Sometimes an Outhouse is the Only Place "To Go"

I remember my first experience with death. I was very young. He was Mr. May and he worked at a gas station. Back then we called them service stations because they served their customers. I don’t remember Mr. May but his wife babysat me and they were friends of my mom. I thought they were really old but most likely they weren’t much older than I am now. I remember being told that the service station was robbed and Mr. May was shot and killed. I overheard details that really bothered me but I never told. My mom and my brother went to his funeral while I stayed home with my dad. We played. I think he was trying to keep me busy so I wouldn’t ask questions.

Death wasn’t something I understood and it wasn’t something I associated people with. My fish died. My hamster died. People…..not so much. I don’t think it was part of any conversation in my house and really why would it be? My job was to play and be an annoying sister. I was good at both.

As the years went by I remember my granddaddy going in and out of the hospital. All I was really told was that he had some strokes and it made it hard for him to speak. He would go home and I would avoid him because I was so afraid that I would say or do something that would cause him to have another stroke. I didn’t know what it was, but whenever someone was sick or hurt I always felt funny. It’s hard to explain but I guess I was empathizing more than a child should. I just thought I was strange. Regardless, I stayed away from my granddaddy as much as I could. Over time, his health declined and one day I was told that he died. I didn’t understand. What 10 year old really would. This was the first person that I knew in a close way who died. 

My mom was gone a lot of the next several days. Now I know she was spending her time making arrangements and grieving with her sisters. The day before the funeral we went to the funeral home. It was a strange and crazy cold place. Most of the people were in a room while I sat outside on a couch. I was bored. People came and went, I sat. I now know that it was the viewing or visitation. Everyone filed in and filed out. I sat. Now keep in mind that these are my memories and sometimes the things that a 10 year old experiences seem more monumental than they really were/are. The only real person who can correct me is my mom and since she isn’t here I will just tell you my version. 

I sat on this round couch/ottoman thing. I played, talked and mostly complained about wanting to go home. This was clearly not a place for a kid to hang out. It was getting close to the time we would leave and my mom came out of this distant room. ‘Good it was time to go.’ That’s what I thought. No, it was time to go in there. I wasn’t about to go in there. Why would I ever want to go in there. I watched as people went in and out all day. Most were crying when they came out. Nope, I wasn’t going in there. My mom was not pleased to say the least. “It will be easier if you so see him today. If you don’t see him you will have a hard time accepting that he is gone.” As a 10 year old and now as a 45 year old I didn’t buy that. Dead is dead. If you tell me someone has died then I will believe you. If you are wrong then I will be pleasantly surprised when I see them. 

Maybe I am wrong here but I remember being taken in kicking and screaming. I remember being forced to “view the body.” Very traumatic. I have carried that with me my entire life.

The funeral happened. I remember a few very emotional family members and then a long drive to the cemetery. Still I had no real clue what everything meant. The funeral was over, the graveside service was over. It was over. 

I was standing with my mom in the front of the little country chapel when I saw it. A front-loader scooping dirt in a hole. “HOW WAS HE GOING TO BREATHE!” 

It was in that moment that I understood. He was gone. What was being covered up wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t there. I understood. 

Just a side note here……I clearly remember being just as traumatized at the fact that this little country cemetery didn’t have modern plumbing. I had to use the outhouse! I was 10, my granddaddy died and I had to use the falling down outhouse that had a wooden seat with grass growing up. Not to take away from the events of the day, but these things are important and it gives me a good title for this post.

Yesterday in church I started thinking about my mom’s gala. I reflected on that place it was held. It was the same place I had been to for my granddaddy’s funeral. It is a necessary place but it holds so many memories that I dislike. I started to think about her casket. I picked it out, with the approval of my dad and brother. It was white with gold angels on the corners. 

It was white. My mom liked white. She said it just seemed clean. I don’t’ know what the inside looked like, that was a minor detail. I never imagined her laying in it. At that point in time, she was still alive and talking. She was still my mom who could hold my hand. She and I talked about it later. She smiled when I told her that it had angels on it. She approved.

What I let myself imagine yesterday was her body laying inside. How strange that after all of this time that is what I was thinking about. I never saw her. I don’t know how she “looked.” I don’t know first-hand if her final wishes were carried out. I asked a friend a few months ago what she looked like. She told me. I made the right choice to not see for myself. Pancreatic cancer stripped my mom of her body fat and caused her liver to fail in such a way that her skin, eyes, everything was yellow. I told the funeral director that I believed he would do his best but I also knew that he was not going to be able to make that body look like MY mom. He agreed. 

We didn’t have a graveside service. It was too hot. I did see the tractor cover the hole. She wasn’t there, it wasn’t hard to see. 

We are coming up now on 2 years since she left. I don’t regret standing outside of that building while others viewed. She wasn’t in that building and my place was to be where she was. Outside seemed right. I haven’t been back there. I haven’t seen the headstone in person. I’ve seen a picture. I deleted it. It said something but I remember Eva McKinney. Why was her name carved in that chunk of stone? {{sigh}}

Sometimes I wonder if I should go see for myself. What would it accomplish? It would make me cry, it would make me miss her more. I have no desire to go. Think what you want but seeing a grave won’t make anything better. No, now is not the time and frankly I believe when my dad leaves I will see it. I pray that will be a long time away.

I’m not sure why all of this came flooding back yesterday. Maybe I have unresolved issues. Maybe I just like to torture myself. Maybe I’m trying to put everything in its place. Time will tell all.

Please don’t think that I am stuck in a grieving place because I’m not. I think I’m in a better place than I thought I would be at this point. It’s just sometimes these memories or just thoughts creep in my head. I believe that everything has a purpose and sometimes I choose to explore where they came from and why.