I wonder what's gonna happen to you

I know many take comfort in the thought that a departed loved one is watching over them, in a guardian angel sort of way. I do not. To be perfectly honest that thought bugs the shit out of me, and has always caused me more consternation than comfort.

Looking back, I know that this curious quirk has always been part of my make-up, my nature, although I was lucky enough in my youth to not lose anyone close enough for it to fully rear it's ugly head. That is until my Mom's Dad died.

His death was disturbing to me, because as I said, it was the first time someone that close to me had died. It also didn't come gently. He wasted away from heart problems in what was his living room (fuck you irony) on the sofa while I was trying to adjust to being a freshman in college and being away from home for the first time. Those were strange days indeed. But my point is this. I found myself alone, often thinking about my dead Grandpa and my fucked up version of what is beyond this life. That could be a whole BLOG post in and of itself, so I won't go there today. I'll just say this: it is very contradictory that I obsessed so much considering I wasn't (and am still not) sure what I believed regarding all that. But back to my point which is this. I spent a lot of time sitting by myself and thinking about my dead Grandpa watching me from beyond.

At first this thought, as I'm sure it does for many, gave me comfort. I figured, if I was in trouble, he could help me. Awesome.

Then, my black and white nature revealed itself and I realized if he could watch me when I needed help, he could also watch me whenever he wanted. Not so awesome. That meant he could watch me when I was doing things I'd rather him not watch, dead or alive.

Trust me. I know how screwy this sounds, but if I'm honest I have to admit that back in that day I was what amounted to a fucked up honky version of Rockwell stumbling around the OU campus.

Over time I got this quirk under control or so I thought. Lie in wait is more like it. Waiting for another person close to me, my Mom, to die in her living room. In fact, my first relapse occurred a few days before she died.

At that point in our story she was a slack jawed, wide eyed, catatonic wasted shell of her former self and I was her #1 son (her expression, not mine, made funnier by the fact that I'm an only child) dealing with the business of her death.

It was while price shopping her cremation arrangements (seriously,) that I asked myself if she could see or hear me doing this surreal exercise? The 'What to expect when you are expecting (someone close to you to die) book' said that she could, see and hear me, even if she couldn't communicate. It suggested that I talk to her. Normally. As well as watch what was said in front of her regarding her impending death so as to not scare her, or make the process stressful. That could make her cling to life longer. Fear and unfinished business. Which is kind of funny if you think about it. I didn't want her to die.

Again, I digress. The point is this: I was thinking about If she could see or hear me as I had heated discussions with the various funeral homes over what I felt were their bullshit business practice of price gouging bereaved families.

Seriously. Dig this. One place would charge $7,000 for what another charged $3,000, which made no sense considering that both places used the same ovens to cremate.

Three places tried to convince me to embalm my Mom, even though I had stated at the beginning of our conversation that she didn't want to have a viewing, thus there was no need for this additional $1,000 expense.

Two places tried to sell me a fancy casket, even though I was discussing cremation, with the dyno seal (so the worms don't get in I guess) that would have cost thousands of dollars without disclosing the fact that a person is cremated in a nondescript cardboard type box that I believe ended up costing $40. I don't even want to think about what they do with these gently used coffins they end up keeping.

I was on the phone for a long time that day, trying to keep my voice low, and not get mad, so what was left of my Mom would not hear what was being discussed in the other room, and could die peacefully.

As if.

While I was handling the business of Mom's death, my Dad was busily sanding the front door so he could paint it red less than three feet away from Mom's hospital bed. This might sound odd, until you consider that he had promised Mom a new red front door and he was trying to make good on his promise.

He finished that door four hours before she died. I wonder if Barbara Karnes would consider a honey-do item unfinished business?

As it turns out, Dad taking care of what I considered strange business was a recurring theme in the days following Mom's death and the perfect opportunity for my quirk to rear it's ugly head.

It was impossible for me to not think about Mom watching us do things I'd rather her not watch. Things like taking care of her cremation arrangements in between buying a new dishwasher and truck.

To be fair to Dad, the dishwasher was something that he had needed for a long time, but hadn't had the opportunity to get because he was busy nursing his bedridden wife. Purchasing the truck is a bit more complicated. My Mom convinced Dad to buy a Nissan Armada a year or so before her death. Dad didn't want an SUV, but acquiesced because he knew Mom's motive were the Boy(s). She pictured a future where they would need a big SUV to carry the Boy(s) around on trips, and when they would have them for a week or two during summer holidays. To this day, I can't see a Nissan Armada without feeling a pang of regret.

But it was while doing these curious type of things that I found myself wondering if Mom was watching. And if she was, what did she think of Dad buying a dishwasher less than 24 hours after she died. Or getting rid of the Armada he never wanted. Did she watch me clean out her car because we had sold it to one of her friends less than 48 hours after her death?

I don't fault my father for any of this. You do strange things under that sort of stress. You also don't have the benefit of hindsight. That understanding of how strange memory can be, and that you will remember the things you want to forget while forgetting the things you want to remember.

"Why don't you ever cry?" Wy once asked me.

"I do cry, son." I said. "Everyone cries."

The truth is Dear Reader, I only cried in front of my Dad, truly cried, once during those dark October days. It was after I had put the final load of stuff in my car and was about to head back to Dallas. I was looking at Dad's new truck, his temporary license plate actually, when he walked up with a bunch of something in his arms.

"Here." he said trying to hand it to me.

"I don't want those." I said. "I can't take those."

"You and Carter paid for them." he said. "They'll fit a twin or double size bed. That's what size the hospital bed was."

"I don't want those." I said more forcefully, feeling the pain of the past two weeks well up from deep inside of me.

"Ok." he said, seeing that I was upset.

"Dad." I said, as I fought back the tears, "I don't care how much they cost us, I don't want the sheets that Mom died on."

Dad nodded, with such sad eyes which made me cry in earnest as I embraced him in a hug.

I still wonder if Mom saw or heard me say this into his ear: "You can burn those fuckers for all I care."

Until I BLOG again...You wonder what has happened to me...