Tag Archives: GriefisLove

Aging, Community, Curiosity, Family Dynamics, Grief, Life, Reading, Spirituality, Wisdom, Work, Writing

Not To Be Morbid or Anything

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One of the tasks I am responsible for at work is checking the obituaries. We have an Excel spread sheet that is used to track the vital information: name, city, date of birth, date of death. We do this so that we remain aware of who has passed in our county. That way, if it happens to be a client, volunteer, or donor, we can ensure a sympathy card goes out in the mail and/or a name is taken off our mailing list, lest a widow or widower receives a solicitation from our organization in the mail with their deceased spouse’s name on it.

Some obits are short and to the point, not revealing much about the deceased beyond who preceded them in death and who from their earthly orbit is left to mourn their loss. These trigger my imagination. I ponder what the reasons could have been for these sparsely worded obits. Perhaps the deceased was not well-liked by their family? Or maybe, perhaps even worse, not well-known? Or perhaps they were so beloved that their loved ones just couldn’t put their heads around how to even begin to express their love for them in writing, momentarily emotionally paralyzed by their grief.

I suppose a percentage of the obits I read are written by paid professionals, though I can’t know for sure. It makes me wonder what information is requested of the families by the writer to allow them to create a tribute to the dearly departed that accurately captures who they were in life. What a sacred thing to be entrusted with.

Often, it seems, in particular with elderly females that have passed, the newly deceased are described in their obits as being “selfless”. I understand for those penning these obits this is high praise, but I can’t help but wonder if these “selfless” women actually got to enjoy their one and only precious lives at all. Or were they just too busy making sure everyone else was taken care of to do any taking care of themselves? No doubt this is a result of both the patriarchy and the generation these folks came up in.

One trend that I’ve noticed in these obituaries, which occurred on Mr. NOA’s side of the family (his maternal grandmother), is that folks are not always having funerals, or even “celebrations of life”. Often, it’s stated in the obits that this is per the deceased wishes.

I don’t get this at all. Funerals and “celebrations of life” are for the living. They are for the people who are devastated that you have passed on from this earthly sphere. Honestly, I think it’s selfish. However, I do understand a person not wanting to have an open casket when their family is having a funeral. I think that’s where Mr. NOA’s grandma was coming from; she didn’t want people looking at her lifeless body in a casket. I don’t want that either. I say cremate me, have a big ‘ol party and listen to my favorite songs.

Some obituaries are so beautifully written and with enough detail to make me wish I had known the person. Like the woman who had a dog named “George Michael Bluth“. I think she was an educator and loved to garden. Or the man who woke his children up by singing “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” at the top of his lungs every day.

There are times when the obits I read are of people who were not elderly. The ones whose lives were cut very short by a sudden medical emergency, accident, or cancer diagnoses. It brings it home for me that life is so fleeting and any control we think we have in how it’s going to end is delusional. It makes me feel like I want to take my life more seriously. Not take myself more seriously, mind you. Just life. Recognizing that each day I get is one to enjoy and appreciate.

I struggled a bit to find the right song to end this blog post with. As an elder Gen Xer, my brain kept returning to the first sad song I remember hearing as a kid, Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks. My sister had it on an old ’45 that I could play on my little plastic turntable back in about 1975. When I checked YouTube, I was surprised to learn that Nirvana recorded their own version of this song. Seems fitting to me.

So if you could use a good cry…enjoy?

Death, Dreams, family, Home, Humor, Love, Writing

My first Dream house

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Hubs and I just got back from spending the better part of a week in the house I grew up in.

Because my mom died.

The last good picture of me and Mom (July 2018)

I’m going to be processing this fact for a good long while.

But for now, let me tell you a little about this special house.

It’s a small house that was filled with a lot of love. It’s very old but well maintained, because of my dad’s abilities with carpentry, plumbing, and virtually everything else.

As the story goes, my grandfather (whom I never met), at the age of 58, had a massive heart attack and died while standing in the archway between the tiny kitchen and the dining area of this house.

Both of my parents had experiences with his presence in that house over the years. It never scared them at all. I think they found it comforting.

This is also the house my father grew up in. He bought it from my grandmother. Between about 1960 and 1985, he and mom raised me, and my older sister and brother in this house.

The kitchen is quite small. I’m always amazed that despite not having more than 5 feet of counter space to work with, my mom always churned out delicious, homemade meals for us each and every night. The woman had a knack for using small spaces as efficiently as possible. It’s too bad she never got an opportunity to visit Ikea, with their mock up small spaces that have cleverly placed nooks and crannies for housing all the necessities for day to day living.

This is the house in which my two teenaged siblings threw a wild party at, in about 1974, while our parents were on a Las Vegas vacation. The party where 7 year old me was slathered with attention and plied with sandwiches and other treats in an attempt to ensure my silence. I, of course, being the bratty little sister, immediately told on them once our parents got home.

This is the house where my dad, fully immersed in his Alzheimer’s fog 2 years ago, gestured towards the corner of the living room, and relived, for me and mom, the delight he experienced in that very space where 75 years prior, his father sat with him and read stories.

This is the house where, back in the 80’s, my best friend burned a hole with her cigarette on the handmade-by-mom quilt that covered my 4 poster bead while my parents were out of town for the weekend. I lived in fear from that day on that mom would notice that little burn hole. But, surprisingly, she never did. 

Yes, the quilt (as our bright 5 year old grandson said: that sounds like it starts with the letter “Q”!) came back home to Colorado with us.

This is the house where people gathered to celebrate. From mom’s bridge club nights to family/friends steak fries during the summer in the backyard to high school graduation parties to wedding present openings.

This is the house where my writing dreams began.

*This post was in response to a prompt from lovely Lorna from Gin & Lemonade: “Dream House”. And in response to the emotions involved in the passing of my one-of-a-kind mother. https://ginlemonade.com/2019/02/13/house-hunting-as-a-wheelchair-user-other-stories/