My friend Lee died suddenly six days ago of a condition she didn’t know she had. I haven’t slept well since, and I’m surprised to be so affected by it.
I should probably be calling Lee an acquaintance rather than a friend. I’d only known her a few years and we never had the opportunity to spend much time together. But it would have been almost impossible to be Lee’s acquaintance. Her heart and her mouth were too big for that. Once you met Lee, she was your instant and lasting friend if she liked you. If not, you and she parted ways. But acquaintance? Unlikely! Why am I surprised to be awake, and writing at 4am for the sixth consecutive night?
Lee’s funeral was like her life, overflowing with people. Six heartfelt, often funny eulogies helped me reflect on some of the deaths and funerals I’ve known during my 84 years. May I say “funerals?” “Celebration of life” seems to be the currently preferred term but there are differences. The dearly departed are usually present at their funeral but generally incinerated before we “celebrate.” I like having the body there, and if I loved the honoree, I don’t feel like celebrating. I prefer funerals. A memorial service a year later is nice too, but I still don’t feel celebratory.
I was 15 at my first funeral and believe me, it was no celebration. My 85-year-old maternal grandmother died of a stroke on my 15th birthday. She had lived with us all of my life and had been failing for a few months. My mother and I took her for what turned out to be her last walk before I left for school that morning. She was so loved that it was the only time I saw my father cry. Her death was painless, inevitable and timely, but my mother and her sister Margaret wailed hysterically for weeks, trying to transform this sad but ordinary event into a tragedy.
Grandma’s eulogy was delivered by the house rabbi at the Riverside Funeral Home, a man who had never seen her while she lived. It being my first funeral, I took everything at face value. After a few years of thinking it over, I decided that Grandma’s funeral was managed badly. People who knew and loved her should have stood up to say nice things about her. I should have stood up to say nice things about her.
Seven years later, I was back at Riverside for Aunt Margaret’s funeral. This time, I relieved the house rabbi and delivered the eulogy Margaret deserved. It was easy because Margaret had also lived with us for years at a time, was always good to me, and I loved her.
The next funeral I remember was for my friend and mentor, Ken. He was a tenured young professor who could easily have coasted through life before losing his proverbial battle with cancer, but he never stopped working his ass off to make a better world. Like Lee’s funeral, Ken’s was standing room only. Unlike Lee’s, it was lavish in ways that only Roman Catholics can pull off. Then came my father’s funeral and my father-in-law’s. My mother became a recluse, so her funeral had few attendees. The weirdest funeral was my mother-in-law’s because she died during the COVID-19 pandemic, so I attended via Zoom.
Until recently, most of the deaths, funerals and celebrations of life starred members of older generations. But at 84, I’m the older generation. Lee was nine years my junior. My oldest, dearest friend, John, whose mother was my mother’s friend since their grade school years in Vienna, died of a sudden heart attack last September, nine months after Alan, my second oldest, equally dear friend. Alan wasn’t as lucky as John or my grandmother. It took him 20 years to die of Parkinson’s.
Cousin Eric died two years ago but we’d lost touch. I found out about it online, the day before Lee’s death. My cousin Caroline’s husband is dying of Alzheimer’s. Caroline told me about his diagnosis at her brother’s funeral a few years ago. His Alzheimer’s is taking its time, which seems harder for Caroline than for him. Larry’s wife died last summer, and Marty’s the winter before that. Marilyn, my wife’s grade school friend, died somewhere along the way. Sister-in-law Julie made it through a recent bout of pneumonia, a narrow and temporary escape. Aunt Trudi, the last of the older generation, died a few months ago. And let’s not forget Kristi, who chose Medical Aid in Dying and left us a film about it. (www.tinyurl.com/KriNi20)
The reason my mother gave for her late-in-life reclusiveness was that whenever she went out, she’d meet acquaintances who invariably said, “Did you hear who died?” This upset her so much that she stopped going out. I understand. It’s dizzying, feeling trapped in “Musical Chairs of Death.” I’m not exactly enjoying it, but it is strangely interesting. I’m not avoiding it and neither did Lee.
I miss you Lee, and I’m grateful for this added perspective. I think I’ll sleep better tomorrow night.
Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.