I don’t do well with dead bodies.
Jan. 3rd, 2004 03:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleIt seemed odd to me to see John there. Almost peripherally, as I’m used to catching a glimpse of him on my way from point A to point B. I just didn’t want to go closer to the casket; there are limits to what I feel comfortable doing at the funeral of someone I know more by reputation than in person.
It was astonishing, though. He didn’t look dead to me. Not knowing his face as intimately as some, he looked more as if this were some party he didn’t find terribly interesting, and he chose to nap in the corner. It was after the service was over that I even got to see him—I dawdled this morning, half from sheer dread, half from prolonging a cell phone conversation perhaps longer than I should have. Linder and I arrived just after the service started, apparently. I found Eric and Erin immediately—Erin put her arm around me as we listened to John’s family and friends speak, and it was amazingly comforting. Also comforting was Eric’s wisecracking during the astonishingly inappropriate "musical selections." As some dreadful B101-special tune was playing, I turned to watch the looped tape playing behind us, showing crossfades from one childhood picture of John to another. "Gah," I whispered to Erin, though I was crying, "I feel like I’m stuck in one long, bad eighties video."
When Evi came to speak, I think everyone braced themselves. We all knew it was going to be difficult for her and everyone else. And it was. The hardest part, however, was when she said that John came to see her in the hospital, and held her hand. She was never alone, she said, and he told her he’d always be with her. He told her he was fine, and happy, and not to worry. He told her he’d always love her. I nearly put my nails through my palms.
The preacher/minister/priest, however, was a different matter. I’m sure he was a good man, and I know it’s an impossible task to speak meaningfully of someone you don’t know, but Christ, I felt as if I knew more about John than he did. And once he began talking about how John would find everlasting life in Jesus, I and a good portion of the attendees went outside for a smoke break. Which is interesting, as I don’t smoke. I tried to keep my views to myself, though—and as I pointed out to my friends, I’m sure his talk was a great comfort to John’s obviously religious family. At least, I pray it was. I met Evi’s father—Kyle introduced us, and I shook his hand and told him I wished I could have met him under better circumstances. I believe I also just came right out and told him I had absolutely no idea what to say to him after I said how terribly sorry I was, but how glad I was Evi was going to be okay. I didn’t introduce myself to Evi herself, as her fiance’s funeral seemed to be a dreadfully inappropriate time.
Kyle, Helen, Nicki Jaine, Linder and I all carpooled to the cemetary in what was by far the longest funeral cortege I’ve ever been a part of. Cars stretched literally farther than we could see both before and behind us—hovering near 100, I’m sure. I certainly couldn’t see the hearse, which is good. The first sight of one, waiting, empty and open, at a funeral home is always the slap in the face that someone really is dead. The second is the coffin itself, waiting mute in the viewing room, open or not. We were in relatively good spirits in the car, making short work of Kyle’s Gorilla Munch and wondering how many red lights we were running. I started laughing that I hoped to G-d we’d left one Goth back in Philly, in case something should happen, like one member of Congress has to stay behind when the President gives the State of the Union Address. Kyle said that with our luck, it’d be some 14-year-old kid in a Manson t-shirt.
But once at the cemetary, I had to distance myself. I know I’m bad with this whole death thing, and I didn’t want to inflict my melodrama on anyone else. I was offered a carnation by one of the funeral home attendants, but when I politely requested one of the roses, he graciously obliged. When another asked us to step closer to the tent and the coffin, I found myself alone in the crowd at the corner tentpole, almost too close to the coffin. How can something so quiet be so loud? How can something six feet long take up so much air and space?
"Make a hole! Make a hole!" And several grim-faced, protective young men brought Evi’s wheelchair up to the graveside. One hand in a cast, one horribly swollen, with scars that looked like they marked the points of pins in her joints, a fur blanket over her legs, and a hovering crowd. Helena came up next to me, and I moved over to let her get closer, feeling out of place and confused. The Lord’s Prayer didn’t help—how do I know all the words? And the geese flying overhead, honking loudly, seemed another bizarre comment.
But worst was after the prayer, when everyone started filing past the coffin, placing roses and carnations over his head and chest, over the cross laid in sand by the attendant at the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" part. John’s family went first, and filed out of the tent past me. His mother looked…empty. Beyond stunned. Another woman got tangled in the Christmas bouquet gracing another gravesite—I don’t know who it was who bent down to move the red and white ribbons and pine, but she was so gracious, so sweet. This is who we are, I thought. This is why I’m here: because disparate as we are, we’re a community. Sappy? Yes. Comforting? Yes. Despite that, though, I looked up to see Evi sobbing, surrounded by friends with looks ranging from horror to anger to utter helplessness. I found Kyle and Helena and Nicki Jaine, standing with Jim. And Jim, with ugly bruises staining the side of his face yellow, comforted ME.
I lost it, then. Tired, achy, crying. I’d had enough. I hugged Jim back and went back to the car and tried to call my Dad. He wasn’t in the office, so I called home, and found I couldn’t talk to my mom because I was crying too hard. Thank G-d she seemed to understand.
I called L on the way in to work, just to make sure he was okay on his endless drive. Made it to the garage, where a fairly snotty older woman was utterly indignant that the attendant wouldn’t grab her car keys immediately. She refused to understand they were waiting to clock her in for another two minutes—after 4pm, the rate goes down. She wouldn’t listen. It seemed so petty. So impossibly petty.
I was only at work til 7. Made little in the way of sales, but my dearest Anita showed up from Baltimore with her son, and waited through a customer who stayed half an hour after we closed, and the subsequent delays in closing the store. But after that, we went to the creperie on Sansom Street, which turned out to be astonishingly excellent. I showed her the architectural details of 18th Street I so adore.
I’m still in a bit of a fog. Haven’t heard from L, so I’ll assume he’s napping somewhere. Debated Democratic details online with one of the MeetUp regulars. Debating sleep with myself now. Rhoda will be here obscenely early tomorrow. I think the dog is finally empty. And I have a long day again tomorrow. Without a funeral, however, so it has to be better. Matter of fact, if this is how 2004 begins, it can only improve from here.
It was astonishing, though. He didn’t look dead to me. Not knowing his face as intimately as some, he looked more as if this were some party he didn’t find terribly interesting, and he chose to nap in the corner. It was after the service was over that I even got to see him—I dawdled this morning, half from sheer dread, half from prolonging a cell phone conversation perhaps longer than I should have. Linder and I arrived just after the service started, apparently. I found Eric and Erin immediately—Erin put her arm around me as we listened to John’s family and friends speak, and it was amazingly comforting. Also comforting was Eric’s wisecracking during the astonishingly inappropriate "musical selections." As some dreadful B101-special tune was playing, I turned to watch the looped tape playing behind us, showing crossfades from one childhood picture of John to another. "Gah," I whispered to Erin, though I was crying, "I feel like I’m stuck in one long, bad eighties video."
When Evi came to speak, I think everyone braced themselves. We all knew it was going to be difficult for her and everyone else. And it was. The hardest part, however, was when she said that John came to see her in the hospital, and held her hand. She was never alone, she said, and he told her he’d always be with her. He told her he was fine, and happy, and not to worry. He told her he’d always love her. I nearly put my nails through my palms.
The preacher/minister/priest, however, was a different matter. I’m sure he was a good man, and I know it’s an impossible task to speak meaningfully of someone you don’t know, but Christ, I felt as if I knew more about John than he did. And once he began talking about how John would find everlasting life in Jesus, I and a good portion of the attendees went outside for a smoke break. Which is interesting, as I don’t smoke. I tried to keep my views to myself, though—and as I pointed out to my friends, I’m sure his talk was a great comfort to John’s obviously religious family. At least, I pray it was. I met Evi’s father—Kyle introduced us, and I shook his hand and told him I wished I could have met him under better circumstances. I believe I also just came right out and told him I had absolutely no idea what to say to him after I said how terribly sorry I was, but how glad I was Evi was going to be okay. I didn’t introduce myself to Evi herself, as her fiance’s funeral seemed to be a dreadfully inappropriate time.
Kyle, Helen, Nicki Jaine, Linder and I all carpooled to the cemetary in what was by far the longest funeral cortege I’ve ever been a part of. Cars stretched literally farther than we could see both before and behind us—hovering near 100, I’m sure. I certainly couldn’t see the hearse, which is good. The first sight of one, waiting, empty and open, at a funeral home is always the slap in the face that someone really is dead. The second is the coffin itself, waiting mute in the viewing room, open or not. We were in relatively good spirits in the car, making short work of Kyle’s Gorilla Munch and wondering how many red lights we were running. I started laughing that I hoped to G-d we’d left one Goth back in Philly, in case something should happen, like one member of Congress has to stay behind when the President gives the State of the Union Address. Kyle said that with our luck, it’d be some 14-year-old kid in a Manson t-shirt.
But once at the cemetary, I had to distance myself. I know I’m bad with this whole death thing, and I didn’t want to inflict my melodrama on anyone else. I was offered a carnation by one of the funeral home attendants, but when I politely requested one of the roses, he graciously obliged. When another asked us to step closer to the tent and the coffin, I found myself alone in the crowd at the corner tentpole, almost too close to the coffin. How can something so quiet be so loud? How can something six feet long take up so much air and space?
"Make a hole! Make a hole!" And several grim-faced, protective young men brought Evi’s wheelchair up to the graveside. One hand in a cast, one horribly swollen, with scars that looked like they marked the points of pins in her joints, a fur blanket over her legs, and a hovering crowd. Helena came up next to me, and I moved over to let her get closer, feeling out of place and confused. The Lord’s Prayer didn’t help—how do I know all the words? And the geese flying overhead, honking loudly, seemed another bizarre comment.
But worst was after the prayer, when everyone started filing past the coffin, placing roses and carnations over his head and chest, over the cross laid in sand by the attendant at the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" part. John’s family went first, and filed out of the tent past me. His mother looked…empty. Beyond stunned. Another woman got tangled in the Christmas bouquet gracing another gravesite—I don’t know who it was who bent down to move the red and white ribbons and pine, but she was so gracious, so sweet. This is who we are, I thought. This is why I’m here: because disparate as we are, we’re a community. Sappy? Yes. Comforting? Yes. Despite that, though, I looked up to see Evi sobbing, surrounded by friends with looks ranging from horror to anger to utter helplessness. I found Kyle and Helena and Nicki Jaine, standing with Jim. And Jim, with ugly bruises staining the side of his face yellow, comforted ME.
I lost it, then. Tired, achy, crying. I’d had enough. I hugged Jim back and went back to the car and tried to call my Dad. He wasn’t in the office, so I called home, and found I couldn’t talk to my mom because I was crying too hard. Thank G-d she seemed to understand.
I called L on the way in to work, just to make sure he was okay on his endless drive. Made it to the garage, where a fairly snotty older woman was utterly indignant that the attendant wouldn’t grab her car keys immediately. She refused to understand they were waiting to clock her in for another two minutes—after 4pm, the rate goes down. She wouldn’t listen. It seemed so petty. So impossibly petty.
I was only at work til 7. Made little in the way of sales, but my dearest Anita showed up from Baltimore with her son, and waited through a customer who stayed half an hour after we closed, and the subsequent delays in closing the store. But after that, we went to the creperie on Sansom Street, which turned out to be astonishingly excellent. I showed her the architectural details of 18th Street I so adore.
I’m still in a bit of a fog. Haven’t heard from L, so I’ll assume he’s napping somewhere. Debated Democratic details online with one of the MeetUp regulars. Debating sleep with myself now. Rhoda will be here obscenely early tomorrow. I think the dog is finally empty. And I have a long day again tomorrow. Without a funeral, however, so it has to be better. Matter of fact, if this is how 2004 begins, it can only improve from here.
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Date: 2004-01-03 03:10 pm (UTC)take care
-raequel
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Date: 2004-01-05 04:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-03 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-05 04:36 am (UTC)