Step Away

As a challenge to myself, I wrote a flash fiction piece that is exactly 1,000 words. I have submitted it to several journals and magazines and nobody wants it. It’s quite possible that it sucks. But, for now, it’s all I’ve got. I’ve been working on adapting Forever 51 into a television series. No, Hollywood isn’t knocking down my door. I’ve been doing it as a challenge to myself and I’m finding it quite fun. I’m not exactly known for my page long descriptions of a person or a setting, but I am pretty good at nailing the telling detail and dialogue.

Anyway, this little piece is about death. It was inspired by my daughter’s job as a gallery attendant at The Modern.

“Please step away from the artwork. Thank you,” Patricia chirped into the exalted air of gallery four. She no longer bothered to count the times she said this rote expression during an eight-hour shift, but it had to be more than fifty. After twenty-three years at the Modern, that statement had become as perfunctory as “hello” or “good morning” when someone finally managed to notice her watchful presence. Through the years, the wording of this warning had to be changed to coddle the line crossing culprits. The big wigs upstairs worried that short, direct pronouncements from lowly polyester wearing personnel might scare paying guests from returning. It really didn’t matter how she worded the admonishment; the sentiment remained the same—please back the fuck up, in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. She was always pleasant. Not that anyone noticed. Patrons rarely looked in her direction as she reprimanded their proximity to the paintings. Most folks let the sing-song intonation of her words roll off their skin, as if they weren’t really doing anything wrong by leaning in too close to examine a brush stroke or an illegible signature. In their minds they were okay, not like the other rabble who couldn’t tell a Rothko from a Rembrandt. Not that the Modern had any Rembrandt’s. Patricia would have liked that.

Today was her favorite day to be on shift. On Tuesdays, adult traffic was typically low, but the galleries still bustled with busloads of children from the local schools. She watched as volunteer docents lead the gaggle through her gallery, stopping at certain pieces to impart a tidbit of interesting information about the artist or the painting’s provenance. Most of the kids were carefully attentive, happy to be out of the classroom, but there were a few whose eyes wandered to where she stood. In the past, one of these children would catch her shifting into a different sex or skin color. They’d quickly avert their eyes, tug on their teacher’s shirt sleeve, then sneak another look while the road maps of age traveled over every inch of her visible skin. Their eyes widened in amazement as her hair grew, changed hue, or receded as if frightened, back into the pores of her freckled scalp. But, with a solitary blink of their disbelieving eyes, the transition would end as if it had never begun. To the young and imaginative, she was simply another work of art.

It would have been nice if she’d felt treasured but there was little time for that, as her transformation lasted less than thirty seconds. It didn’t help that the return to her body felt disgusting and squishy, like she was a formless blob rising from the bottom of a murky, algae-filled lake with leeches attempting to attach to her flesh. The instant she resumed residence into her own skin, she would gasp for air as if she’d been holding her breath, which she might have been. She never knew what transpired in those missing moments. So as not to frighten those around her, she masked this gasp with a cough, but this practice had become equally disturbing to patrons. Inevitably, the sauntering art snobs would glare in her direction, huff their displeasure, then stomp off to the next gallery as if she’d single-handedly ruined their whole museum experience. She tried not to take their annoyance personally. Perhaps if she understood the reason she changed, who she changed into, or what she did when not herself, it might be different, but it never happened when she was alone in the comfort of her own studio apartment. There were always people, usually adults, mulling around her looking either pensive or forlorn.

Three children led by a young, frazzled teacher entered the gallery. As they approached the Koons piece in the center of the room, the teacher gripped the shoulder of an exuberant boy who looked as if he might explode out of his skin. She whispered something near his right ear, then looked apologetically at Patricia. 

Patricia smiled in response, yet remained immobile, her gaze following the towheaded boy as he wriggled free from his teacher’s grasp. The boy whooped into the quiet room then zigzagged  towards the next gallery as if he were dodging bullets. Patricia’s fingers began to tingle. She quickly brought the radio to her lips and quietly intoned, “code three, gallery five,” before she was lost to the moment.

The boy and his teacher were now in the next room. His shrieks of happiness dissipated as if he were a memory.

“Grandma!” a little girl, no more than five squealed, tugging at Patricia’s fingers.

Startled, Patricia gazed at her other hand which still held the radio. Mottled with age and adorned with pink polish, it was not her own. She tucked the radio into the pocket of her blazer..

“I missed you,” the girl hugged Patricia’s legs, which were now swimming in loose fabric.

“I’m afraid,” Patricia leaned over, whispering to the girl. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Don’t be afraid, grandma. I’ve got you.” The girl grasped Patricia’s hand tighter. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”  Patricia’s gaze darted around the white walled room. “This isn’t right.”.

“Mommy said you went to heaven, but she was wrong. You’re here.”

“Is this heaven?”

“I don’t think so, grandma, we’re at the museum.”

The radio came to life in Patricia’s pocket. “Gallery four. We need you in gallery seven to relieve John for lunch.”

Patricia released the girl’s hand to inspect the chirping foreign object. She brought it closer to her face.

A crazed woman rushed into the room, scooping the girl into her arms. “Don’t ever run off like that. I was so worried.”

“Look mom,” the girl pointed at Patricia. “It’s grandma!”

Patricia coughed violently into her shoulder.

“That’s just a nice lady who works at the museum. It’s not nice to point.” She turned to Patricia. “Thank you so much for watching her.”

“You’re welcome. I’m always here.”

Monday Mourning on a Wednesday

Way back in 2008 when I was researching death professions, I started a blog called “The Death Writer.” On that blog, I used to ask people the same questions that I’m answering in this post. My aim was to allow people to talk about their loved one and the grief they experienced, which might normalize this conversation in some small way.

I am coming up on the one year anniversary of my mom’s death and I still feel the weight of grief. The fact that my mom died of the Covid virus, which is still raging due to the Delta variant, complicates matters. I am not going to lie or sugar coat the fact that I feel a lot of anger towards the people who deny how deadly it is. I guess they have to experience it on a personal level before it gets real. With that said…

Who was the person?

My mom, Ora McCully.

How old were you at the time?

50

How old was the person?

88

Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

My mom was exposed to Covid 19 when my stepdad was brought home from physical rehab. He had been there for a month and wasn’t getting better. They assured my mom he tested negative, but after a bit of digging, I found that they tested him on the day he was released and the lab report said, “sample spilled in transit, please resubmit.” He died eight days after coming home. Five days after his death, she tested positive for Covid and was admitted to the hospital. I wrote about this experience for CNN. Because she was so healthy, I totally thought she was going to be okay. It wasn’t until she had to be intubated on her birthday that the possibility of death really sunk in. My mom didn’t want to be intubated and the doctor couldn’t do it without her consent. He asked that I come to the hospital to convince her. And I did.

I wrote about my regret about making that decision for an anthology called “The Phone: An Unruly Collection of Second Chances.” This book was inspired by an art installation called “phone of the wind,” which you can read about here. I believe it will be released in December of this year. I will keep you posted.

Did you and the person ever talk about death?

Yes. I had written a book called “Death Becomes Us,” which she had read. She attended one of my Death Over Dinners and I encouraged her to get her affairs in order. At the time of her death, she did have an Advance Directive and a handwritten will, which is legal in Texas, but her spouse died before her, and he didn’t have a will. They were both each other’s beneficiaries, which was incredibly complex to navigate. Please, do your loved ones a favor and draft a will, an advance directive, appoint someone as your medical and/or financial power of attorney. Trust me on this one. It is never too early to think about and plan for the end. It is truly a gift you can give your loved ones.

Had you experienced any other deaths in your life before this person died?

Yes. My grandmother, Lola, when I was fourteen. My mother-in-law, Lovina Skjolsvik and my dad, Bob Johson. My neighbor, Burch Stevens, also died in 2020 and I found his body.

Were people supportive of you in your grief or did they shy away from you when you were grieving?

Because I wrote about my mom on Facebook to update friends and family on her condition, many people reached out to me after she died. People sent cards, sent flowers and dropped off food. But, as is typical and I am just as guilty of it as the next person, after the initial flood of sympathy and concern, people stop talking about her. Why do people, including myself, do this? Because they don’t want to make you feel sad. SPOILER ALERT I am already sad, so you bringing up my mom isn’t going to make me even sadder. If anything, it reminds me that she lives on in the thoughts and memories of others. I may start to cry, but I’ve learned through grief counseling that that is okay. The more we love, the more we are going to grieve. I am going on a year and my grief is still there. While it’s not as raw as the day she died, not a day goes by that I don’t think about my mom or want to call her and tell her what’s going on in my life or ask her a question.

Was the person buried or cremated?

My mom was cremated. Next week, my mom and stepdad will finally be placed in a cemetery. Due to the surge of Covid cases in Texas, the in person memorial service has been postponed.

Did you learn anything about the grieving process you’d like to share?

Because we can’t gather due to Covid and my siblings don’t want to risk their health by traveling to Texas right now, I have learned how important gathering with friends and family is in the grief process. People need people. We also need ceremonies and rituals. We did have a Zoom memorial that I livestreamed on Facebook, which was nice, but I would have preferred to have had one in person. I may not be the huggiest person in the world, but I needed lots of hugs. Still do.

Were there any songs played at the memorial that were important to the person?

Yes. My sister-in-law, Nancy, made a lovely slideshow of my mom. The video plays to the song, “You and Me Against the World” which was a song that she used to play a lot when I was a kid. She said it was our song. It makes me bawl like a baby everytime I hear it. Another song that brings me to tears is “Remember Me” from the animated film Coco. My mom loved music, so there are a ton of songs out there that remind me of her. When I was a teenager, I used to be embarrassed when she would sing in the car with my friends. Now, I would give anything to hear her belt out a show tune.

Monday Mourning: The Death of a Spouse

It has been a few years since I had a Monday Mourning post, but then I started the 2020 Quarantine Book Club on Facebook, and one of the authors in the group wrote a book about the death of her spouse, so I figured I’d see if she would be willing to answer the standard questions I used to ask everyone. And she said yes!

Billie Best is the author of “How I Made a Huge Mess of My Life (or Couples Therapy with a Dead Man)” an uplifting memoir that dives deep into the power of women in midlife. With poignant humor and brutal honesty, she takes on her broken marriage, cheating, grief, death, downsizing, starting over, and learning to age well.

Who was the person that died?
My husband, Chet.

How old were you at the time?
I was 54.

How old was Chet?
He was 54.

Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?
He was diagnosed in June 2008 with Stage 4 lung cancer, and after 5 months of chemo and one month of hospice, he died in January 2009.

Did you and Chet ever talk about death?
We talked about death often from the time of his diagnosis to the time of his death. For several years we had lived on a livestock farm where we raised and killed cows and chickens. We discussed how our animals should be killed, we saw good deaths and bad deaths. We had seen my father-in-law die a miserable death, even though he was in hospice, because he refused to discuss his own death and left it to his wife to decide his care. His wife felt death was intended to be a punishment for all we do wrong in life, so she thought it morally just to withhold pain medication from her husband. The memory of his father humiliated by death, writhing in pain on his death bed, had a huge impact on my husband. He knew he wanted to die with dignity.

During the months before his death Chet researched the many ways of dying and celebrating death. He decided that death was the completion of the cycle of life and must be like birth in reverse. He insisted we put as much planning into his death as we put into our wedding and we did. He forbade me to dial 911. He didn’t want to go to the hospital or be in a body bag. He planned to be naked, wrapped in a white sheet in his cremation casket. He thought if he calmed himself and embraced the process of dying that it would be like falling asleep. He made me promise that after he died only people who loved him would handle his body. He didn’t want to be shipped around like lost luggage and kept in cold storage. He wanted to be kept at home from the time he died until he went to the crematory for his cremation. I promised I would honor his wishes.

What neither of us could have foreseen is that he would die on a Friday afternoon at the beginning of a three-day holiday weekend. In order to honor his wishes, I would need to keep his dead body in our home for five days. Having my husband’s corpse in the house made death feel normal. The spirituality of the initial dying ebbed, and he was just a man, cold as stone in a room with the windows open and the winter breeze blowing through. I learned that death is ordinary. As ordinary as birth. As easy as sleep. Just as he imagined.

Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before Chet died?
My husband and I had experienced the deaths of grandparents, as well as his father. Also, my grandparents and great-grandparents had operated a family funeral home business in the small town where they lived. As a kid I played hide-and-seek with my brothers in the casket showroom. My mother told us stories about styling the hair on corpses her father had embalmed. And my grandmother told us stories about playing tricks on her father, my great-grandfather, by moving the arms and legs of corpses he was embalming. Death was the family business, so it was natural for them to make jokes about it. Interestingly, most of them chose to be cremated.

Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away from you when you were grieving?
People were very supportive of my grief. After Chet died, I invited friends to visit him at our house, we had a party for him, played music and read him poetry. For the people who experienced his dead body in the same place where they had enjoyed dinner with him, sat on the couch with him, watched movies with him, it was a revelation. We were busting taboos, completing the circle of life and embracing the inevitable. It felt radical to have a dead body in the house, and yet once we were all there together celebrating, it felt natural.

Is there anything you wish you'd done differently with this person?
There are many, many things I wish I had done differently with my husband before he died. But that is the story of my marriage, not his death. His death was a beautiful experience.

Was Chet buried or cremated? He was cremated.

Did you learn anything about the grieving process you'd like to share?
Grief is forever. I kept thinking I would get over it, outgrow it, cure myself of it, distract myself from it, forget it, move far enough away from the past to be out of reach of grief. But it’s always there inside me, seen or unseen. At first it was overwhelming, then it sat like a dark cloud over my life, now it drifts in and out of my experience, but it is always there, near or distant, silent or awakened, and I have accepted that it is part of me.

Were any songs played at the memorial service that were important to Chet?
On the day of Chet’s memorial service I had a dinner for 100 people at the farm and afterward we spread his ashes on the land while a bagpipe player stood on the hill above the barnyard and played Amazing Grace. Chet had always loved the mournful moan of bagpipes, and to hear it echoing around us as we took fistfuls of his ashes and sprinkled them about is one of my most treasured memories of the whole experience.

Billie with Chet. Photo by Jason Houston

Thank you Billie Best for sharing your experience on the Monday Mourning blog. It is not easy to talk about death and grief, so I am grateful for your willingness to share your story. We don’t always know what to say when someone is talking about the death of someone they love. So, if you’re here and you don’t comment, please hit the “like” button so we at least know you read the post.

If you’re still here, I have an added bonus for Memorial Day. My book Death Becomes Us, is FREE on Kindle today 5/25/2020. While you’re there, pick up a copy of Billie’s book. I’ve read it and it’s really good!

The 2020 Quarantine Book Club will be interviewing Billie about her book on 7/9/20 at 5pm CST, so if you’ll like to join us, join the Facebook Club.

If you’d like to take part in a future Monday Mourning post and share your experience with my readers, reach out to me! I am also looking for women of a certain age to interview about perimenopause/menopause for my newest blog, The Pause.

Last, but certainly not least, help me save the USPS. I bought a TON of stamps and if you sign up for my newsletter, I will send you some swag (stickers, bookmarks and now buttons!) from my debut novel Forever 51.