American funerals are such a strange custom. We take a person's dead body to a fancy funeral home, we remove all their blood and guts, we pump them full of chemicals, and then we put them on display for people to cry over. I don't know about you, but I think this is just plain weird.
My grandfather died this past Sunday. He lived in a nursing home for the last few years of his life and died of congestive heart failure/shingles/Alzheimer's/Parkinson's/kidney failure. His death was expected yet sad. I sat in his tiny room on the Alzheimer's unit for four hours with my mother and grandmother. He lay in bed covered as if he was sleeping but his chest never rose. We sat there until he was hauled away by the mortician.
In those hours alone with my mother, grandfather, grandfather's brother and his wife, and my aunt and uncle I mourned. I let go. I said my goodbyes because I knew that he was at peace with God. He could finally feel the grass between his toes, the sun shining on his face, and the breeze off the lake. He was free from pain and the sickness that plagued him for the last twenty-five years. In that time, I had my own funeral for my grandfather.
Yes, I attended the "real" funeral with all of the pomp and circumstance associated with dying. There were lots of tears, floral arrangements, mood lighting, old photos, speeches, and a fancy coffin. The body of my grandfather lay there enshrined on an oak pedestal. To me, it felt so wrong to mourn such a simple, humble person in such an over-the-top way.
My grandfather was a kind man who would do anything or anyone. He was a mechanic, a soldier, and a brain tumor survivor. He spent the entirety of my life with a large portion of his brain missing, but he still loved me more than anything. I will miss him, but I will mourn him in my own way. I will honor him with my kindness to others and my love for my family.
My grandfather died this past Sunday. He lived in a nursing home for the last few years of his life and died of congestive heart failure/shingles/Alzheimer's/Parkinson's/kidney failure. His death was expected yet sad. I sat in his tiny room on the Alzheimer's unit for four hours with my mother and grandmother. He lay in bed covered as if he was sleeping but his chest never rose. We sat there until he was hauled away by the mortician.
In those hours alone with my mother, grandfather, grandfather's brother and his wife, and my aunt and uncle I mourned. I let go. I said my goodbyes because I knew that he was at peace with God. He could finally feel the grass between his toes, the sun shining on his face, and the breeze off the lake. He was free from pain and the sickness that plagued him for the last twenty-five years. In that time, I had my own funeral for my grandfather.
Yes, I attended the "real" funeral with all of the pomp and circumstance associated with dying. There were lots of tears, floral arrangements, mood lighting, old photos, speeches, and a fancy coffin. The body of my grandfather lay there enshrined on an oak pedestal. To me, it felt so wrong to mourn such a simple, humble person in such an over-the-top way.
My grandfather was a kind man who would do anything or anyone. He was a mechanic, a soldier, and a brain tumor survivor. He spent the entirety of my life with a large portion of his brain missing, but he still loved me more than anything. I will miss him, but I will mourn him in my own way. I will honor him with my kindness to others and my love for my family.
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