It's kind of ridiculous how many things are going on in my family. Within a year, there's been a wedding, a death, and there will be a new baby born. Life seems to change too quickly.
Monday morning I woke up and just felt kind of somber (aside from feeling completely miserable from this cold Bob and I both had). I also started thinking about when we could go down and visit my grandparents again in St. George. Around 11am my mom calls me and almost ignoring the usual pleasantries she said, "So, there's no easy way to say this," and then took a really long pause. I just knew it was Grandpa. She finally continued on, "Grandpa's blood pressure has dropped and he's in a coma. We don't think he's going to come out of this one." He's done things like that before, but somehow he'd always fool us and come out of it telling jokes and singing songs.
But not this time. My mom heard my silent recognition and let me off the phone. Bob had seen my facial expression change during the conversation and moved over to the couch to sit with me. I hung up and tears filled my eyes. I looked up at Bob and recited the whole thing to him through little sobs. He held me as I cried, and then I wound up reminiscing for an hour, telling stories about Grandpa and laughing about how jolly of a fellow he was. Mom called an hour and a half later to tell me that he had finally passed. I asked how she was doing and we ended up laughing about some favorite memories of Grandpa.
Mom flew out Wednesday morning to Salt Lake, I picked her up and after a four hour drive we were in St. George embracing more family members.
I guess I wasn't sure what to expect for a funeral. See, I've had to miss various family members funerals for different reasons (school, school again, three weeks before I got home from serving a mission for church). I suppose I felt that I needed to finally experience one.
Note to self: Avoid ever planning another funeral if at all possible.
It was a really hard week for me. I drove my mom around and tagged along when someone else drove, tried to help others make decisions (for example, choosing flower arrangements or adding another song to the funeral service), offered to help at every step of the way, and all the while I put on a cheerful face and ignored myself for the most part. I was not the important person there, and I did not need the attention that my grandma, mother, aunts, and uncle each needed.
It wasn't until Thursday or Friday afternoon that I finally felt my wall of strength start to break. I went with my grandma, mom, and uncle to the funeral home to take care of some last minute arrangements for the service the following day. After that was all taken care of we walked out of the arrangement room and down the hall to make sure grandpa looked nice for the viewing. We stopped at a door, and one of the employees opened it to let us inside to see him. Uncle Jeff stopped a few feet away and said he would wait in the hall for us. I looked in the room and saw the casket, opened with Grandpa's body inside. I stopped and couldn't get myself to go in there either. I sat down in a chair as tears filled my eyes. It finally started sinking in then. A few moments later my mom and grandma exited the room, red-eyed and sniffy-nosed.
Then we all went to Dairy Queen to drown our sorrows in some frozen desserts. It's amazing how much a chocolate covered strawberry Blizzard can help ease the pain of losing a loved one, even if only for a moment.
The viewings and funeral service were wonderful (wonderful as funerals go). We all cried. Grandpa loved singing, dancing, and music. I mean, he had a passion for anything to do with music. He sang in choirs and barbershop quartets for probably his entire life. So when the barbershop quartet (which he used to be a part of) started out the service singing "Always," we all cried, knowing that he was singing right along with them, happy that he's free from old age and pain, but missing his wonderful spirit.
He also loved being outside--hiking and gardening especially. I remember seeing him out in his huge garden everyday when we'd visit their home in Hurricane, UT throughout my childhood. The smell of tomatoes, peaches, and grapevines in the warm, dry sun of southern Utah is something that can never be replaced and will forever remind me of him. After the service several of us drove over to that old yellow, stucco house. It was all different, changed. The yard where his garden used to be was owned by the neighbors. The front door was different, the clothesline was gone, as were his grapevines and peach trees. I cried, wishing that I could somehow go back and relive those wonderful memories.
Other favorite memories: His big cheeks and that permanent five-o'clock shadow of whiskers he'd rub against my cheeks every time he gave me a hug; that smile of his that was so infectious and made everyone else around him smile; his hilarious sense of humor and desire to always make people laugh; his huge heart and the way he'd give anyone anything, even the shirt right off his back--which I'm sure he's actually done more than once.
He loved life so much that I think it took his physical body a while to realize he wasn't really living once his mind started to go a few years back. He truly lived life to its fullest. It was just time for him to go, and now that he's free from his broken mortal body I just know that he's singing and dancing, laughing and hugging all of those who've gone before him.
I hope that's how I can enter the next life.
