I drove down the familiar street near my house, trying not to think about where I was going, yet searching the side of the road for the familiar sign. Funeral homes are those places that we pass by and see every day, but we try hard not to know exactly where they are. We try hard not to need to know where they are.
I finally parked the car and stepped gingerly through the door. A friendly-looking man leapt from an armchair and directed me toward a guestbook, which I signed a little awkwardly before accepting the card with her name on it and a passage from the Bible. I had only met Bobbie once, in passing, but she was the mother of one of my best friends. I stepped quickly into the main viewing room and my eyes searched for my friend, finally landing on the back of her head.
I almost didn’t go that night. I wasn’t sure I should, since viewings and wakes seem so personal and intimate, and I really didn’t know my friend’s mother. I thought, perhaps, I should just go to the funeral mass the next morning. But earlier that day, I decided I would go. My friend might need to see my face. This seemed like one of those moments when I needed to show up for her.
I have been lucky in that I haven’t been to many wakes; as a result, they still make me feel very unsteady. My eyes were drawn to the video slideshow of pictures of Bobbie and her life, then to the huge, beautiful flowers spilling everywhere, all over her casket and onto the floor. The room felt bright and happy and warmer because of the flowers. In one corner sat an oversized picture of Bobbie in profile, laughing almost coyly.
I found my friend, and when she saw me, she turned and hugged me, hard, and she cried. I held her with both arms and let her cry. Her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer just a year before, and it had been a year of knowing, a year of fighting, a year of lasts. I could feel her exhaustion.
Still, before the young, handsome priest stood up to speak, it was easy to laugh, to smile, to pretend we were not actually there to begin the process of saying goodbye to someone. We shook hands and talked about our kids. But once the priest began and we were sitting in the pew facing the casket, the pictures, and all those flowers, I could feel my friend begin to quietly lose her composure. I could feel the reality creeping up her back, making her sit straighter, her eyes well. I put my hand on her shoulder. I knew that this moment, this exact second, is when it began to sink in for her. After a year of saying goodbye, suddenly this felt like someone was shutting the door in her face. I know — because I have lost someone I loved to metastatic cancer — that even though you know it is coming and even though you know your dear one is ready, when actual death finally comes, it always feels sudden. It always feels like a slap, like an ambush, like a rug has been yanked from under your feet.
While the priest spoke, I watched the pictures flash by on the slideshow, and they made me cry — a reflex as sure and certain as a rubber mallet to my knee: there was her mother as a toddler, as a young woman, as a young mother, as a grandmother. They were glimpses of a life — a life now completed. There in the images of a woman I didn’t know I saw so much familiar to me, both as a daughter and as a mother. They were the moments that flash by so quickly even in real time, gathered in one place, telling the story of a woman that is no longer here and all she left behind.
My friend turned to me. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered quickly, almost desperately, her eyes a little wild. “This isn’t my mama. This isn’t real.” I clung to her hand hard, a little scared that she might bolt from her seat. I didn’t blame her; suddenly, the room felt small. Though it was not my mother, all I could think was that I was glimpsing things to come I didn’t want to see — realizing how it would feel to lose my mother, my people. My own mother and I don’t always see eye to eye, but she still makes the world make sense to me. Just the thought of losing her made me feel the same desperation that I saw in my friend’s eyes and felt in her restless hands.
In that moment, sitting there by my friend’s side, watching her lose her mother, I felt it — the turn of the tides, the ineffable spinning of the world, how fast this all goes. How fast this all goes: that in one picture we are children, in the next, young women, then if we are lucky, mothers, and then if we are luckier, grandmothers. Then our family members are standing in a foreign room, telling stories about us with tears in their eyes and cracks in their voices, because our stories can all be told. They all have endings.
I did not need to ask for whom the bell tolled that evening. I wept alongside my friend — for all of us. I wept for the beauty of life, for the journey, and for the certainty that it will end. I mourned both because I will be left someday and because of who I will leave. And I realized that in the next chapters of my life, the people walking beside me, literally and figuratively, are the ones who are going to get me through some of the hardest moments of my life. Loss in inevitable; I know it is coming for me too. I don’t feel ready for it at all — is anyone ever ready for it? — and I’m not ready to see my children experience it.
Again, the message came to me: in the end, all we have are our people. They are all that matter. I left that wake wanting to go hug my mother, but also wanting to go hug my friends, my husband, and my children. We said goodbye to Bobbie that night, but with her, I think I said goodbye to more. I felt the big chill, and I have been trying to shake it ever since. Does it ever go away once you have felt it?
It is not always a chill. There is warmth everywhere, and we can find it – but that moment will always be there once you have glimpsed it.
Felt a great weight pressing on my chest as I read this and a heat in my throat. It’s all so true. I was riveted by Sean’s grandmother’s casket, mostly for the truth that 5 people were in a world without their mother. I am so sorry for your friend, and beyond that for all the children losing moms, husbands losing wives, siblings losing sisters, it’s almost too much. Then I am reminded that it’s a part of the exchange of loving and living, an ephemeral idea, to accept loss as inevitable.
Love to everyone.
Maybe that chill is a blessing? Sent to remind you the value of each day and the people who fill its moments?
I am sorry for your friend’s loss. I’m sure you being there and sharing this moment with her gave her some comfort. Reading this makes me want to give my mom a hug, too.
Beautiful
Read with my hand to my mouth and tears brimming in my eyes. I haven’t (mercifully!) experienced this yet, but it terrifies me–the idea of having to sit and watch a loved ones life flash by in pictures and words–the fleeting finality of it all. I guess we all just have to focus on living. LIVING. So that our story is one of rich memories, of deep meaning, of full-to-the-brim love. You are such a good friend to have been there for your friend in her time of need.
Right on, sister. All we have is out people!
I had tears in my eyes reading this, too. I don’t even want to think about losing anyone in my family, even knowing we are all finite. It’s something my mind will not accept.
xo
OUR people, not out people.
Thank you, Allison, for putting it into words. I will always cherish this.
So true about “our people.” I think that unfortunately AND fortunately that chill and knowledge does go away. It returns next time we’re in the situation. I think if we had these thoughts and awareness every moment it would be hard to live minute to minute. Certainly we couldn’t do something as meaningless as watch TV and relax. But that relaxing into life is necessary too. I guess it’s all about balance.
Just beautiful. This brought up so many memories for me. My dad died ten years ago of lung cancer at age 53. His funeral was the only one that I had been to as an adult. I remember that feeling during the whole funeral that I simply could not do this, this was just too much, too soon and that normal life simply could never — and shouldn’t! — go on. My cousin, a few rows behind me, saw my looks of panic and loss of control, and she stood up, crouched down behind me, and rubbed my shoulders and kissed my head, crying along with me. That gesture has stayed with me, and it is the moment that I remember most vividly from the funeral. You gave your friend a powerful gift, letting her cling to you and experiencing that moment (really feeling it) with her, one that she’ll never forget and you’ll always have a special place in her heart.
Lovely, Allison. Thank you for being there for our friend.
The honesty of your writing is lovely. And timely for me. I’ve been in the same space lately–realizing how blindingly fast this all goes.
Weeping at my desk. Yes, yes, and yes. This next chapter is going to be one of great losses, and the women (and men) who stand beside us are the ones who are going to walk us through. And yes. It all goes so fast.
When my mother passed away, I remember being so touched (and genuinely surprised) that some of my friends came to her wake. At the time I didn’t understand – they didn’t know her. But as I grew to realize that they were there for me, I was moved beyond description. I’m glad you were there for your friend. It is something she will cherish for the rest of her life.
I’m sure showing up meant the world to your friend. It is a gesture of love, of caring. Life goes quick. In a flash. Enjoy every single second.
It never goes away, once you feel it. I have buried both my parents and my brother and I can tell you that showing up at that viewing was hands down the best thing you could have done for your friend. I promise you, she will always remember that you were there (and even more so if you hadn’t been).
The comfort you provided supported and lifted her. Amazing instincts you have and such a strength to follow thru.
Love the ending. As a person raised by a stepmom with profound grief and death issues I can safely guess your support changed her trajectory in life. She was not alone in a crowded room of love. She gave and received love.
Hoping we feel the warmth. I felt a lot at a good friend of mines best friend funeral shortly after college. Mostly self revelations and sorrow but maybe that friend has always helped boost my spirit. He has.
Oh and lonely is my feeling at times but certainly my step mom’s personality. You shaped a love of life.
I originally read this but had to come by to comment because this real and beautiful bit of writing really touched me. I was in your friend’s shoes not quite a year ago, losing my mom to a brief but valiant battle with cancer. “My people,” as you say, are the reason I can still find reasons to smile and laugh even on days when the chill of that time and her loss make me feel almost achy. I’d say no – I don’t think the chill ever goes away. But it makes you appreciate warmth so much that sometimes it doesn’t matter.
Whoops – that first line was supposed to be “I originally read this at The Mid.”