A Funeral For My Mama
The Storage Unit Edition
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When I was eleven years old, I remember the exact moment I learned that not everyone feels the pain of others or experiences empathy.
*observes the current state of humanity*
Oh. This makes sense now.
But that’s not why I’m here.
My Mama didn’t want a funeral. The night before she died, she left me a handwritten letter with her requests. She placed it next to her Drivers License and a list of phone numbers to contact - her job, her insurance, her therapist etc…
The way my grieved mind remembered it is that her death was sudden. She’d had flu symptoms she couldn’t shake and then one day, she didn’t wake up.
I could live with that version.
However, if I had slowed down and taken the time to notice her deeply telling actions then I would have seen she was preparing to die.
Fuck, she already knew.
Mom, why are you throwing out your journals and writings?
Wait, why are you dragging boxes of your books to the curb?
Why did you stock the fridge with food? We can’t afford that.
(The food was for me, she wanted to be sure I’d eat.)
In my young adult, self-centered obliviousness, I failed to catch any of it.
I despise myself in moments like these.
When I found her body, I screamed, wept and held her for as long as I could.
Then I breathed with relief.
She had been depressed as hell her entire life. And fine, she had a creative, kind-hearted, incredible kid who adored her. But the problem was that she never wanted children. She didn’t even like them - her own included.
My naïve mind was relieved because I believed that in death, she’d experience ease for the first time ever. And I was relieved for myself as well. I wouldn’t have to watch her be miserable anymore - it was hard to see my parent in pain.
I just wanted her to be happy.
As for a memorial service, her final letter to me clearly said “no funeral.”
Say less.
No explanation was needed, I already knew why.
She was ‘no contact’ with her family (valid reasons) and didn’t have friends. Her service would have been me in a church alone and she ain’t even believe in church so lol, no.
Stay with me here, I’ll circle back.
I recently cleared out my last storage until *jazz hands* and found a handful of items from my Mom. There was a box of records, her coin collection and of course, books.
I thumbed through one of her Ayurveda (traditional Indian medicine) books and came across handwritten notes with a history of her symptoms, tinctures to try and a chart where she tracked her declining weight and increasing blood pressure.
It dated back months before her death. Wait, months?
She…knew she was sick. She never told me.
And she was trying to survive.
My Mom was a beautifully complex human and I’d reduced her life to “she was sad, I’m glad she’s not here.”
Damn you, Robin.
Karen Diane wanted to be here. Although her life was painful, she still wanted live it.
Today I want to honor her memory and share who she was.
If there had been a funeral, this is what I would have said:
For real tho, how are you not here? I can’t do this without you, I don’t want to.
Karen Diane was beautiful. She was born in Virginia in 1951. She was a sensitive, creative who couldn’t find where she fit in life. She didn’t understand people and honestly, same. As a result, she retreated into eclectic music and books from every genre . She loved the Beatles, the Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Steely Dan and Stevie Wonder. I have immaculate taste in music thanks to her. She’d spend her weekends in used record stores curating new vinyl to add to her collection of 5000+ albums. She was a talented musician as well who played the cello, piano and acoustic guitar. Mom believed Western medicine was trash and instead studied acupuncture, herbalism and other holistic practices to care for her mind and body. As a kid, I took my coloring books and went with her to Tai Chi classes. I had no clue what it was but I remember the calm sensation I felt as I watched her practice the fluid, mindful movements. Those moments taught me how to slow down in my own adult life.
And weed. My Mama loved her a joint. And again, saaaame. I have no doubt that if she were alive, we’d smoke together and have honest conversations about our tenuous parent/child relationship. Or we’d just get high and eat snacks. Who can say?
And Mom, I know I said it was OK if I didn’t see you in the afterlife. However, that’s only because if you finally have found peace, then I didn’t want to ruin it for you the way I did here. My presence didn’t bring you joy and your eyes never lit up when you saw me. But I understand why now. You were exhausted by life. This world wore you out and you didn’t have anyone to lean on. You were just trying to survive and keep your peanut headed child alive.
I am proud to have been your kid.
If we do meet again then I hope I can wrap you in my arms and thank you.
It was a privilege to know you.
Your wayward child,
Robin
And that was my Mom.
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Thank you for the care.
So much love to you, Robin.
That was a really beautiful remembrance of your mom, thank you. And don’t be so hard on yourself for not being aware that she knew she was dying; you were a kid. Finally,I bet you see her immediately in the hereafter, becauseI have a hunch that when we come into our full spiritual beings, we have shed our earthly suffering and are nothing but love.