The Day After the Funeral

It’s the day after the funeral (August 19, 2015) and I realize I didn’t really sleep much at all last night. I kept waking up after strange dreams of tornadoes, of staircases that were too small for me, of my animals trapped in a basement and of me protecting myself and children from a murderer searching for us. It was an evening of all my cliché nightmares rolled into one. Hopefully, it is a signal that I was given a last chance to say goodbye to all the unfounded and uncovered fears I have felt recently.

I walked into the back yard where, after a heavy storm and rain, the twigs from my tall trees littered the yard, the grass still wet. I tossed Ollie’s ball across the lawn with a half-hearted gesture. He bounded after it with all his enthusiasm and then stared at me almost as if trying to coax me out of my recent haze.

I kept getting whiffs of fragrance; it smelled of men’s cologne and I wondered if the scent of my cousins and nephews was transferred to my skin after hugging them so hard yesterday. It gives me comfort and I resisted washing my right cheek.

My mind is flooded with snippets of people who came to the visitation and funeral; those I expected and those I didn’t. I agonize over whether I got to speak with everyone and let them know how appreciative I am that they made the effort to come to give their respects, though few knew my Mother.

My mind pops back into reality as I remember that I must pick up the beautiful bouquets and plants sent to the funeral home in support of her family; I recall so many colors because those who knew my Mother were aware of her love of colors. I begin to craft thank you notes in my head and want to write them immediately remembering that I waited too long after my Father’s funeral and regretted forgetting some who should have received a missive of gratitude from his family.

I am not hungry, but I peek into the refrigerator, afraid that what leftovers I crammed in last night might fall out – the remains of a ham sent by a friend in New York, a red fancy jello and a very popular-among-the-crowd potato salad, lovingly made by church friends that have become like family to me since my Father’s death when I decided to go back to a faith I once had.

I am giving myself permission to sit in my robe this morning, but, at the same time, I feel a sense of urgency to be about something useful. I know this is the brain replaying remnants of activities of the past two weeks where there were few moments to reflect. Being at my Mother’s bedside when physical symptoms were first realized, sitting at her hospital bed in shifts with my sisters, calling friends and relatives, fervent prayers offered on my Mother’s behalf that her pain would subside and, selfishly, on my behalf, asking that she might be what she once was before she was physically broken.

Worry can make one tired. Planning a funeral immediately after a loss provided the opportunity to focus on a tribute to her rather that the grief of her passing. But the combination of the two leaves me with an addled sense of what is real and what is not.

I wonder how to handle myself the rest of this day, how to eat, how to dress, what I might see in the mirror as I view a woman with no mother, the one who loved me as no other can. Yet, through all these days and nights of roller coaster emotions, one thing remained constant. I could feel the hand of the Lord over all things and the many many prayers offered by others coming to roost on sad daughters who had to make decisions when all they wanted to do was cry.

I can see the gentle prodding I was given to do or ask something I might never have thought of on my own with the doctors, my family, the funeral director – all of it was directed by a power much greater than my own. I know this, in part, because everything went so smoothly, a sign of the flow of rightness. And, while hard for me to take in, I felt unceasing love surrounding me through it all – a lesson for all of us souls left here to mourn the fact that change is God’s way, that there is a greater existence beyond, and that we may find family ties with friends in the place of a lost member.

And while each one of us struggles to meld earthly emotions with what we do not understand, we are brought to a higher place of strength and understanding. And, if I am wise, I might just clear my mind of all these ruminations for a bit and hug my newest tenant, my Mother’s cat whom she loved so much.