My grandmother’s funeral was yesterday. The service was nice, though the preacher’s phrasing when talking about the phases of resurrection totally had me thinking about zombies, which was obviously not what he was going for. Dude, he used the phrase rising from the grave! Guarantee I was the only person there with that thought. Call it an occupational hazard.
I always have a really hard time with funerals. I know all the details of death, the processes the body goes through as it shuts down. I’ve studied murder and forensics and autopsies. As a kid I was taught how to clean and gut fish, fowl, and other game. Yet I can’t handle open casket funerals. Can’t. They make me want to crawl out of my skin and run screaming. This one wasn’t open casket for the funeral, but there was a brief family visitation before. I didn’t go in to see the body. I was too busy cowering in a corner, hiding behind my husband and in laws.
My grandmother’s plot is beside someone whose family planted daffodils all over their grave. I had to focus on that because I can’t stand all the artificial turf and fake flowers everywhere else. I held it together through the funeral, though I still have nail marks on my arm and the insides of my cheeks are pulp from being chewed on. It’s not my way to break down in front of others. My whole body just aches from the stress. I’m a rock when everybody else cracks, then I have to go crawl into my cave to cope. I haven’t gotten to my cave yet. But I will.
I finally get to go home tonight, back to my dogs, and my hubs, and my BED. Then it’s back to work and routine. The co-op is having their 10 for $25 azalea sale, so I think I’ll be planting this week to replace the azaleas I planted last year that died while I was dealing with hubby’s leg break and forgot to water them (not something that works in JULY in Mississippi). It will feel good to plant, I think. Another link in the chain.