A Funeral & Some Blessings

My fiance and I went to MT for Christmas (fabulous, stayed with my best friend from college) and returned so that I could work--all alone in the center--for the week after Christmas. That week sucked both because (1) nobody else was there, and despite the mountain of administrative work that I had to do I felt bored and lonely without human contact, and (2) I knew that I would have to turn around and drive back to MT for a funeral immediately after the New Year.

I tried not to think of that, instead powering through (okay, trudging through) my work and looking forward to the weekend of New Year's. Some friends came to town to visit & ring in the New Year, and we invited one of the psychologists to join us for libations. The next day we all got up, grabbed coffee, and were out of the house by noon. And just like that I was on my way back to Montana.

The funeral was for my paternal Grandmother. I call her "Betty" following a defining incident that occurred during my childhood. Because I'm still processing all of this, I'll tell it here.

I had gone to visit my grandparents on a trip with only my Dad. I couldn't have been older than 7 or 8. These were rare trips and I can't recall why my mom didn't come along, but what I do recall is that I went to the pool on a hot summer day without sunscreen. I came back to the house with the worst sunburn of my life. It would later morph into blisters that stood over 1 inch off my shoulders. Adults would look at me and grimace. Shirts would hurt, and I would spend time wishing I could be naked but fearing the sun that had done this to my skin.

By the time I felt the pain, it was too late. I walked back to my grandparent's home (literally, across the street in this tiny town) and was greeted with shock. The next thing to happen would confirm a suspicion that I had throughout my childhood: That my grandma didn't have a lot of love in her heart, and certainly not for me.

She looked at me, sadly looked at her aloe plant, and plucked off a leaf to rub over my tender skin. In that moment, I recall thinking that my grandmother loved her aloe plant more than she loved me. Not much changed throughout the remainder of my life. She did write me a letter while I was in college, telling me that she loved me and was proud of me. I held it for an hour and cried; wishing I could have FELT this at some point in my life, instead of reading it. I still have the letter.

By the time of my grandmother's funeral, she had been dead for 20 days. Despite this, the casket was opened for viewing. It wasn't as shocking as you might expect. I stood by her casket and silently wept. I didn't weep for myself, or even for her death. I wept for her life. I wept because I know the incredible depth of love and human connection, and it broke my heart that she pushed so many people out of her life that I doubt she ever really felt this. I wept because in addition to having few (any?) close relationships, she had no vocation. I wept because I see her life as one devoid of meaning. The greatest thing she created in her life, in my view, was my father. For this I'm thankful.

On to the blessings.

(1) On my way to Montana, I had turned off my brights and was driving over a mountain pass when I heard a voice--clear as day--in my head, "...turn on your brights." I did so just in time for the beam to hit the deer in front of me. The brakes squealed, my car stayed on course, and I missed the deer by inches. I had a feeling deep inside my soul that it was Betty who said the words. My first thought was, "I can't imagine why she would want to do anything nice for me."

(2) Upon arriving in Montana, my maternal Grandmother approached me and said, "You know, I was thinking. This funeral will probably be pretty hard on you, and the car ride is long. Would you like some company?" And just like that: She joined me and provided the love and support that I have been blessed with throughout my life. I always tell people that I've felt I only have 1 grandmother, but that she is so wonderful that I wouldn't need more than that. She stood by me as I wept at Betty's casket, and she handed me a fresh handkerchief when the tears kept coming--seemingly inexplicably--throughout the funeral. She told me stories of her emotional reactions to death throughout her lifetime, and we talked about how sad it was that Betty died alone.

(3) I learned some things about Betty via a box that would've likely been thrown away, but was instead given to me. It contained fabulous hats that she bought in San Francisco in the 40's; when my Grandfather was stationed there as MP. I took tons of photos of them ON (they are ADORABLE), but they all ended up upside-down and I'm too impatient to fix it tonight. So 1 photo must suffice. I'll post the rest another day.



The hats served as a reminder that everyone is young and beautiful and full of dreams (was she full of dreams...?) at some point in life. If she could pull off these hats, she must have had some spunk to her. All that I can hold of that is these hats. I'll take it. Somehow they softened my heart toward her. I liked her style. It's a small connection, but a connection nonetheless. A hatbox made me feel closer to Betty than I'd ever felt in my life.

I will live my life differently.