyway…
My dad went into the hospital room and walked behind a blue curtain…lit from the window on the other side, I could see my dad’s silhouette. He sat down beside her. I stood outside the room looking in. I refused to see her. She would look different and feel different and that’s not what I wanted my final memory of her to be. (( I remember distinctly…I was saying goodbye after a visit in the hospital…I went up to her chair and gave her a hug, looked her right in the eye…she was looking right in mine…and I told her that I loved her, and she told me that she loved me, too. And I walked out the hospital room. ))
The priest came, but only after giving last rites to another soul in a different hospital. We are not alone in loss.
The priest left and my father came out of the hospital room. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting my dad saying to me “Yeah, she looks dead. It was probably a good thing you didn’t go in there”. Not a single tear in his eyes. Clearly, there’s a lot I don’t know about my father.
On the way home, dad and I discuss what to do with mom…do we have a funeral?…do we bury her? Why doesn’t he know what to do? Haven’t they talked about this? How are we even having this conversation? She *just* died 3 hours ago, and we are discussing, in the car, about what to do with her body…because my dad has no idea.
Listen, I have never done this before. It’s not like I’ve had lots of practice dealing with death and protocol. This…this was the first time ever. I’m the daughter. What am I supposed to do? Where is the boundary?
So, I call a local funeral home and they make arrangements to transport her, and we make an appointment to discuss our needs. When we arrive, the very pleasant Mr. Kresge says hello and shakes my father’s hand, who responds with a “Howdy”. When asked how he was doing, my dad said “Not bad.” followed by his out of context typical laugh at the end. Like, he’s switched to auto-pilot…doing what he does everyday. It is unnerving.
Dad and I decide that she should be cremated. I don’t even remember how we came to that decision. And a funeral? My dad is the most anti-social person I know. (He wasn’t always like that.) The burden would be on me, and I wasn’t able to manage it. Plus, and this is the real reason…my mom survived death for 6 months. Those how could manage it came and saw her in the hospital. That is exactly when we should’ve paid our respects…when she was alive. Why would we travel for a funeral, but not for a deathbed? She was sad and lonely. She needed to know she was loved and missed while she was here with us. What did she care if everyone came together when she was dead. So, yeah…that’s the real reason.
I remember vividly…sitting there at the funeral home halfway listening to the niceties and specifics of the business at hand, and picturing in my head the route my mother’s body had taken that morning. She had been transported, in a refrigerated vehicle to the funeral home where she was being kept. She could’ve been anywhere, but we were told she was in the building with us, so we believed it. Strange.
The vehicle of our soul.
They travel dead without us.
Burying broken down automobiles,
six feet under.
Then, they ask if we need an urn. An urn? Really? I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what happens after the incinerator. I was kind of stuck on that part.
Just, put her ashes in a box, and we’ll decide what to do later (never).
