The Time-worn Servitor

To all of you guys who commented, emailed, or even wrote actual physical letters to me after you read my last post: thank you so much.  It’s so hard to know what to say to a grieving person, but you all shared such heartfelt and poignant thoughts with me that it really softened the blow of losing Grandma, and reminded me of how universal grief is and its ability to connect people.

Having not attended a funeral since my Great Uncle Dean (Grandma’s brother) died when I was in high school, I found myself scrambling for guidance. For example: does the baby wear black? (That seemed improbable.)  My stepmom was texting much-needed tips all day, like the location of the nearest Ann Taylor because they had a few long-sleeve black dresses that would work, but for the baby question, I turned to Google.

For some reason, one of the first hits for “does baby wear black to funeral” was this chapter from a 1922 Emily Post etiquette book. It had no guidance about what to do with babies, but for some reason, I took so much comfort in that article — particularly the introduction:

AT no time does solemnity so possess our souls as when we stand deserted at the brink of darkness into which our loved one has gone. And the last place in the world where we would look for comfort at such a time is in the seeming artificiality of etiquette; yet it is in the moment of deepest sorrow that etiquette performs its most vital and real service.
All set rules for social observance have for their object the smoothing of personal contacts, and in nothing is smoothness so necessary as in observing the solemn rites accorded our dead.
It is the time-worn servitor, Etiquette, who draws the shades, who muffles the bell, who keeps the house quiet, who hushes voices and footsteps and sudden noises; who stands between well-meaning and importunate outsiders and the retirement of the bereaved; who decrees that the last rites shall be performed smoothly and with beauty and gravity, so that the poignancy of grief may in so far as possible be assuaged.

It was comforting to read about funeral customs from my grandma’s era (she was born in 1926), like about how being asked to be a pallbearer is “a service that may not under any circumstances except serious ill-health, be refused,” the necessity of writing down all the flowers received and who send them (“write on the outside of each envelope a description of the flowers that the card was sent with: ‘Spray of Easter lilies and palm branches tied with white ribbon.’ ‘Wreath of laurel leaves and gardenias.’ ‘Long sheaf of pink roses and white lilacs’”), and particularly, a system of crepe streamers to notify callers about the deceased:

HANGING THE BELL

As a rule the funeral director hangs crepe streamers on the bell; white ones for a child, black and white for a young person, or black for an older person. This signifies to the passerby that it is a house of mourning so that the bell will not be rung unnecessarily nor long.
If they prefer, the family sometimes orders a florist to hang a bunch of violets or other purple flowers on black ribbon streamers, for a grown person; or white violets, white carnations—any white flower without leaves—on the black ribbon for a young woman or man; or white flowers on white gauze or ribbon for a child.

I think I had really been in denial about how close to death she really was. My therapist helped me tremendously by just pointing out: for the last year, she really was dying. This was the natural conclusion to over two years of the dying process.

I’m actually feeling pretty normal now, already almost two weeks later — the difference between depression and grief, I’m told. I know I’ll continue to miss her for the rest of my life, and will do my best to honor her memory, but losing Grandma won’t destroy me the way I always feared it would.  It was really nice to hear you guys tell me that it was obvious I loved her. The day before she died, I had mailed off a card to her — “GET WELL SOON OR ELSE” — that would have arrived about the day after she died. I felt so guilty that it took me so long to send a card, and feared that she felt abandoned in that skilled nursing facility.  But I’m sure, if it was obvious to my friends that I cared so much about her, that she really did know.  Thanks.

My grandma died.

And I am sad.

And I just can’t think of anything to say about it other than it was unexpected and I miss her so much. She was such a great human. The fact that she was in a lot of pain at the end (she died at a skilled nursing facility, recovering from another trip to the hospital for mysterious swelling) and that she’s not going to be in pain anymore is some comfort. I don’t know if I believe in the afterlife, but it sure is a nice thought to think she’s reunited with her beloved mother and all of her sisters and brothers. Right now, I kind of have to believe that she didn’t just cease to exist and that’s it. I need to believe that she’s somewhere and she’s comfortable and happy.

But goddamnit, I’m so sad.

You are not tired

Joel is trying to disabuse me of the notion that sleepiness is a merit-based system. I didn’t realize until recently that I felt this way.

It didn’t start until Milo was born and I entered an alternate reality of true sleep deprivation. It’s kind of funny at first (haha, I thought the stuffed turtle was the baby!) but, especially when you have to go back to work, it becomes rather debilitating. For one thing, I would get very dizzy. And, much like when you’re sick, I felt like anyone I talked to needed to know about it so they could excuse my fogginess.

From that point on, whenever a friend or coworker or anyone without a baby has told me that they’re sleepy, it triggers the following (silent) responses: 1. Bitch, please; 2. Damn it, Angela, you used to get sleepy before you had a baby. Remember insomnia?; and 3. Okay, could this person actually be sleepy? Why would someone without kids be sleepy?  Then I think, 4. All sleepiness prior to the baby was my fault for being too carefree and injudicious with my evenings. I had no right to complain about being sleepy! And then I have a final reaction: 5. You are one of those parents who thinks they’re better than everyone else. Don’t be a jerk.

Unfortunately, that sympathetic part of the reaction doesn’t extend to Joel, because whenever he tells me he’s tired, my mind immediately starts calculating the truth of the statement:

(Total hours between bedtime and rising) – (middle of the night wakings) + (reason he stayed up later than me last night) = (total possible sleepiness credits)

and I usually conclude with: “You should’ve gone to bed when I did instead of playing around on the computer. You’re not sleepy. I’m sleepy.”

To which he invariably responds, “It doesn’t matter if I deserve to be sleepy! I’m sleepy!” to which I’m like, “It’s an insult to me for you to claim you’re sleepy!”

He compares “You’re not tired!” to telling someone they’re not cold based strictly on a thermostat reading. He finds it pretty ridiculous. Nevertheless, he has taken to prefacing “I’m tired” with “Okay, so obviously I have no right to say this, and of course you’re more tired than I am, but…”

I really don’t want to be one of those holier-than-thou parents. Friends, trust me: I really do think you’re entitled to be sleepy. I guess I just want it to be clear that my chronic lack of sleep is dulling the edges of my brain, making me just slightly less interesting and articulate than I used to be. I need you to understand that because I don’t want you to think that I’m just dumb and boring now. I envy you your ability to make up for lost sleep tonight, but I don’t hold it against you.

I mean, unless you stayed up too late playing on the computer.