I’m still getting my head around my mother’s death. I’m a little
rocked, and that surprises me. It’s not like I wasn’t prepared. She was 96
years old, sharp and thriving up until the end and then she went to bed to die.
Her choice. As usual. It was a relief for her and for the rest of us. We didn’t
want to see her suffer; she didn’t, and that was good. It’s not the end of a
life; it’s the end of an era.
I heard the news from my sister on Friday, August 9. Chris called and
told me that mom had died at 8:04 a.m. A rosary was planned for Monday evening
and the funeral would be Tuesday morning followed by burial at Mt. Olivet
Cemetery in San Rafael. I flew in from New Mexico on Saturday, befuddled by
unique, once-in-a-lifetime feelings. I settled at the Embassy Suites, set up my
computer, watched a few episodes of Family Guy, then went to my sister’s home
where the rest of the immediate family was sorting through photographs and
memorabilia of our mother. Momorabilia. There were lots of ancient
photos of long gone relatives, letters, souvenirs, and holy cards she’d picked
up at the many funerals she’d attended over the years. It was sad, sometimes
absurd and we laughed a bit. We found a box of cheap costume jewelry and my
brothers and I put on my mother’s gaudy earrings, wore them around the house
for a while, deadpanned, pretending at seriousness.
Sunday I met with some old
friends, went to lunch in Tiburon, drove to the coast; I was trying to make an
abnormal situation ordinary. I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in conversation,
joking, listening, but there was something happening in my throat that
restricted my breath.
Monday night I parked in front of The Chapel of The Hills for the
rosary and a bit of reminiscence with family and friends. My mother planned all
this years ago; she was prepared. Unfortunately, the priest who mom had
contracted to perform the prayers, her friend Father S, had been hospitalized
that day and we had a substitute, a stand-in who didn’t know mom. The guy was
dressed like a priest, but I heard him mention his “wife”. He was a deacon, I
think. Apparently, they get to do all the priest stuff without the celibacy.
But, wait, don’t priests already, um, have relations, arrested, molesting with
the sex and the…? Never mind. Too complicated and confusing to get into right
now. This man was licensed by the State of California and The Catholic Church
to have legitimate, marital sex. Things are different since I quit religion.
I was struck by a wave of grief
during the procedures so I leaned against the pew and tried to check out and to
keep a blank, unemotional demeanor. I snapped out of my trance when I heard the
almost-priest mention that Jesus Christ had created the world, which was news
to me, and my mom was with Him, looking down on us, very much strolling the
clouds with God and enjoying her ample rewards. Shit. Here it comes. The waves
of magic and mystery and myth that nearly drove me nuts as a kid. The only part
that made sense was that mom was probably looking down on us. She was
exasperating in her conviction that she was “right” about God, the church, her
beliefs, her afterlife.
After the prayers and the free form, inaccurate and slightly
embarrassing religious oration by Deacon Strange, I visited with the attendees,
slipped away and bought a burrito on the way back to the hotel. I watched some
horror videos, became depressed and switched to Michael Connelly’s latest until
I hit the hay.
Tuesday morning we held the funeral at Nazareth House, where my mother
had spent the last ten years of her life, and, of course, my mother requested a
catholic mass, with an incredible amount of hymns. A woman with a serviceable
voice and wide-eyed, intimidating facial expressions warbled the sacred songs.
I felt guilty just looking at her. It had been a long time since I’d been in a
church for any kind of ceremony.
I was asked to write and read a eulogy. Half way through the service I
stood, walked to the pulpit and delivered it in a faltering voice, which caught
me unawares. I tried to make the eulogy appropriate and positive and
respectfully left out any personal thoughts or statements. It was about mom’s
life, not my feelings. I have to say, it worked. I stood in front of the
mourners and lobbed little grenades of sadness into the crowd, explosions of
emotion that went off like clockwork; bursts of tears, hands clutching, backs
patted, the sound of sobbing.
The mass has changed, too, since I’ve stopped caring. Everyone plays a
part. It’s “inclusive”, which means that everyone is almost equal and, I guess,
no altar boys are assaulted during the preparations. There were three priests on
the altar, which was a lot, in my opinion. The time for Communion, the
sacrament of the Eucharist, rolled around and everyone, and I mean everyone,
queued up to receive the little round slip of unleavened bread. I sat in the
front pew and most of the faithful averted their eyes as they passed me. My
brothers, my sister, my nieces and nephews, strangers and at least two homeless
guys lined up to partake. In the old days, as a youngster, I had been severely
threatened and corporeally indoctrinated into Roman Catholicism, the host, the
bread, Jesus’ body and blood in one package was considered highly sacred, a
living, breathing, radioactive representation of Him. The priest was the only
human designated to touch the Host and, in the old days, it couldn’t touch your
teeth, it had to dissolve in you mouth and you had to pray like a bastard while
it existed, melting and dissolving in the middle of the tongue. Lots to think
about, many distractions, hard work.
Nowadays, the celebrants hold out their cupped hands like they’re
begging for real food, and the priest drops it in. They then pick it up and put
it in their mouths and CHEW it and swallow it. Like it tastes good, yummy, like
medicine, like dessert. They munch it; you can see everyone’s jaw muscles
contracting and their teeth grinding.
One older woman, her hands shaking, dropped hers on the ground. ON THE
GROUND. What the fuck? I thought they’d send in the goons to sweep her away,
drag her off to be tortured, flayed and burned. Nope. She bent and picked it up
(spry for her age), plopped it in her mouth and gulped it down. Wow. Much
different than when I was a frightened, intimidated youngster.
My mother made sure that we were brought up in the Old Catholic Church,
the one where women were slaves, priests were kings and anyone who wasn’t of
our faith was condemned. The Church’s product was fear and we were not even
allowed to enter another denomination’s building. So it was sort of
disorienting to see all of this modern behavior. Touching, talking, chewing. I
hope it’s my last time, ever, in a church.
Mom’s grave is nicely situated under a spreading oak tree on a grassy
hill. She’s at rest next to my father with a couple of aunts and uncles nearby.
At graveside, we listened, watched, some mumbled familiar prayers and
then we got into our cars and headed out to enjoy a postmortem fest in my
sister’s nice back yard. Good Italian meats, cheeses, wines, and sodas, fresh
fruit, cheesecake and cookies. Great food. As I was biting into my first
Mortadella sandwich my sister handed me an envelope.
“Here you go, Joe. This is a letter from mom. She wanted me to give it
to you after the funeral.”
WHAT! WHAT! Fuck. Goddamn it. Not cool. Unfair. Totally unfair. A voice
from the grave? A message from beyond? Wow. I was wiped out. Not only had I
suffered with the rest of the family through mom’s last days, her death, the
frigging rosary and mass and religious oddities, not only did I weep and write
a great eulogy, leaving out all the bad stuff, all the negatives, not only was
I alone and confused and considering, of course, my own impending certain
death. Now there was this little bonus, a surprise, an Easter egg at the end of
the day. A letter from mom from the aftergoddamnlife.
Fuck.
I put the envelope in my pocket, finished my sandwich, had another,
finished off with two pieces of cheesecake. On the way back to the hotel room I
stopped off first to buy some potato chips, what the hell, gonna die, have to
read a message from beyond, might as well distract myself with food, make
myself sick, eating my way past the grave. Better than a quart of tequila or a
couple grams of coke. Like the church, I’ve changed, too. I’m better, healthier, looking forward to a
long life. Just as long as there are no mystical, horrifying afterlife memos
from mom in heaven.
What will it say?
Will there be revelations?
How will I feel after I’ve read her letter?
Should I throw it away and continue my mourning?
Why did I stop drinking tequila?
Shit.
So, I read the letter.
The first thing I noticed is that it was a Xerox copy. I didn’t even
have the original; it was a copy. Apparently, she made sure that others had
received this important document. My brothers and sister must have copies,
strangers and friends, too. Is this going to turn into some episode from
“LOST”? It damn well better, because there aren’t a lot of legitimate
explanations for delivering a letter to loved ones and family, requesting that
it be opened and read after the writer’s death. I can only think of three
reasons:
1.
A
treasure map. That would make me happy. My mother knew of a buried treasure, a
secret closet, a hidden account that is designated for me alone and now I am
wealthy beyond my dreams and all will be easy and luxurious from here on. Gee,
how I love my mom.
2.
She
wanted to tell me that I was her favorite child. I had given her great joy and
she is sorry for anything she had ever done to upset, hurt, confuse or anger
me. She regrets not giving me more attention and guidance. Well, that’s very
nice, very mature.
3.
She
had written this letter to inform me that she always hated me, thought I was a
tool, needy and weak. She acted as though she cared about my little triumphs
and she tried to empathize with my misery, but she just didn’t like me very
much. In her eyes, I am a failure. Shit. Well, it’s not a treasure map, but at
least it’s honest.
The actual letter is much different than any of that. It is sensitive and stilted, with an undertone of fear and at the same time an
attempt to convince the reader of mom’s spiritual evolution and deep devotion
to the church, God, all of it. All of it. I wish she hadn’t written the letter,
and I wish I hadn’t gotten a copy. But I could never influence or control my
mother. She was stubborn and opinionated and amazing and infuriating. Death
comes, life ends, people should do what they want and not hurt each other.
I do know this: If you have something to say, say it while you’re
alive. Do not try to communicate from the hereafter. Life isn’t a movie. Avoid
mysticism and spiritual confusion. Just tell them. Make it easy and don’t sweat
it. Just say it and move on. There may be consequences but speak up and say
what you have to say. Tell everyone.
Unless you have a treasure map.
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