"AND HE WAS IRISH TOO!!!!!!"...or why not to use exclamation points on a headstone

I thought I had a good segue into today’s post with it being Cinco de Mayo and all, but I was confusing it with the Day of the Dead. Maybe all the parties and promotions at local Mexican joints would have tipped me off that this was not a day for celebrating and remembering the beloved deceased. Oh well.

I went to a truly heartbreaking wake this past weekend, for a friend’s husband. Out of respect for my friend I will not go into detail, but between that and Mother’s Day coming up, I began to think about the rituals surrounding death and how they affect the way we grieve. More to the point, I began to entertain, for the first time in almost fifteen years, voluntarily going to the cemetery to visit my mother’s grave.

I know that sounds terrible. The last time I chose to go was the day H and I got married. I have been between then and now, but only because we were burying, yet another, member of my mother’s family (again, we are like the Kennedys and should get a group rate on burial plots). My mother’s grave site has never been a place I truly felt anything but anxiety. With the exception of my wedding day, when I went with one friend, going there has always been riddled with performance anxiety. When I accompanied other family members, I always felt like I had to match the emotional reaction of the person or people I was with. If they were crying I had to cry. Sometimes, I really just wanted to sit quietly and think about her.

Part of healing is moving on to the stage when you can celebrate the life of the person who is gone, without being ripped apart by the fact they are no longer with you. Going to the cemetery never seemed like it would help with my grief. Staring at a cold stone did nothing to help me remember the woman my mother was and the life she lead. I felt closest to my mother talking with her sisters and friends, remembering all the crazy-ass things she said and did.

I think that’s why gatherings like wakes are helpful. To distract you from the fact that you will be putting, or have put, this person you love into the ground or in a box and never, ever see them again. I have to say I’m all for the Jewish tradition of sitting shiva with no body present. Even when it was my own mother, I just could not get past the fact that there was a dead body in the room. I found it distressing beyond belief and distracting. I know it is part of the process of letting go, but let’s be honest, nobody looks like themselves, in their casket, with all that cakey makeup on. Unless that mortician is using MAC products, I myself, will be insisting on a closed casket. That will also save H the horrible task of picking an outfit to bury me in (since I get to die first). I don’t even want to know what he’d pick out.

Once you get past the corpse aspect though, wakes are really a beautiful thing. Everyone who loves the person is in one room together talking and reminiscing. I have noticed a trend, as of late, of having a video in the room, of photos set to music, which I think is really lovely. Sure there are tears, but there can be some laughter sprinkled in there. I heard some of the best stories about my mother during her wake and at the reception at our house afterwards. Ever heard the song “Finnegan's Wake”? It’s not just a stereotype. Sure, with the invention of funeral homes, we Irish aren’t drinking around our dearly departed, we have to wait until we get home after, but I loved having a few drinks and listening to my aunt retell the story of my parent’s first date where my mom sassed the hell out of my father, or the story of how, as a teenager, she threw a dresser drawer of underwear out a 6th story window after her twin sister messed up their just-organized dresser.

So compared to these lively tales, my mother’s grave seems cold and lonely. We just really aren’t the kind of family who leaves photos in Ziploc bags or teddy bears at site, like the family to the right of my mother. We were tasteful in the inscription we chose, including the pertinent information and the last few lines of an Irish blessing (“...and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand”), unlike the joker on her left whose family put, in all caps, “AND HE WAS IRISH TOO!!!!!!” And, yes, there are that many exclamation points. But how do you sum up someone’s life in stone? Maybe their way is better, maybe they feel more of a connection when they visit. Were we supposed to write “She’d kick your ass and make you love her, all at the same time”?

My children have never been to “see” my mother. The visit I am contemplating might include them, but after a dinnertime discussion of the logistics of death and bodily remains, during which #1 burst into tears, I don’t think they’re ready yet. I also don’t want this vast field of marble to be what they associate with my mother. I work hard for them to see her as the smiling face next to their eight year-old mother's in the photo booth picture, the woman had red hair like Mommy, who loved potato chips like they do. And maybe, that’s the reason I don’t want to go. For myself, I don’t want to associate such a lifeless place with my mother, despite everyone’s best efforts on Mother’s Day, with flowers and balloons, at the contrary. I want to see her at the kitchen table telling me not to take shit off some mean 8th grade girl. I want to see her laughing with her friends at a summer barbeque, drinking White Russians at a picnic table. I want to hear her telling me I am a good mother and wife and she’s proud of me. But I can’t have that, so I don’t go.

So I still haven’t made my decision, if after brunch I will be heading up north to the cemetery. Maybe I’ll decide how I feel that day. But if I do go, I sure as hell won’t be taking any teddy bears or balloons. I do like the tradition of pouring a drink on the grave, though, and having one for yourself. I think White Russians might curdle in the sun though.