Being Dead is No Excuse
I own I think two copies of the same book, "Being dead is no excuse" with tips for a successful, southern funeral complete with a recipe for tomato aspic. I don't know what tomato aspic is, except I think it may be a recipe for fresh tomatoes with gelatin. Who wants tomato Jell-O?
For years I thought it was funny to joke about death.
I would ask a friend to hire a drag queen to come.
I would tell friends to wear 1980's Dynasty style hats and heels and ladies power blazers.
I would tell a friend to cry out that I was the best lover she ever had.
It was all so funny until Daddy died and then MyJamie died. Suddenly every night I cried after a day of crying. Suddenly I took my pistol to a friend to keep because I thought I could hold it for the ten minute drive but not a minute more. Suddenly I have items the other person touched, owned or wore that I can't move, can't share, can't change.
Daddy loaned me a belt a few years ago to wear as part of a Western outfit. His name is stamped in the leather. I hung it on a hook in my bedroom, not in a closet but visible. I haven't thought about it in years or even returned it to him. Now I can't imagine moving it.
MyJamie has a full bedroom in my home, a dresser full of clothes and a closet full of clothes. His stuffed animals on the shelf, a stack of pictures by the bed. I haven't been able to change the bed sheets, hoping against hope they would still smell like him on the pillow case. They don't, nothing smells like him anymore. But I still hope.
MyJamie died April 8 and this past week walking into his room brings me to a stand still. I fall down and cry.
I've thought about tattoos, one to match my father's and one of MyJamie's favorite character. I've never had a tattoo before and decided that at least for now the grieving is enough without being reminded every time I remove my shirt, look in a mirror, or look down at my arm. I remember enough. I remember often enough now.
The cards though, it doesn't matter yet how polite it is, or impolite. I've bought blank thank you cards. I've printed pictures to insert. I've thought about using a website to make preprinted thank you cards. Every version of "My Dad and MyJamie died within 3 weeks of each other and it has ripped my world apart, thanks for being kind" seems like more than I can write once much less dozens of times. There's no real nice way to write that, you know.
Hey, thanks for calling when Dad died. Then 3 weeks later when MyJamie died. Yeah, I'm on Lexapro and Ambien now and doubled up them doses. I still cry all the time. Thanks again.
Am I a smart ass? No polite enough? No Southern enough? Not brought up right? Or just overwhelmed by my grief that's still so new. I think sometimes I can do it, but I'm still stuck on that first sentence. "Thanks for reaching out when my life fell apart and my heart ripped open."
My cousin told me that when his dad died, an uncle I loved, that he never felt more like a child than those first days. I understood that when my dad died. I felt like the small boy. I didn't feel like a grown up, I felt like my father's son. When MyJamie died I felt like the whole world and all it's fairness and rightness was ripped from me. I still feel that, I feel it still.
Being dead is an excuse.
For years I thought it was funny to joke about death.
I would ask a friend to hire a drag queen to come.
I would tell friends to wear 1980's Dynasty style hats and heels and ladies power blazers.
I would tell a friend to cry out that I was the best lover she ever had.
It was all so funny until Daddy died and then MyJamie died. Suddenly every night I cried after a day of crying. Suddenly I took my pistol to a friend to keep because I thought I could hold it for the ten minute drive but not a minute more. Suddenly I have items the other person touched, owned or wore that I can't move, can't share, can't change.
Daddy loaned me a belt a few years ago to wear as part of a Western outfit. His name is stamped in the leather. I hung it on a hook in my bedroom, not in a closet but visible. I haven't thought about it in years or even returned it to him. Now I can't imagine moving it.
MyJamie has a full bedroom in my home, a dresser full of clothes and a closet full of clothes. His stuffed animals on the shelf, a stack of pictures by the bed. I haven't been able to change the bed sheets, hoping against hope they would still smell like him on the pillow case. They don't, nothing smells like him anymore. But I still hope.
MyJamie died April 8 and this past week walking into his room brings me to a stand still. I fall down and cry.
I've thought about tattoos, one to match my father's and one of MyJamie's favorite character. I've never had a tattoo before and decided that at least for now the grieving is enough without being reminded every time I remove my shirt, look in a mirror, or look down at my arm. I remember enough. I remember often enough now.
The cards though, it doesn't matter yet how polite it is, or impolite. I've bought blank thank you cards. I've printed pictures to insert. I've thought about using a website to make preprinted thank you cards. Every version of "My Dad and MyJamie died within 3 weeks of each other and it has ripped my world apart, thanks for being kind" seems like more than I can write once much less dozens of times. There's no real nice way to write that, you know.
Hey, thanks for calling when Dad died. Then 3 weeks later when MyJamie died. Yeah, I'm on Lexapro and Ambien now and doubled up them doses. I still cry all the time. Thanks again.
Am I a smart ass? No polite enough? No Southern enough? Not brought up right? Or just overwhelmed by my grief that's still so new. I think sometimes I can do it, but I'm still stuck on that first sentence. "Thanks for reaching out when my life fell apart and my heart ripped open."
My cousin told me that when his dad died, an uncle I loved, that he never felt more like a child than those first days. I understood that when my dad died. I felt like the small boy. I didn't feel like a grown up, I felt like my father's son. When MyJamie died I felt like the whole world and all it's fairness and rightness was ripped from me. I still feel that, I feel it still.
Being dead is an excuse.
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