Tag Archives: funerals

Grief: Dealing.


I’ve written this post a thousand times over the last several days.

It has been a week since I last wrote about my mom online.

There is so much to process. So much I want to say to you both. I thought I’d never be here; I thought it would be years before I wrote about my mother’s death; not so much because I wouldn’t be able to process it, but because I was convinced, until 4:02pm on Labor Day that she would be around for several more years, despite my premonitory stomach aches when I thought about Labor Day and her.

The first thing I will say is this: if your parents are still alive, let them know you love them. Even if you fight with them. You can still love them if they make you crazy. If they won’t hear of it, write it down on a piece of paper. Look, I fought like a freakin’ roller derby champion with my mom; our stuff was epically toxic at times. But I know now it was not because I wanted to fight nor because I wanted to win; it was all about my love for her and my need to have her present.

Nora Ephron said it best:

“Still, it made me sad. You always think that a bolt of lightning is going to strike and your parents will magically change into the people you wish they were or back into the people they used to be. But they’re never going to. And even though you know they’re never going to, you still hope they will.”

Let them know that the reason you fight with them is because you love them; you simply can’t have this much discord without love. It’s impossible. If you didn’t care you wouldn’t fight; you’d be indifferent. So stop lying to yourself and saying you don’t care. I was able to do that before Mom died; I know that now. Either you do love your parents and you fight or you don’t and you’re estranged. Either way, come to terms with yourself and be at peace with it because YOU NEVER KNOW.

The second thing I will say is this: get an advanced directive. Good God, get the advanced directive. Everyone dies. Everyone. Helping out your daughter would be great. She would be filled with less woe and less confusion when she’s lining up your funeral arrangements. It would be easier on her knowing that even though the lilies are the only flowers available and you always preferred wildflowers, that the lilies might be the only way to go; trust me: she knows you love the wildflowers. Do this. NOW. On the fence about something? State that you’re on the fence about something. Share at least a semblance.

The third thing I will say is this: the moment of going from the scared and sacred anonymity of “My mother just died, may I have a milkshake?” to the known, “her mother just died, I don’t know what to say to her…” is infinitesimal. If you know someone is grieving, reach out, even if you think you won’t have anything important to say. Just knowing that someone on the other end of the visual and vibrational path is paying attention is OK. My neighbor and I? I was talking to someone else and I gave her a long glance and she returned it and we shared a nod and a quiet moment. Sometimes that’s all we need. A hand over the heart, a silent nod.

The fourth thing I will say is this: prayer works. I don’t know if it’s God, I don’t know if it’s the meditative aspect, the focusing on something else other than yourself, the repetitive stuff and the love coming from people who know you — AND EVEN THOSE WHO DON’T know you — is undeniable. The past few days, when I have felt nothing but emptiness and desolation and sadness and woe, I would in a moment feel relief, love, rest and peace. There is no other way to explain it.

Don’t bother trying to tell me a scientific reason. I’m not listening… La lal laalaaa… I cannot hear you I cannot hear you…la lalalaaaa.

Last week, I was shrouded in love and prayer and I felt it. Several days last week, I was held in the comfort of my cousins; the closest thing I have to sisters and their in-laws and I know this now, I am blessed. The first thing my cousin did when she saw me was put her hands on my shoulders as though she was this Italian mother and stepped back to look at me. She said to her twin, “Not bad! She looks …” and the other one said, “She looks pretty good!” and I couldn’t help but laugh. I felt seen. That was huge.

I arrived on Thursday and we went to the funeral home. Friday, I went with my cousins and our friend and a faceless chicken (it’s a post for another time, trust me) and we selected Mom’s burial site. Friday night, family gathered and we all cried and shared stories and laughed and celebrated Mom.

Saturday was the big day. I was nauseated. I could not focus or get my head straight. Mom’s celebration Mass and burial was vibrant and loving. My younger brother played guitar and sang the Irish hymn, “Before the Throne of God Above,” and delivered a tender eulogy. My older brother delivered another fantastic tribute to Mom which allowed us all to sigh, nod in agreement and laugh out loud. I said nothing on the altar; not in defiance, but because I was obliterated physically, but I wanted to be with my brothers.

At the burial site, my older brother recited verbatim Act 4, Scene 1’s lines from The Tempest.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Isn’t that gorgeous? Mom would be so very pleased and she would have loved this funeral. She would have wanted one just like it if she’d attended it when alive. I can hear her, saying, with her scores of sterling bangles jangling, “Bravo! Brilliant! Drat! I wish I were there! Do it again!!” But I know she attended.

She is buried between two sugar maples on a small rise in an Irish Catholic cemetery just outside her hometown in a plot 200 feet from her aunt and grandparents. As my cousin said, “Close to family because she’s new here, but not too close because a girl has her secrets afterall…”

My cousins and I made up a new funeral-related disorder for the DSM-V. If I get their permission I will share it, but we are thrilled that we know Mom would love what we’ve come up with.

My mother was many things. Among them, a brilliant cartoonist. Here is one of my favorites of hers:

(C) Mimi Turner

(C) Mimi Turner

She was very clever and she wanted for many years to get published in The New Yorker magazine. Seeing this cartoon, I can’t imagine why they didn’t publish it; my only guess, which was probably hers as well, is that they were intimidated by her.

Look at the image again. I’ll wait.

That whole thing — from the size of the brush to the size of the dot, the canvas and the artist’s posture, is ideal. She was an avid subscriber to the magazine and forever wanted me to get a subscription. Only after I finally gave in to her, and let her give me a gift subscription, did she move on to my absolute need to have a subscription to Vanity Fair, which sit unread and still in their wrappers.

. . . . .

Today, I had to tell my cleaning ladies in Spanish that my mother died. I didn’t have to tell them, I mean, Mom didn’t live here, but it was one of those surreal moments where the words just sort of poured out of my mouth. They asked me how I was and then I said, “Hola. Mi madre es muerte.” Even as I was saying it, I was like, “WHA—?” But they sighed and they came in for landings, they wanted to hold me and tell me how sorry they were and they hugged me! O! How they hugged me. It was nice. I felt loved. I always feel like I have to explain why the house is chaotic (three boys, large furniture, smaller spaces and a massive dog will do that coupled with my general disinterest in housekeeping if we’re being real) whenever they come. I don’t feel that way so much anymore.

Last Friday night when we were talking in his mother’s kitchen, another cousin, a doctor, reminded me of how things go in families for the most part. He said over his shoulder as he was doing the dishes, “You’ve probably figured this out by now, Mol: the daughters run the show. The daughters end up doing all the stuff…” and my heart sank and then rose because I knew he was right.

Having my mother not only go to God but then being involved intimately in the processes and arrangements to lay her body to rest (which I was honored to do, and I’d do it a thousand times again) has put in sharp relief the division between sense and nonsense. My kids are still fighting and bickering; the phone still rings and arguments break out but I have little tolerance. It’s like I’m on a peace parade. Either everyone gets along or they can leave. And crap that really doesn’t matter? G’bye.

Mom lost her parents and her favorite aunt in seven months of each other. Boom … boom … boom. I had no clue then because I was in my late teens if not 20, but I know it now: this shit, this grief shit is HEAVY DUTY. My immunities are down. My energy is down. I used to run 3 miles several times a week. Now I can barely walk 1 mile due to exhaustion and depletion and a distracted mind.

I start a cup of tea and then I see something that I want to look at. Then I sit down. Then before I completely fold a blanket, I see a shoe that needs to be put away and then I see something when I’m putting away the shoe which prompts me to go to the basement which is always a losing proposition because I ALWAYS forget why I’m ever in the basement, and then I go back upstairs and I realize I have yet to put the shoe away and then second-guess where I wanted to put the shoe in the first place and then I think of her, and then I cry. Right there. I just cry.

I am observant. I am perceptive. One of the things that both delighted and chagrined my parents has been my ability to see things, subtle things and make connections that other people can’t or won’t. In these sad days immediately following my mother’s death, I find that ability to be a blessing.

My mother made it into The New Yorker. They just don’t know it. She died on September 2, 2013 with visions of ice cream in her head.

I like to think of this as Mom: Winning.

I like to think of this as “Mom: Winning.”

These are the kinds of things I notice; the things I string together that help me make sense of things in an otherwise senseless time. That cover brings a smile to my face; not only did Mom want ice cream, but she also loved roller coasters. And one more, in case that’s not enough, the signature in the lower right corner, “Viva,” raises my eyebrow too because viva means alive in Spanish and “long live,” as a dear friend shared with me.

Many thoughts pass through my mind. I dreamt of her yesterday morning. She was on the beach I spent many summers on. She was walking along the beach in street clothes, a suit she wore when I graduated from college. She was watching my youngest son swim in the water. I’ve had lots of dreams about water since she died. Amniotic fluid? Life-giving water? I dunno. I have to set a reminder for myself to remember to pick up that youngest child from school these days; my gray matter just isn’t firing. All I can think of are write, eat, pray, talk to mom, sleep, my children, my family, my husband. That’s enough for now. If I didn’t have Murphy, I wouldn’t be out walking as much.

Thank you.

Grief: Responsibilities


The death of my mother has created a convection, a vortex of distracted activity. A flurry of events that need attending.

‘The death of my mother.’ This is a phrase I don’t think anyone is ever truly prepared to deal with saying, thinking, or typing. It’s like the phrase, “my husband” or “my wife” when first married; or “my child” when newly parented. Maybe in time I will be accustomed to saying such a phrase. My loved ones and casual acquaintances (and that lovely woman on the plane yesterday who clearly didn’t know what was coming when she asked me, “What brings you to Buffalo?”) assure me however, that it is a situation, a fact of life that never truly settles. The irony being of course, is that the matter is quite settled. Any mortal discrepancy boils down to ego: acceptance and management.

Being almost 400 miles from my own tribe has put a lot on my heart; being separated from them on the heels of losing Mom has doubled it. Yesterday, I helped write and finesse her death notice. Today, I select her gravesite and secure the location of my father’s and their wee son, my brother John.

Nothing is ever perfect. The obituary cited her birthday incorrectly, but that’s my dad’s fault. It’s been fixed, so it’s ok online now. I felt the use of the term “evangelist” was loaded, especially these days, but I understand it’s not how it was intended. My mother was complicated, but most geniuses are. I am grateful I posses average intelligence to assure I will not ever be so depicted.

Being in Buffalo, at 45 yet feeling keenly like 16, has created a swath of ownership for her; this is her turf. Being with my cousins keeps me at 16. As I posted most recently, my fight in her life for her relevance and health amidst my yearning for normalcy, predictability was arduous, chronic. It was, and often it went unanswered. But when it was answered, when Mom was in her element and her health, she was ON.

Like a halogen light bulb. Showing you yourself, the truth in art, the grace in literature and music. She would be in her Zone and if the timing was right, I was lucky to join her.

Being here, attending to her corporeal dignity, addressing her final — truly final — needs has been liberating. I have become at times, a microMimi — I have lost it, emotionally within a single breath. I have mused about things on the fly, I have composed myself only later to be discovered in a corner perpetrating ugly crying. That is grief. That is mourning. I have no regrets for this behavior. My mother lived on her hinge that way a lot. She has shown me that it’s life — no one can predict anything, really. It’s just a compilation of lucky guesses.

Her favorite phrase of admonishment of my insistent regularity and rushing (and it really wasn’t rushing, it was just trying to be on time) from Neil Simon’s “Plaza Suite” was, “Cool it, Mimsy!” (The joke being on me, for she knew more about Neil Simon than perhaps Neil Simon, that Mimsy is being chided by her bridegroom about her bemoaning fears of turning into her parents.)

The weather here in Buffalo is chilly today. The sun is cresting the rooftop beside my cousin’s home. The sky is clear. My eyes are tired, but I will rally today.

This is where I spent a great deal of time yesterday afternoon:


The irony in the name of this place is not lost on me, nor on anyone for that matter. I remember joking with Mom about it years ago. In deference to her and her love of the arts and theater, I have begun pronouncing it “Am-ih-gon-e” like the play in which she starred, “Antigone.” She would like that.

Yesterday, between phone calls to my brother who had no business being at work, and after finalizing her death notice and as her niece and I were selecting things like Mass cards and floral arrangements, and asking the funeral director to please print one more picture for her casket and we added a clean but crumpled kleenex to her suit pocket and a tube of lipstick, “pink shimmer,” and to remember her rosary, and when I went looking for a pony tail holder for her hair (which she always had around her wrist, but it was usually a rubber band, so I wanted something softer for her), I was tasked with selecting a poem to print on the reverse of the card.

This section of the death packages binder was full of Irish poems, Christian poems. Schmaltzy drippy poems. I knew Mom would groan and openly “tiff!” or say “piffle!” at some of them. She had brilliant taste in literature. I didn’t like any of them. None of them were worthy. None of them. Not one single offered collection of verbs and nouns and modifiers would suit her. She was above all of it.

“Is this all you have?” I asked, wincing.

“Can we do our own?” My cousin asked.

I looked at her, in the way I do when I’ve eaten a canary. She knows this look quite well.

“Shakespeare. Do you have any Shakespeare?” I asked.

“No. I don’t,” said the man from behind his desk, the man whose daughter is in college. The man with questionably perfect hair. Hair that was later asserted by the funeral home owner, a friend of my father’s (as fate would have it they share the same birthday) to be real because the boys downstairs have tugged at it, they know… (Eww.)

“But you may select your own,” he added.

Then a bolt of lightning halogen.

My father shared with me two nights prior that my mother requested of him on I believe the night before she died that he read to her just one part of “A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.” Just one. I told my cousin which one, and she knew, instinctively the one. She used to read with my mother. I would not ever read with my mother if I didn’t have to as a child or in high school or in college or as a mother. It was uncool. I am too self-conscious. It sucks.

My cousin and I scrambled on our smartphones and I found it. Mom played this brilliantly. I was tired when Dad came over that night, I wanted rest, but he told me that story. Somehow I banked it. Then my cousin. The one who read with Mom, she knew the poem when I mentioned it immediately. We just had to find it.

It is Puck’s final monologue and it is perfect:

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

I cry when I read it. She’s talking to me, to us. To her huge family. All she wanted was to have a “normal” relationship with me. Go to the mall, go to movies, shit like that. That’s not us though. I hate the mall and we talk during movies. We aren’t and would never would be people like that. I think we would both feel its disingenuousness. But this… this is good. This is right. This is family.

In sharing it with both of you, I feel like I’m stealing the show. Like I’m releasing embargoed copy, but I’m not. But what I’m doing, for me, is steeling my show. The experiences I have endured the last few days and what lies before me in a couple hours and then tomorrow are inSANEly challenging, so if you disagree with my decision to share what I just did, I permit you to be woefully ignorant. In the meantime, please pray for my strength. I will take it from all faiths.

My mother was brilliant, layered, deep, flawed, conflicted, talented, shrewd, tender, loud, quiet, soft, harsh, wise, goofy. She wanted things that made no sense much of the time. But when it came to art, literature… Shakespeare… I shut my mouth and defer. Mom was never, ever wrong when it came to Shakespeare. She knows this is about healing.

Robin is restoring amends.

Thank you.