Barriers

January 9, 2010

It finally happened. At nine o-clock tonight, five days after the death of my grandfather, I finally broke down and really cried. When Dad called to say that Grandpa had passed I felt the initial sting. I knew logically that I would never see my Grandpa again and a few tears trickled down my face but I didn’t cry.

The first few days following Grandpa’s death, the family worked together to finalize the details. We each ran around doing our own designated tasks: picking out flowers, organizing accommodations, picking up loved one’s from the airport, laundry, shopping for funeral clothes, cleaning houses, preparing guest beds, organizing food, talking to pastors, compiling photos, talking to funeral directors, distracting/ assisting Grandma, etc. Although these tasks were done in a bit of a haze and we each were exhausted by then end of the day, I still hadn’t cried.

Visitations happened on the third day. My brother was due to arrive and plans were made to meet at the funeral home. After meeting with my parents at another relative’s home I started to head over to the first official “event” for Grandpa. It was all about to get pretty real.  Up until this point I had not seen my Grandfather’s body nor been in the same room with the entire family at once. I had dressed so I knew I’d be comfortable and confident, yet respectful. A quick stop at A&W for some chicken strips gave me a few moments to think. I thought about Grandpa, the reality of his death still not sinking in but I was getting really nervous about seeing him at the visitation. My legs shook subconsciously and uncontrollably, the chicken strips landed like a rock in my gut. I was nervous but the weepiness I had expected still eluded me. I figured I’d get weepy at the funeral home and the dazed and confused feeling I had would lift and true mourning could get underway.

Arriving at the funeral home, all was not well. Dad greeted me downstairs to let me know that Grandma was very upset. Grandpa had not been prepared properly and he way laying in an open casket looking more dead than anyone could imagine. Walking upstairs I saw some relatives lingering around but heard the quiet, angry tears of my Grandmother from the funeral directors office. My heart began to break, but still no tears.

Rounding the corner I saw my sweet, beautiful Grandmother standing over a long table covered with pictures of Grandpa pointing at them and telling the director how Grandpa should be looking. My little niece, Emily, a sympathetic and endearing little angel to everyone in the family, was standing quietly by Grandma’s side as a mini peacekeeper. I kneeled down to greet the little darling, trying not to disturb Grandma but she heard me. Tears poured down her cheeks as she came towards me begging me not to go in to see my Grandfather. He looked horrible, she said, and she wanted me to remember him as he was. In all my twenty eight years, I have never seen my Grandmother cry. A welcomed pain gripped my heart but only for an instant before it vanished again. I simply picked up my niece, snuggling her tight, and promised my Grandmother that I would not go in.

It was like my heart had hardened. For a brief moment, the tears of my family’s matriarch had penetrated through a thick, unforgiving, unfeeling barrier surrounding my heart and had reminded my soul of it’s ability to grieve but in an instant the barrier had resealed, protecting my soul from hurt. So, as the rest of the family attended to the crisis at hand I sat with my eight year old niece listening to her read through the poems in the program for the visitation.

Half an hour later, people began to arrive to pay their respect to my Grandpa. The doors to the hall were still closed so the family members not attending to the immediate crisis were left to greet visitors. I could not believe my eyes when I saw the first woman who came up the stairs. It was the mother of my former babysitter, a man who had molested both my brother and myself when we were little. Although shocked, I hardly flinched. Like a robot I put on a smile and greeted her allowing her the privilege to tell me how grown up I am. If that wasn’t weird enough a woman who I didn’t recognized had joined her at the visitation. The woman was introduced as her daughter-in-law. The man who, in my mind at least, should be locked in some prison cell or put in solitary confinement had married. Again, I felt only shock. Even when the daughter-in-law was commenting to my little niece about her two little girls and I realized that this woman had no idea what her husband had done to two innocent little children so many years ago, I still only felt shock.

Time finally came for the family to see Grandpa. The make-up had been re-done and the casket would remain open. We all gathered and for the first time I saw my Grandfather’s body. He looked good. The flowers looked good. Grandma looked good. And I felt…normal…numb. I thought for a moment I would finally cry when my niece stated plainly that Grandpa was probably flying his electric model airplanes in heaven (a hobby he had since I can remember)…but nothing. My boyfriend even squeezed my hand asking me if I was okay and I could honestly say yes. But was I okay or simply in denial? How could I be in denial when death was literally staring me in the face?

Visitation went by with the normal, “thank you for coming” and “I remember when…”. Some of my friends even showed up and kept me laughing the entire night. At nine o-clock the family kissed each other goodbye and my brother, his family, my boyfriend and I headed to McDonalds for a little bite. It was late, I was tired but I still ran through the Play Place with my brother and his daughter. Shortly after we were all crawling in to our respective beds and drifting off before another day without Grandpa would begin.

The morning of Grandpa’s funeral I made breakfast. Anyone who knows me knows that I can’t cook. One of my Christmas gifts was actually a little wooden plaque that says “I kiss better than I cook”. Truer words have never been spoken and yet, with the aid of my loving boyfriend I stood in the kitchen making breakfast for five hungry mourners. I couldn’t help but think of my Grandpa. I had been thinking about him for months now but I still could not cry. Even after breakfast when my darling little niece began practising Amazing Grace on her fiddle (something she would play for Grandpa later that day) emotions didn’t spill over. Yes, I was extremely touched. Her innocence and beautiful heart are stunning gifts to this world, but my impenetrable heart wasn’t giving an inch this morning.

At the church I presented Grandpa with his last cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, kissed my quizzical Grandmother on the cheek and took my place in the second pew, tissue in hand. At this point I felt it was time to let go. I was going to will my stubborn heart in to spewing forth the fury of emotions it so wanted to release but wouldn’t. By the end of the service I was determined to be a puddle of inconsolable mess.

The service began. The casket was closed. That hurt to see. It was the last glimpse I had of my Grandpa and I could feel the tightness in my chest developing. I looked over at my brother. He was holding his daughter close as she sobbed in to his side. A tear fell down my cheek. Then another. Then another. Then it stopped. My brother’s eulogy was hysterical! I laughed so hard that I almost cried…that was at least something. The hymns were beautiful and got me a little chocked up, I’ll admit. Then there was the story about the fork.

My Grandfather was being buried with a fork and the reason is as follows: A woman had been diagnosed with a terminal disease. She visited her pastor to plan her funeral. They discussed what she would where, the songs they would sing and passages to be read. As the woman was turning to leave that meeting she told the pastor she had one more important request, one that she didn’t want forgotten. She wanted to be buried with a fork in her right hand. When the pastor, obviously confused by the request, asked why she told him that she had so loved attending the functions at the church. The food was always wonderful and as someone would clear the plates from the main course someone would inevitably say “keep your fork”. This was the indication that desert was coming. Desert was the woman’s favourite part. Whenever someone would tell her to keep her fork, it was signalling that the best was yet to come. The woman explained to her pastor that she wanted everyone at her funeral to see her holding a fork and when they asked why the pastor was to tell them that the best was yet to come.

I loved this story. It was so beautiful and comforting. I had heard a bit of the story before the funeral and thought I would melt over it when it was retold but instead I simply smiled and nodded. By the time I was home again with my brother and the gang, playing cards and watching “The Sound of Music” I was deeply concerned for the wellbeing of my soul. Why wasn’t I breaking down? Grandpa had meant so much to me. So many amazing times of fun, games and laughter were shared with him and I couldn’t even will myself to mourn him the way he deserved. I was a horrible Grand-daughter!

This morning I woke early. This was the final day. It was the day our family would bury our patriarch in a private service at the cemetery. I showered, grabbed a quick piece of toast and by eight o-clock we were all in the cars driving to meet at the funeral home.

My boyfriend, my niece and I were the first to hit the parking lot at the funeral home. It had been snowing a few days previous and the lot wasn’t cleared very well. This provided a great opportunity to have a little fun. Pulling in to the lot my boyfriend pulled on his emergency brake and started spinning the car in the lot. My niece’s giggles rose up from the back seat infecting the entire car and we all laughed hysterically until finally we came to a stop and parked the car.

Dad was the next to arrive. Due to an ill wife, front wheel drive and a foot pedal emergency brake Dad simply came in and parked next to us. However, my uncle made up for Dad’s inability to take advantage of the snow. As if we had all planned it my uncle pulled in to the lot and spun his vehicle a few times before parking next to the rest of us. Everyone is every vehicle was laughing harder than any of us had laughed in a long time.

Next, not to be outdone, my brother arrived doing a full drift across the lot and two full circles. Let me remind you, none of this had been planned which made the unspoken game that much more funny! Once we were all parked we rolled windows down, chatting and laughing and trying to devise a plan to take the hearse and Grandpa for a few donuts in the parking lot. A plan that needless to say did not go over well with the funeral director, even though Grandma had thought Grandpa would enjoy it. The tone for the day had been set. We were going to commend our beloved to the earth and heaven’s arms with joy and laughter. Just the way he would have wanted.

The ceremony was quick and beautiful. Grandma shed some tears, my aunt shed some tears and I stood there. The entire family had breakfast together and even when we said goodbye (some relatives we wouldn’t see for years) I still had no tears. Coming home I felt nothing. Resting on the couch while my brother packed up, I felt nothing. Kissing my brother and his family goodbye I felt happy to have seen them but still no sign of tears. I worked out. We rented movies. I cooked dinner. We ate dinner. We watched the movies and then…..then the movies ended.

Suddenly, I was out of distractions. There was no one left around that I needed to be strong for. The room was quiet, the sun was down and my Grandfather was dead. I would never play cards with him again or watch him build one of his models. I would never watch old movies with him or discuss the Indy 500. I would never hear his amazing stories of war times and growing up. I would never kiss his forehead or tell him I loved him again. I would never see him at another Thanksgiving or Christmas and I would never celebrate another joint birthday with him, something we both cherished, again.

As the credits began to roll on the final movie so did the tears. I fell in to my boyfriend’s arms sobbing harder than I had sobbed in a while. I could no longer avoid what my heart and soul needed to feel. The barrier finally crumbled and I was a puddle of tears at last. I wasn’t broken like I thought. I wasn’t the heartless Grand-daughter. I had feelings and I loved and missed my dear Grandfather…and still do.

Now I lay here in bed typing it all out as some sort of therapy for myself. I can’t help but wonder if this had happened three or four years ago if it would have taken me this long to finally mourn.

My new life has so many wonderful aspects about it. I am developing more confidence and finding my direction in life. Still, there is something with me that was never there before I walked through the fires and had to pull myself from the ash. It is that barrier. It’s what feels like a hole some days and a hardening on others. The barrier, I know, is not physical. It is simply there to protect my mending heart, like a cast would, from further injury. I can’t help but be frustrated with it though. There is an itch under the cast that needs to be scratched. I need to get back to feeling and recognizing my emotions as I use to. I don’t want to miss out on anything in this life, even grief, because I have an inability to process my emotions properly. I want to live.