The Funeral

Several weeks before Grandma died, I received a summons for jury duty. I had received several through the years but had never had to serve. Just like the times before, I was to call each day after 5:30 p.m. and a recording would say if I needed to show up or not. I thought it would be interesting to serve on a jury, but so far every time I called the recording said, “You do not need to report. Call back after 5:30 tomorrow for further instructions.” (Or something to that effect)

Of course after Grandma died, the recording said, “Please report on Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. Failure to report will result in legal action against you.” (Or something to that effect)

I thought that if I called the nice people who worked for the court system, they would immediately take pity on my predicament and grief process and say, “Oh, I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandmother. We will excuse you from jury duty this week.” Boy was I wrong. When I called them bright and early Monday morning, they said, “That is not a valid reason for being excused from jury duty. You still need to report.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“No.” click.

Okay, I thought, I’ll just go down there, take her obituary and certainly they will understand that I am not emotionally fit for jury duty this week. Sadly, I found out that everyone who worked at the courthouse was terminally jaded from being subjected to criminals.

Me: I was told to report for jury duty, but my grandmother died on Saturday, so may I be excused?

Them: Take a seat over there with the other jurors.

Me: But her funeral is on Wednesday. I have the obituary right here. I can’t be here on Wednesday.

Them: You can be jailed if you don’t appear. The trial starts on Wednesday morning. Go sit down.

Me: But . . .

Them: no words – just a hard glare.

I sat with the other jurors thinking that these government workers reminded me of the government workers on Beetlejuice. They were hard.

I contemplated what would happen if I didn’t show up on Wednesday. Would police come to the funeral to arrest me? How long would I have to stay in jail for failure to report for jury duty? Would I have a criminal record if I didn’t show up? All I knew was that I was not going to miss my Grandma’s funeral – no matter what happened that day.

After waiting for an hour, we were herded into a courtroom to be questioned by the prosecution and defense attorneys. All I could do was answer their questions honestly and hope they wouldn’t pick me for the jury.

First question: If you’ve ever been the victim of a violent crime raise your hand.

I raised my hand along with another woman. They asked her to tell them about it. She says, “I will be happy to tell you in the privacy of the judge’s chambers.” I was so glad they called on her first. I did not want to go into my family history in front of a courtroom full of people, so I repeated what she had said.

Second question: This case involved illegal drug use, raise your hand if you feel you can not be an objective juror. (or something like that)

I raised my hand but was not asked to expound on it. They asked several more questions most of which I could honestly raise my hand to. After about an hour of questioning, they lawyers left the room to conference or do whatever it is lawyers do at this point. They came back in and excused several prospective jurors. I think – are you kidding me – I’m still here. They then excuse the women who had been the victim of a violent crime and they excuse me. I was so relieved. When I left, I asked a clerk if I still needed to call in each day that week. She said, “No.”

It took half a day of stress at the courthouse, but I was happy to know that I could go to Grandma’s funeral without the fear of being arrested.

When the kids got home from school that day, my youngest daughter had some papers that her teacher had sent for me. Her note said, “This was a writing assignment in our reading class. Students were to choose a person, place, or thing and write a descriptive paragraph about their topic. I was saving these papers for SEPs in March, but Elizabeth’s is very touching and most appropriate to share with you now.”

Elizabeth’s paragraph: My great-grandma smells like makeup. She is old. She is 92. I love going there and she is beautiful. When I go there she says, “I love you.” She had drawn a picture of my grandmother to go with her paragraph. We had Elizabeth read this and show the picture at the funeral. Teachers are wonderful people; I was so thankful to get this now instead of waiting. When Elizabeth was a baby, she was very colicky. Grandma was one of the few people who could quiet her when she was distressed. All of my children adored their great-grandmother; all of them struggled to deal with her passing.

We didn’t know if Dad would show up at the funeral. If he did show up – would he be violent? The court sent plainclothes officers to guard us – just in case of trouble. Dad did not show up. He sent a friend to take pictures of everything. It was kind of creepy – this yucky man taking pictures of all the grandkids, but it was better than having Dad there. Still, we were all on edge.

Mom was another story. She always professed her undying love for Grandma – the woman who treated her like a daughter and took her under her wing after Mom’s mother had died, but when push came to shove, she put the polygamist cult ahead of Grandma. She said she had to go on a buying trip. She could have sent someone in her place, but she did not. Then she complained and said, “I wish I could have been there.” I said, “You could have been there.” Just as always, my sisters and I were there by ourselves without the love and care of either parent. We were burying the person I loved most in the world and neither of them could be grown up enough to be there to support us. I was glad Dad stayed away but hurt that Mom made the choice she did. We needed her that day, and she once again let us down.

Even with all the trauma and pain that surrounded Grandma’s death, the funeral was beautiful. My aunt did such a good job on planning everything. She ordered two dozen red roses for the top of the casket. She even made sure to put a Kleenex in Grandma’s sleeve – just like Grandma had always done in life. Grandma was buried next to her husband in a cemetery that overlooks the city.

Several months after Grandma’s death, my aunt was looking at the red roses she saved from the funeral and discovered that about half of them had turned a lovely shade of yellow. Yellow roses mean joy and happiness; we took this as a sign that Grandma was happy. Knowing Grandma, she isn't wasting any time in heaven. She told me once that she helped plan all the events in her little town when she was a young woman. I'm sure she is giving God and the angels a run for their money with all her activity and planning.

Grandma

I took the kids to see Grandma frequently. After she had been away from dad for about three weeks, she started to gain clarity of thought and be more wakeful which made us wonder if he had been drugging her. When she was with dad she would often fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, but now it was like we had turned back the hands of time and she was getting younger. She missed dad and she missed her old apartment. My aunt arranged to have Meals on Wheels come each day just so Grandma would have a lunch time visitor. Grandma hated the food, but she would drink the milk and eat the roll they brought each day. I asked, “So what is wrong with the food?”

“They bring casserole all the time. I don't like things that are all mixed together. If they bring vegetables they are overcooked and mushy. I like fresh vegetables.”

One evening the kids and I took her out to dinner. The only thing she would order was a fresh tomato. I had to go back and ask the waiter if the cook could find a tomato that was not too ripe and slice it for her. She was so happy with her plate of tomatoes. Taking her out to dinner was time consuming because she had to stop and talk to every child she saw. She was a life long teacher. We loved seeing how well she related with children.

She enjoyed playing bingo with the other residents and was adjusting to her new life. One morning as she was getting ready for a funeral, she felt a terrific pain in her hip, her leg gave out, and she fell to the floor. Thankfully, she was in a place where the staff checked up on the residents and was soon found. She was transported to the hospital and diagnosed with a broken hip.

She had surgery to repair her hip. The doctors informed us that she had an aortic aneurysm. They felt she was too old to survive the surgery to repair it. They said that eventually it would rupture and she would die quickly. We worried about this, but since there was nothing that could be done to repair it, it fell into the category of “help us accept the things we can not change.”

One night after I’d returned home late from the hospital, I went up to check on my youngest daughter. The teenagers had gotten the little ones to bed. My eight year old daughter had kicked off her covers. The moonlight through the window spilled over her golden hair, her slender legs, feet, arms, and delicate hands; the sight brought out a feeling of intense protectiveness for this child I so adored. She was eight years old – older than I had been when I was sexually abused and beaten. I looked at her tiny limbs and wondered how anyone could look at the body of a small child and see anything but a dear sweet child. How could anyone look at what I was seeing and feel sexual arousal? I couldn’t understand it. I carefully tucked her covers around her and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was unscathed by the evil of sexual abuse. I talked to my kids on a regular basis about good touch/bad touch. I felt confident that they could and would come to me if anyone touched them inappropriately.

Mentally, I was still dealing with the trauma of my own abuse, but still lacked time to get into counseling. Grandma was soon moved back to the assisted care center where her apartment was located. One side of the complex was a hospital – which was where she was moved. I called her one day to ask what they had brought her for dinner. She said, I don’t know what it is, but it looks like cooked grass.”

“Do you want me to bring you a chicken breast with steamed vegetables and a sliced tomato?”

“Oh would you? I’d love that.”

When I got there, I asked, “What do you eat on the nights I don’t bring dinner?”

“I just ask them for another can of ensure.”

“Grandma, you look so pretty today.” She was in a lovely pink nightgown and had just had her hair done.

“Mary was up earlier; she took me to get my hair done. Did you know they have a salon in the hospital?”

“I didn’t know that. I’m glad she took you. I know how much you love to get your hair done.”

I helped Grandma into a wheelchair and we (my two youngest 3D childen and I) took her for a walk. She wanted to go see her neighbors. We walked over to that wing of the building and joined her neighbors in the great room and watched the news. There was a story that the schools were facing a substitute teacher shortage. Grandma who taught school until she was 86 years old said, “I am going to get out of here and go sign up.” I chuckled because I didn’t doubt that she would do it. Her mind seemed as sharp as ever now that she was a way from dad. “What do you think your dad is doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “He got so mean, and what he said to Rose was so awful that I can’t go see him again. You know he was violent to us when we were kids. I guess he just got mean again.”

“I want to see him,” she said.

“I know you do, but he said he doesn’t want to see any of us.”

“I guess you are right. Did you know that I am going home tomorrow?” she asked.

“No, you are going home on Sunday. Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, “because I think I am going home tomorrow.”

“Sunday, Grandma; I promise.”

“Well, okay.”

We wheeled her back to her room. I helped her into bed, gave her a kiss goodnight, and said, “I love you Grandma. I’ll be back up on Sunday to see you.”

“I love you too. Thanks for coming up.”

The next morning my cousin called me, “Grandma died early this morning.”

“No! I was just up there. She looked so good. She can't be gone.”

She had awoken with a terrific pain in her chest. She called out to her room mate. Help arrived quickly, but the aneurism had ruptured. They gave her morphine, called my uncle to come quickly, and she died within fifteen minutes.

She was right when she said she was going home tomorrow. She died only a few days before what would have been her 65th wedding anniversary. I know she was old. I know her body had issues, but her mind was sharp and I wanted her to stay. I missed her so badly. I couldn’t believe the beautiful, bright grandmother I had put my arms around only hours before was gone. She was the most important adult in my life. She helped me be a better mother and a better person. She was the best role model, and I was thankful I got to have her for as many years as I did. She had said she was going to get out of there and go sign up to teach. I hope there are children for her to teach in heaven.

I still miss her everyday. So often, I long to pick up the phone and say, "Grandma." I send her messages in thoughts and prayers every day. I hope she gets them.