Death and Funerals

Envirboi's entry today about attending his uncle's funeral made me think about my attitude towards funerals... and that I'm not sure what that is.

I have never been to a funeral, or a memorial service of any kind that I can remember. I think that's partly because I come from a small family with relatives fairly scattered, and that I never had a big circle of gay friends (maybe that's an unfair assumption, that gay men go to a lot of funerals).

Anyway, as an atheist I think it's kind of pointless, despite the whole explanation that funerals are for the living, to give people a sense of closure, etc., etc. I might find out that I'm horribly wrong some day, but I don't think it would mean anything to me. I do understand how some people might need it. If anything, watching a season of Six Feet Under helped me understand that.

I almost went to a funeral once. I must have been around nine to ten years old, and my sister just five or six. We were living in Pittsburgh, our parents still married (divorce came when I was 11). We found out that our grandfather had died. My mother's parents lived in a small town in Missouri, had a house on a pretty big piece of land with two ponds. Well, they liked to get in a little boat and row out into the middle of the bigger pond and fish. Apparently one evening (the details of this are sketchy and second-hand; I don't remember exactly how I found out, but I don't think we were told at the time what happened) my grandfather was out in the boat and he fell in the water. Neither of my grandparents knew how to swim, and he drowned while my grandmother watched helplessly from the shore.

So, we all packed up and flew to Missouri for the funeral. I remember being at our aunt and uncle's house and just kind of trying to lie low while a parade of relatives came in to console our grandmother. I just remember more tears and huggng over and over as they came in. Then, when it came time to go to the funeral, our grandmother did not want us to go. She told us to 'remember our grandfather as he was.' We were pretty young, so maybe it was for the best. Who knows. But I seem to remember there being a disagreement, and my father was annoyed that we had flown out there (and been pulled out of school I think) and now we weren't going to. But we stayed, with a sitter I think.

Then my mother either stayed, or she returned to help our granmother pack up to move to their other house, which was in town. She returned, and I think it was not more than a few weeks later that we got a call at night. Once again, we were nto really told anything at the time, but we heard our mother screaming at our father "She planned this all along!" She was angry more than upset, it seemed. Apparently our grandmother had committed suicide: she'd started the car and let it run in the attached garage with the door open. Again, I don't remember how I found this out, but it was not till much later.

We did not all fly back out to Missouri. I think my father went with my mother, but I'm not sure. His parents died when we were very young, and we were never close to his brother and sister. My mother had a younger sister who died as a child of Lieukemia I think. I have 3 half brothers, but have not spoken to any of them for 20-25 years.

My parents are both getting up there in years; it won't be long before I have to face this funeral thing. The scary thing is, I can't imagine going to my father's funeral... it would just be too weird to see those people. Who would expect me to attend, and why? The only people I would go for would be my sister, and my father's third wife Lyla, who we always liked.

Just thinking about it makes me... depressed.