by Jillian Dodd
It is incredibly soothing and at some point I must have fallen asleep.
I wake up a few hours later, still lying on his shoulder.
“You’re awake,” he whispers.
“Why?—” I start to say, looking at him and wondering where I am.
Then it all comes rushing back.
“Oh God. It really happened?”
“Yeah, it did.” He strokes my hair again.
God, he’s sweet.
“It seems like so long ago, but I’m sorry I yelled at you after the party.”
“I doubt it’ll be the last time,” he chuckles.
“Phillip.”
“Well, at least I hope it won’t be the last time because it would mean you weren’t with me.”
I roll my eyes at him. I don’t get mad at him that often. Just when he disagrees with me.
“I’ll always love my Princess.” He smiles. “Even when she’s mad at me.”
Then he winces and says seriously, “I’m really sorry about everything. This is going to be so rough, but I want you to know that I’m here for you. My family’s here for you.”
And they were there for me.
Especially Phillip.
He stood by my side and held my hand through it all. As I picked out caskets and gravestones, planned the funeral, chose the pallbearers, picked the music, the scriptures, the speakers, and even when I had to decide what clothes they should wear.
And every night, the only way I could go to sleep was lying on his shoulder.
I never could’ve gotten through these last few days without him.
“May they rest in peace,” the pastor says, finishing the eulogy.
Now it’s my turn.
I walk slowly up to the podium at the front of the church, turn, and gaze out at all the people who came to the funeral. My parents really did touch many people’s lives. Mrs. Mac and Mrs. Diamond tried to discourage me from speaking at the funeral, which quite frankly, just made me want to do it more.
Because, really, how could I not?
Hopefully, I can say everything I want to say.
Deep breath.
Game face in place.
Okay.
“I want to share a quote with all of you from a book I’ve been reading. It goes, ‘Do human beings ever realize life, while they live it – every, every minute?’ We’re all busy people and it’s easy to get so wrapped up in life that we forget to live. My parents knew how to live. They enjoyed the little things in life, like sunsets, great parties, telling jokes, hanging out with friends,” I can’t help but smile, “even silly things like giving piggyback rides. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want us sitting around here crying over the fact that they are gone. I think they’d rather we celebrate the fact that they lived—every, every minute, and would challenge us all to do the same.”
The lights dim and the presentation starts. My cue to step away from the podium and take my seat.
When we were at the church planning the funeral it was very sad and somber. And I don’t know what hit me, but I looked at Mr. Mac sitting there, not smiling, and I just thought, this is not what Mom and Dad’s lives were about.
If Dad were here, he and Mr. Mac would be laughing and joking about something. They had more inside jokes than a group of seventh-grade girls.
I know you have to do the religious part, and I wanted to do the religious part. But they sorta felt disconnected. The religious part felt more about what was next for them, and I’m happy that they are in heaven and all that, but what about us, the ones they left behind?
We don’t really want them in heaven. We want them back with us.
I want them back with me.
So I told our pastor that I wanted to do something that would make people feel good. To help them remember the fun times, to see that my parents enjoyed their lives.
They loved to celebrate.
So I wanted to do something that would celebrate my parents’ lives.
Phillip, Danny, and I would be outside shooting hoops or playing a game of H-O-R-S-E, and Dad would come out and be like, It’s gorgeous out—a day like today is worth celebrating. I always thought “celebrate” was sorta code for, If I say I’m celebrating something then my wife won’t complain to me about sitting here smoking a stinky cigar. But that wasn’t it. Because before you knew it, Mom would be out there sitting on his lap, drinking a wine cooler, and celebrating with him. Then pretty soon half the neighbors would show up, and they would all be drinking and eating and really celebrating the fact that they were together, that it was a beautiful day. I think they definitely appreciated daily life and not just special occasions. Hell, they made everyday occasions special.
So, even though it was painful, Katie, Lisa, and I went through all our photos and selected a few that showed my parents doing just that.
Celebrating their lives.
Phillip scanned them all into the computer and created a slide show of them set to music.
Notes play and pictures flash by:
Mom as a baby.
Mom with no front teeth, with pigtails, on her bike.
Mom with her high school friends, in their graduation caps and gowns.
Dad as a chubby, bald baby.
Dad dressed as a cowboy, with Uncle John dressed as an Indian.
Dad playing basketball in high school.
Then the two of them together in college, looking goofily in love.
Dad and Mr. Mac in college, togas on and cigars in their mouths.
A big group of dad’s frat brothers, all holding red cups and making silly faces and gestures.
Mom and Dad at a fraternity formal, Mom with bright blue eyeliner and big hair.
Mom with her best friends on Spring Break at the beach.
Mom catching the bouquet at the Mac’s wedding, and Dad pretending to be scared.
Their college graduations.
Mom, with an amazingly happy look on her face, holding out her engagement ring while her friends are gathered around looking at it.
Mom and Dad dancing and kissing at their wedding.
Dad carrying Mom over the threshold of our new house.
A group of their friends in a hot tub on a skiing trip.
Daddy holding me at the hospital the day I was born.
Mom and Julie holding Phillip and me as babies.
Mom holding my hands in the air, teaching me how to walk.
Daddy holding my hands in the air, teaching me the signal for Touchdown, when I was two, with a Nebraska game on the TV in the background and everyone around him dressed in red.
Daddy teaching me to ride a bike.
Christmas morning, wrapping paper everywhere.
My parents at Disney World, watching the parade, with me asleep over Daddy’s shoulder.
Dad, Phillip, Danny, and me playing soccer in the back yard.
Daddy blowing out the candles on a very pathetic-looking cake I had frosted.
Mom and me at my eighth grade graduation.
Our families all standing in front of a fountain in Kansas City, with the Plaza lights aglow around us.
A Thanksgiving Day flag football game, with all our families.
All our neighbors together for the annual block party.
My family, with the Diamonds and the Macs, this past 4th of July.
I glance at Phillip, who’s sitting next to me. When I was going through all the pictures, I realized how much Phillip and I have been together. He was in practically every picture with me, even if he was lurking in the background somewhere.
The screen flashes.
Dad, by the grill, holding a plate of very badly burnt hamburgers with Danny’s dad and Danny laughing.
The slide show is incredible. Phillip didn’t want me to watch it before the funeral, and now I see why. It’s like he got me the perfect gift and didn’t want me to open it early.
What would I ever do without that boy?
I reach over and put my hand on top of his.
> He glances at me, and I mouth Thank you to him. He smiles at me as he wipes tears from his eyes.
At the visitations, all the ladies were telling me what a lucky girl I was to have such a devoted and supportive boyfriend. At first, I told them that Phillip was not my boyfriend, just one of my best friends, but most of the ladies I said that to sorta rolled their eyes at me.
Like Phillip was really my boyfriend, and I was trying to keep it a secret.
When Mrs. Mac told someone that Phillip and I were just very close friends, the lady sneered and practically insinuated that close meant, uh close, as in based on the way he is always touching me, we must be sleeping together.
Which, well, we are, kinda. Since I can’t go to sleep without his shoulder next to me. But, you know, not in the way that lady assumed.
So finally both of us gave up.
It was easier to just agree than to try and explain.
So, when people asked him how his girlfriend was doing, he said, she’s hanging in there. And when people said I had an amazing boyfriend, I smiled and agreed.
And, of course, Phillip had to give me some shit about that.
So last night, when it was just us, he was referring to himself as my amazing boyfriend, my support system, my devoted lover, my, uh, close friend.
He really does make me laugh. And being able to laugh occasionally, in a situation like this, has helped release some of my pent up stress.
At least I haven’t blown yet.
The video ends, and the pastor requests that everyone join us at the place of rest.
And, seriously, this is the part I have been dreading.
This is the part that freaks me out.
The place of rest.
As in, the Cemetery.
Where they will be buried.
And I will never see them again.
Okay, yes, I know they are dead. I know they aren’t coming back.
I know they are never going to talk to me again.
But, for some strange reason—and I know this sounds kind of sick—having their bodies still here, like at the funeral home and here at the church, it’s like they are still a little bit here.
It kills me to look at Mom and Dad lying there in their caskets, not smiling at me, not teasing me, or telling me they love me.
But, at the same time, they are still here.
Well, sorta.
I mean, I definitely believe in God and heaven and all that. And I believe that their souls have gone to heaven, and that someday, when I die, we will be reunited.
But that doesn’t mean I am ready to let their bodies go into the ground.
It feels so harsh.
It feels like the wrong thing to do.
Because it feels like that is all I have left of them.
And I’m hanging on by whatever threads are left.
As Phillip walks me to the limo, I tell him, “Phillip, I don’t know if I can do this part.”
And of course, Phillip and I can’t carry on a conversation because people are wonderful. They keep coming up to me, and hugging me, and holding my hands, and telling me what wonderful people my parents were, how sorry they are for me, how my parents are watching in heaven, all that stuff people say at funerals to try and make you feel better.
And it does. I know they are being sincere but, still, I have a horrible feeling of dread inside me.
Because this is it.
After we bury them, I am going to be all alone.
Phillip pulls me aside, next to the limo.
“Princess, you can do this. You’ve got this. You stood up there and gave that little speech without crying. This will be easy compared to that.”
I whisper, “But Phillip, this is not the easy part, because when they bury them, I am going to be alone. All alone.”
And, really, that is the part of all this that scares me the most.
Phillip tenderly cups my shoulder with his hand and pulls me into a hug, then he smiles at me, touches the tip of my nose with his finger, and says, “Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily. As long as I’m around, you’ll never be alone. I do have my reputation to uphold as your, uh, very, close friend, you know. Heck, I’m going to be around so much, you’ll probably be begging me to leave.” He gives me a sly little grin.
I give Phillip a little smile, but I don’t get to reply because Aunt Sara and Uncle John barrel between us and hop in the limo.
Phillip rolls his eyes at them, and then says, “I guess it’s time to go.”
I follow them into the limo and it takes all my strength not to pull Phillip in with me.
To protect me.
I have to sit with just them, as in just Aunt Sara and Uncle John, for the next part of the service.
I really don’t know why I agreed to it, but it was important to John that it be just family, so I did. I figured since I planned everything for the funeral of his brother without his input, it was the least I could do.
But now, I wish I hadn’t been so nice.
Especially when I get in the limo and Uncle John doesn’t say a word to me. On the ride to the cemetery, I thought maybe he would say something about how I was brave to stand up there and speak, which so many other people have said.
Or how amazing he thought the slide show was because it showed them as we all remember them, so full of happiness and life.
But, no. Nothing.
I don’t think I like Uncle John very much.
At the cemetery, I take my seat next to John under the tent covering the two freshly dug graves.
We wait for the twelve most important men in my life, the pallbearers, to get the caskets out of the hearses. There’s Mr. Diamond and Danny; my dad’s fraternity brothers, Mr. Mac, Scott, Lance, and Barry; my friends, Joey, Neil, and Brandon; my dad’s work friend, Jeff; and his best high school friends and weekly basketball teammates, Todd and Mike. I really thought my mom’s friends should be able to carry her casket, but it was explained to me that pallbearers are traditionally men, and I would be smart not to stray from that because caskets are apparently heavy. So I made my mom’s best friends honorary pallbearers, which I hope made them all feel special too.
Of course, Phillip was going to be a pallbearer. But when we were planning the funeral, they told me the pallbearers all sit together, which meant that I was going to be sitting in the front row all by myself.
Well. I mean, John and Sara were going to be there too, but I wasn’t expecting any love or support from them.
That’s when I begged Phillip to take on an even more important role.
When we were lying in the hammock, looking at the stars the other night because I couldn’t sleep, I told him that he’s been my rock through all this and asked if he would continue that most important job and please sit with me at the funeral and hold my hand, so I wouldn’t fall apart.
Actually, I kinda begged.
Something about having Phillip squeeze my hand helps me keep it all together.
The pallbearers each grab a handle, as the caskets are slid out of each hearse.
Then they start the long walk up the grassy hill. Before today, many of the pallbearers didn’t even know one another, but right now they look like brothers, all in dark suits and all with the same solemn look on their faces.
I forget what they told me the caskets weigh, but I remember them saying they were easily supported by six men. What they didn’t say was that the emotions they seem to be carrying are much, much heavier than the caskets ever could be.
They all look like they are carrying the weight of the world.
I’m sure that if I could see my own face it would probably look the same.
The pastor has started speaking and I’m trying to pay attention.
I listen to the words and prayers he says, trying to find some comfort in it. But, well, honestly, I’m not really feeling it.
Because, internally, I am freaking out.
The pastor asks us to stand for the final prayer, and I know it
’s getting close.
As planned, the caskets will get lowered into the ground. John, Sara, and I are then supposed to sprinkle dirt over the top of each. Then we are supposed to slide one of the long stemmed roses out of the floral arrangement and drop it into the hole, as well.
I wanted to fight that part too.
I was fine with the dirt because I get the whole ashes to ashes and dust to dust thing, but the rose bothered me for some reason.
Throwing the rose in, I thought, would feel like it does when you throw a coin in a fountain and make a wish.
I mean, how sweet would it be if I could wish them both alive, throw the rose in, and have them pop out of their caskets, alive and laughing.
I don’t know. The rose feels wrong to me, but I agreed to do it.
I don’t know where my will power has gone.
I did ask why people throw the rose, and I didn’t really get a clear response. No one seemed to know why. They just knew people do it.
Finally, John got frustrated with me and told me it was out of respect. And you want to be respectful, don’t you?
But then I looked it up on the internet and found out the reason you stay to watch them get lowered into the ground is not out of respect. This process is supposed to be harsh and difficult for the mourners. It is supposed to force them to face the reality and finality of the death. Which in turn, is supposed to help the grieving process.
We’ll see about that.
All I know is when you start doing Google searches on caskets, pallbearer etiquette, and funeral traditions, something in your life has gone very wrong.
As you can imagine, lots of people have been giving me advice about how to handle this. About how to handle death.
And how to feel.
How to deal.
And I can’t remember all of it, but one piece of advice evidently stuck in my mind.
I was sitting on the couch at the Diamond’s house. We had all eaten dinner there and were getting ready to go to the visitation. Danny wrapped his arm around me, pulled me in tight, kissed the top of my head, and told me everything was going to be alright. Mrs. Diamond, who lost her own mother when she was only twenty-two, was sitting next to us giving me advice, but I was having a hard time concentrating because Danny looked so sexy that I wanted to just jump on top of him and start kissing him.
