There has been something of a lengthy hiatus, and while I feel horribly guilty for neglecting your needs for so long, I trust that the circumstances at hand are acceptable justification for me not wanting to write; or at least, not having any time. It's been a mixture of both. While there have definitely been a number of things I wanted to say, most days I've been too sad or stressed out to want to sit down for the extended periods of time necessary to quantify my troubled thoughts. Aside from the occasional e-mail to Clorinda, actually, I've been quite cut off from my typical extended internet connections in the pressed urgencies of seeing my family and burying my grandmother and handing in the limitless quantities of assignments March sends forth like an army of penises aimed at my weary, quivering bottom. I'm still not quite settled into the realities of life that usually keep me afloat, but for posterity, if not guiltiness, I want to chronicle my state of mind.
The viewing of my grandmother's body took place last Tuesday in the evening. In preparation I had to buy a suit, which is something I've always sought with avarice, and yet I wish I hadn't had to buy it for the purpose of grieving. Certainly my grandmother was worth it, but as nice as suits can be, I'd gladly dress like a bum in exchange for less mournful circumstances. Of course, because by some standard of fashion I have been deemed "tall" by the powers that be (damn you Monsieur Eaton!), so there was quite little to be done about getting me into some nice comfortable size with any actual ease, of course. In desperation I had to turn to one of those (sigh) big and tall men's shops, on Bank street, to find something suitable for me. I was the smallest size they had, but I still felt like a goon walking in there. Still, we did find something pretty sharp. It was the archetypal black suit, no annoying pinstripes or any such thing, and we managed to find a crisply starched white shirt to go with it, and a (forty five dollar -- argh!) silk tie. I knew I wasn't about to find anything more easily or affordably, so although the actual price of the entire costume came to just this side of six hundred dollars (scream) I gave the smiling man at the counter (commission turns pleasant human beings into rabid animals) my bank card. On rainy days I can still feel it tingling.
Goddamn but I looked sharp though. A nice black suit tends to be becoming on just about anyone, but I must admit I was a smart fellow indeed. Several family members actually didn't recognize me when Broken and I arrived. This probably has lots to do with my new beard and severely short hair and less with the suit, but nevertheless it was a striking contrast to the stereotypical concept Rob. I found it very difficult to relish the string of compliments I received, though. I'd spent much of the three days since her death crying, and while I was numb with activity up to the point of the viewing, actually seeing her body was, once again, more than I could bear. It seemed the closer I got to the casket the harder it was to stop myself from blubbering. There's always something creepy and unnatural about a an embalmed corpse, even though they're so immaculately attended to by the morticians... perhaps it's the way skin tends to shrivel around bony edges. Still, my grandmother didn't look all that bad, especially given what I'd heard about her ghastly appearance during her short decline in the hospital. I found it so difficult to believe that just a week before I'd been talking to her on the phone, and my sister had spent an entire day with her, and in all that time she'd been in perfect health with the exception of maybe a small head cold.
My family was in some ways up to its usual form, with a certain petty attention to the most irrelevant of minutiae. Because my older brother hadn't visited my grandmother in months, she still had his Christmas present waiting for him, and for some reason my aunt saw fit to bring it along with her to the funeral home. In fact, its presence was the first thing she said to him when he and his companion arrived. She just didn't let him forget it. The very concept of the present made him feel ill with guilt and remorse -- he didn't want it. The very least that could have been accomplished with a little smidgeon of tact might have been that she delay mentioning it until he was on his way out -- "Oh, by the way, you should have this.." or something. In fairness, though, for the disparity and animosity between many different individuals and groups within my extended family, we all had one thing in common with each other, and that was a deep and untarnished love for my grandmother. We were all scarred by her loss, for she was such a loving, caring person who was special to everyone, and that brought us together in some emotional, almost tangible sense. I really wasn't up to the sort of smalltalk that occurs when a room full of people who have difficulty with their emotions gather together, though, which was unfortunate since so much of this awkward conversation and stiff mingling abounded. For the most part I hid in the lounge downstairs with my older brother, my older sister, my mother and my younger brother, which fittingly enough was where I hid the last time I was at that funeral home, for my grandfather's funeral.
It was grim. My older brother was not doing very well in particular... he's as much of a softie as I am, but I've come to terms with my deep-running feelings a little more easily than he has, so his grief found few of the outlets mine did, like tears. He also felt guilty for not visiting while he could. I tried to explain that we all sort of had that same mentality where it's quite easy to assume that there will always be a tomorrow. My grandmother had been a symbol of strength and support to the entire family for decades, and I don't think we seriously considered a world without her. I would have sworn two weeks ago that she had years and years left to her life. I drank a lot of coffee and choked on misery for those two days. It's my regret that it usually requires a funeral to get my entire family together... I think it's been at least three or four years since we were all in the same room together. In some ways it felt like Christmas... with the immediate family clumped together in a small cohesive circle apart from the many extended relations gossiping and mingling around us. Catching up on life since the last time. My younger brother (he's going to be twenty-one in a month... I just can't believe that) quite perceptively pointed out, though, that with this passing of the cornerstone of the entire family, we were certainly all going to begin to drift apart. And this is indeed unfortunate. I've had (private?) differences with certain family members for years, as we all have, but I don't truly relish the thought of standing apart from them. Perhaps in time I'll reach out to them, and keep them close to me. Perhaps that's a good enough legacy as any for my grandmother... that even in death she can still keep the peace.
My mother and my siblings convened at the Royal Oak (a pub to beat all pubs) downtown for the evening, but I stayed in Bayshore with Broken since it was only two minutes away from the funeral home by cab... and I didn't much feel like either socializing or being alone. We had to be at the funeral parlour early the next day, since I was a pallbearer and they wanted all the pallbearers (my grandmother's six grandsons, with her two granddaughters trailing behind) to arrive early for a sort of briefing. For almost the entire service I was quiet and numb... even as the immediate family were paying their last respects... all the way until the eulogies. My uncle gave a decent speech to honour my grandmother; while he and I especially have clashed (never directly in person... always through second or third hand information did I find out what he thought of me), he loved her too, and his words were well chosen. My sister, however, gave the most moving eulogy I've ever heard. She's a poet as well, of course, and is used to performing in public, but she could only barely managed to keep composed enough to get her words out. I myself could barely keep composed enough to refrain from bursting into choking fits of tears. I cried and cried.
I really didn't appreciate the service, however. It was given in a distinctly religious theme, and while I could have tolerated, even appreciated, dogma and comfort at a time of grief, every hymn and every prayer served only one purpose -- to praise god. Every line affirmed the belief of the person reading from the little prayer books in God, the one True God, God the Father, Our Lord Jesus Christ who died on the cross and rose from the grave three days later. Praise god, praise god, praise god. Out of the entire service I think the only attention paid to my grandmother were the blanks in the prayerbooks that said "Thank you for the life of your servant, N", N being the name of the deceased. And there was a 'him/her' that had to be chosen from here and there. I would have assumed that a religious service might have included more assurances of the deceased love one's place in heaven, or eventually reuniting with her ourselves one day, or something. But instead we were simply made to agree that, yes, God existed, and that was supposed to be enough, and with this we were lead through the service not remembering my grandmother at all, but chanting and singing praise to God. I found everything but the eulogies to be completely empty. It was a different matter seeing her coffin interred, though.
I cried more than I had through the entire past two days as her coffin was lowered into the earth of the cemetery where my grandfather and my father also lay buried. I expect everyone did. Afterwards there was this awkward reception back at the funeral parlour with sandwiches and more mingling and little children running around, but it wasn't really good for my soul in any particular way. Afterwards, though, my mother, my brothers, my sister and I (along with all of our respective significant sweeties) convened at the Royal Oak once again, and we spent a good four or five hours there, remembering our grandmother and cheering each other up. I actually indulged in two pints of Guinness which is, well, practically like drinking, and practically unheard of for me. The rest of my family is far more inclined towards vice than I am. At least in the sense that everyone else enjoys cigarettes and beer, and I'm a big huge square. It was probably the only good thing to come of all this... being together with my closest and dearest loved ones in a way that we so rarely find ourselves. It was good, though. I felt loved and secure, and part of something I can be proud of.
As a kind of footnote, I'll at least say that things are looking better for my future. I was at work the other day, and my boss (upon handing me eighty negatives to scan in) informed me that they'd probably have some idea as to my employment future within the next week because, after all, my contract officially ended yesterday (I'm giving them an extra day because I took last Tuesday off after my grandmother's death). The department heads were supposed to have a budgetary meeting within the week to discuss their financial future. Of course, with everything else on my mind this just gave me cause to spend my day in a state of fretfretfretfret. Anyway, hours later, as I handed back the stack of negatives and a printout of all the thumbnailed scans, my boss told me that it actually did seem like they could have the money to re-hire me full-time for the summer. This gave a decidedly refreshing edge to a month of pure hell. So, I spent last night tired and yet inclined to celebrate, which I did by spending money on myself and a couple of friends (Chinese food up the wazzoo). I think now I'll order some CDs or something. In any case, it's reassuring to know that, for whatever else happens to befall me this coming year, at least I'll most likely not be homeless or anything.
Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.
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