June 5th a year
ago my Brandon was no longer with us, but his beautiful shell of a body was and
a several-hour “viewing” was set for that evening. How do I explain the
unreality of such a situation? It defies maternal contemplation. I vacillated
between a state of zombie-like detachment to one of hyperawareness.
A week or more before, when
I was struggling with the doctor’s one-to-six months pronouncement while
observing Brandon’s obviously deteriorating health, the Jesuit priest/friend –
the one who’d come to the hospital and anointed him - asked if I’d like to talk
about it. On that May day, with no thought that Brandon had less than several
months, we set an appointment time for the morning of June 5, 2012. At the
hospital he asked if I still wanted to stop by on the 5th. I decided
to go ahead, although I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get any words to come out.
The morning of the 5th
was one of hyperawareness; colors seemed brighter, sounds more distinct and
fragrances more intense. My mouth felt dry constantly. My skin literally felt
as if it was crawling. I was shaking. I needed to do something physical, so I
hopped on my bike and pedaled across the Ohio River to St. Xavier Church in
downtown Cincinnati. Several times I heard Brandon’s voice cautioning me to pay
attention as I cycled, as hyperaware is not the same as hyper-alert!
Father Eric and I talked of
many things, Brandon’s death and funeral among them, but it was a question he
asked that stayed with me. “What do you dread the most about tonight (the
viewing) and tomorrow (the funeral Mass)?” So many things came to mind, but the
one I dreaded most was easy-peasy.
“I most dread the hugs, the
touching,” I said. “I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I understand why
people will want to hug me, but I dread it. The thought of it creeps me out.”
“That’s okay. Let people
know you don’t want them to touch you,” Father Eric said.
I laughed. “How do I do
that?” I asked. “I know they’ll want to hug me. I understand their need to do
so. How can I say no?”
“Their need is not your
problem. It’s okay to say no to touching, to hugs,” Father Eric replied. “Ask
your family to handle it. They can let everyone know that you don’t want to be hugged.”
We arrived at the funeral
home for the viewing about an hour before the posted hours of 4 to 8 p.m. A closed
casket was planned due to how thin Brandon had become over the last weeks.
However, the funeral director had worked such magic, and Brandon looked so
Brandon – right down to his lips curved in his inimitable half-smile, it was
decided to keep the casket open during the viewing. Christina and her family
sat to one side of the casket and I sat to the other.
I never moved, except for a
few restroom breaks. From my vantage point I could look at the beautiful shell
of my baby, which I would never see again after the next day.
On and off my husband or one
of my adult children would come to sit with me for a while during that surreal
evening. Then they’d go off again to greet one or more of the approximately 850
persons who came to pay their respects. My sisters made sure I always had a
bottle of water and a small cup of chardonnay on a table next to my stool.
Because of the crowd the viewing lasted well past 8 p.m., and I’m told at times
during that evening the line wound through the funeral home and down the block.
A few of Brandon’s friends and a couple of my siblings established an impromptu
tail-gating “party” in a nearby parking lot, and many viewers stopped by to
“party on” and toast Brandon. He’d definitely have approved!
Although I couldn’t say
exactly where my husband, other children and their spouses were for much of the
evening, I knew they were following Father Eric’s suggestion. Almost every one
of the 850 persons who greeted me that evening said, “Your daughter/your
son/Joe (my husband) told me I’m not to hug you tonight.” Only a few acted as
if they intended to ignore my family’s directive. Perhaps some hadn’t heard or
they had forgotten, but I simply put up a hand to stop them and explained.
It is difficult to express
how freeing it was and how much I appreciated Father Eric’s “permission” to
avoid what I most dreaded for that most awful evening. What a gift! Usually I’m
rather good at saying “no” for myself, but I was (and in many ways still am)
drifting in a fog on an uncharted sea and my body was in adrenaline overload.
I won’t forget his question,
and I hope I remember to ask the next person who needs it, “What do you dread
the most?”
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