of birthdays and death, part II

[cassidyrose]

[Warning: If you wish to avoid reading about death and dying read no further]

The silence of death is what we are most ill prepared for. For me, it was turning off Bammie's oxygen tank and television and hearing how silent the room became. It was having to take down all the family photos and cards from the room's bulletin board. It was having to empty her closet and drawers at the nursing home. It was boxing everything up and walking it down the halls of the facility to our cars with the other residents and staff watching. There are only a few reasons why anyone leaves a nursing home, and this was the one most other residents and families were not looking forward to.

The stark silence of that room after she died, after her body had been removed stays with me. I kept walking in expecting to see her in the bed, then remembered, belatedly, that she was no longer there. The silence of tears and saddness is a difficult silence to bear.

Right after Bammie died I left the room and called ptor and catzen. I also called my grandparents' assisted living facility to let them know the news. Other family members went into the room to be with her body. I didn't want to. I felt done. I watched from the hallway as my family went in and out of the room, saw my mom sobbing against my dad, my aunt crying my the bed, my uncle silent and stoic, my grandfather slightly confused and uncomfortable, and me in the hallway distracting myself with phone calls and the necessary business of death.

When it was time, we all waited in the hallway as the mortician came to pick up her body. The nursing home staff closed all the other resident doors so as not to upset them with the sight of a fellow resident being wheeled out. It felt like an unwelcome but necessary ritual was about to take place. I guess it was. The mortician wheeled her out and it was silent, save for the painfully everyday sounds of phones ringing and birds chirping. He wore a navy suit and covered her body with a purple velvet cloth and I thought about what an odd job he job he had. As he was wheeling her body out, I noticed the velvet cloth was wrinkled and it bothered me in some deep and painful way. And then I realized that it hardly mattered.

Comments

[ptor.livejournal.com]

I hear you. I love you.

[ptor.livejournal.com]

It matters a lot that you posted this post. Thank you.