Funerals

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I imagine a lot of people hate funerals for many reasons.  2010 killed funerals forevermore for me.  Not that I ever wanted to attend one to begin with.  Attending one usually means you've lost someone near and dear to you or to someone you love.  I'd lost cats and other pets and my grandparents, but funerals seemed a distant reality at that point.   2010, my husband's beloved father died in February (but we only found it out via Google after the face--long, ugly story--so attending a funeral was not an option).  I lost my beloved brother in May, and I was notified (via voice mail) Mother's Day morning.  That had to be a blow to our mom.  A month and a half later, at the end of June, my baby died in a tragic accident.  It felt like the grim reaper was stalking us all year and finally cut our hearts out.  Every attempt at a rainbow baby resulted in more and more and more loss.  Life has never been the same since, and death has been our constant companion.  Funerals seemed a specter I could not handle.  

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We've attended a few funerals since, but mostly to support friends or distant family.  Recently, my husband's brother lost his beloved wife.  He's already lost his mom and dad.  He only has two brothers, and one has burned all bridges with us through nightmarish means.  That means my husband only has one brother who remains, and they're very close.  My husband's brother has had serious health problems and carries an oxygen tank.  Losing his wife to cancer was a terrible blow, especially since she seemed so strong and healthy until the news of two kinds of cancer, including pancreatic, came out a short time ago.  The shock of the dreaded C word didn't have much time to become their reality before it took her.  

[Alli's tiny casket]

We went up to their house to support the family.  My husband went to the viewing, but I couldn't do it.  I haven't been to a viewing since I saw my baby, cold and waxy, in her casket ten years ago.  I can't do viewings anymore.  Just the thought brings it all back, with painful tears.  

[Her celebratory casket] 

I did attend the funeral, which my sister-in-law planned herself in her waning weeks when it became a reality she wouldn't be here much longer.  She was a popular teacher for over two decades, well-loved and very much missed by the whole community.  I'd never been to a funeral like that before, in a football stadium, with football players singing the school song, color guard marching with the flag, the national anthem, loved ones singing "The Spirit in the Sky."  It seemed more a celebration of her life than a standard, sedate funeral.  It didn't bring back the wave of flashback pain like most funerals would.  Like just thinking of attending the viewing did.  It seemed the ideal sort of celebration for someone so young, seemingly healthy, and vibrant.  But it was still a funeral and still brought back shades of my own pain.  

[from Pixabay.com]

It's a hard thing to deal with loss.  It changes one in a fundamental way.  I loved the way the family of my sister-in-law spoke of her ongoing presence in their lives.  They spoke of family as a forever principle.  They focused on how they would see her again, how they would hold her and be together again.  I like to focus on that part of loss because it reminds one that the Lord overcame death, that loss isn't forever, that those who are separated will see each other again soon.  Just as the funeral brings back old pain, so does this kind of reminder bring back hope.  I'm very thankful for this reminder.  The Lord died, so we could be together again with our families.  I will hold my baby again.  This pain will not last forever.  Funerals are such a mixed bag for me, with a lot of emotional baggage good and ill.  I just have to focus on the hope and remind myself loss isn't forever, and funerals are just for now.  

Survived too Well?

[Yellowstone]

I'm not sure how I feel about the trip we went on to survive my angel Alli's angelversary.  It was exhausting, rocky in terms of sleep, fun in fits and spurts, and above all, busy.  We left Friday night to go to the house of my brother-in-law as a jumping-off point to head up to Yellowstone with two of my siblings and their families.  We do this trip almost every year but not usually with so many people.  Between cooking, catching geyser basins, visiting, making fires, and everything else that goes with camping, it was hard to think beyond the steps it took to survive.

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On that last night of the trip, my husband went on a wild goose chase through pouring rain to try to find a missing camera.  It was terrifying.  I had visions of losing someone else on that most horrible of days.  But then, he was back.  But that night was so rocky we broke camp and split first thing in the morning.

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That was when we went to visit with my brother-in-law and join our hearts to his as he mourned his dying wife.  His fairly young wife has two kinds of cancer and was passing through her third round of chemo when she found she had a hole in her stomach and could not digest.  All they can do is wait for her to pass by starvation or sepsis.  There's nothing that can be done.  So many shades of death on my baby's angelversary that I could scarcely think of myself or the tenth anniversary of my baby's death.  We got home and went through her baby book, as usual, but I'm not sure I felt the catharsis with so much pain going on around me.

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I was dreading the day so much that when it finally came, the fact that I was too busy, too preoccupied to feel it that it almost feels like I failed to really feel the day.  I feel like I failed her somehow.  But yet, not feeling the day too much was the goal.  Did I succeed too well?  Did I fail? I know there's no right or wrong way to mourn, but even after ten years' experience of mourning, I still don't understand it.