My New Year’s Eve was spent at my Mother’s house, playing cards and having dinner. My oldest sister has a massive party at her house – but my other sister and I just go to Mom’s and play cards with her and her husband and relax, enjoying a quiet evening. Partly because we don’t care for huge, loud crowds of people we barely know. But mostly because we’re never invited.This year was a bit odd. On Thanksgiving day, my mother’s twin sister died. And now, as of a few weeks ago, we all found out that my stepfather’s mother – who is 89 – is dying of cancer. My mother looks after her, having put her in a nice home only a few miles away. She drives there every day to give her mother-in-law her medicine and they take her out for trips and have her over for dinner every week and holidays. She’s frail, can’t hear a bloody thing, and shrank to about 4 foot 3 in the last several years.
She’s clueless to the fact that she has cancer, even though Mom made sure the doctor explained everything to her. And that’s fine – better to be clueless and happy, I say, at the age of 89. She thinks she’s 91.
Anywho – with all this going on lately, my sister and I were treated to a New Year’s Eve dinner conversation that went something like this:
Mom: “Well, Esther has her plot already, it’s beside her husband, but we picked out a coffin last week. It’s white with a pink lining, one level up from the cheapest, since they’re really expensive. Then we had to buy a liner.”
Me: “What’s a liner?”
Mom: “They line the grave with this metal box, then the coffin goes inside, and then the metal top is sealed over it.”
Me: “What in the hell is that for? Can you skip that bit?”
Mom: “No, it’s required now. And it’s nearly $1,000 on top of the coffin, which is $1,500. But her plot, when she bough it, was only $80.00. Can you believe that? Nowadays it would be over a grand. So her coffin has a pink lining–”
My Sister: “Hang on – did she die last night and you forgot to mention it?”
Mom: “No, she’s fine. The doctor has no idea how long she has, we’re just getting things ready.”
My Sister: “Oh.”
Mom: “She looks pretty in pink, so we went with the pink lining, and Joyce (her daughter – same name as my mother) liked the white coffin. Oh, and we’re not going to have a viewing. She isn’t going to be embalmed, which they do only for viewings, and we don’t want a viewing.”
Me: “I thought they embalmed everyone?”
Mom: “No, only if you want a viewing, because it’s a health concern. Decaying bodies and stuff. If you don’t embalm them, you can’t view them after 12 hours because they start giving off bacteria.”
My Sister: “So no embalming?”
Mom: “No. Besides it wears off after a few weeks, and you decay anyway, that’s what they told us.”
Me: “Well, ashes to ashes.”
Mom: “Oh, and Jerry can’t decide if he wants to be cremated or buried. But I’ve decided to be cremated and I want under my brother’s headstone. Jerry wants the space beside my brother.”
Me: “Well, Cindy and I want cremation, but we don’t care where we go. The back yard is fine.”
Mom: “Jerry is freaking out. He wants to be buried and he wants a headstone so everyone can come see him.”
Me: “I haven’t even visited Dad’s yet.”
Mom: “Well Jerry’s freaking out.”
Jerry: “I’m going to put your mother on the fire place.”
Mom: “You are NOT! Jerry, you’re putting me under my brother’s headstone. The girl’s father is under his father’s headstone next to his mother, who’s under it too.”
Jerry: “I’m going to put you on the fireplace, so I can talk to you.”
My Sister: “Don’t worry, Mom. If Jerry puts you on the fireplace, we’ll put Jerry IN the fireplace.”
Jerry: “I don’t want to be cremated.”
Me: “You’ll do what SHE wants, or we won’t do what YOU want.”
Mom: “Oh, and Jerry wants to be buried with Kaylee. So if the dog dies first, he wants to save her ashes. I think that’s ridiculous, but that’s what he wants.”
Me: “Okay, if the dog dies first, we’ll take Jerry out back and shoot him, then put them in the ground together.”
Mom: “Do you think the nursing home will clean her body if they find her dead, or will we have to?”
Happy New Year.
The Velvet Zebra 