Funeral, Disrupted
Grieving the dead and facing the living
David Kwiatkowski
Three years ago, my grandma on my mom’s side died. I never know how to act when it comes to death.
My grandma was the most open and caring person I had ever known. She always tried to stay up to date in my life as much as possible. She never judged my interests and always accepted me for who I was as a gay man.
When I was young and interested in Bratz dolls, she bought me a Bratz drum set. One day, I was watching MTV’s “America’s Best Dance Crew,” and instead of asking me to change the channel, she sat with me and watched. I remember her asking questions about the different dance teams and enjoying the music.
My 80-year-old grandma was with the culture.
The last time I saw her was when she was in the nursing home. Her memory was pretty much nonexistent, and she asked me if I had a girlfriend. Usually, that would shut me down, but I knew that it was dementia talking and not ignorance.
She always smelled of Chanel No. 5, which I didn’t know was her scent until I desperately asked my boss at my internship last summer what she was wearing because she smelled like my grandma.
I meant it as a compliment, but I think it got lost in translation.
I couldn’t cry at my grandma’s funeral, but I think it was because I knew she was in a better place. She’d been in pain for a long time. But, when I looked around and saw everyone else crying, I started to feel guilty. They knew she was in a better place, and they were crying, so why couldn’t I?
Looking back at the service, I wonder if I was just too distracted by the selfishness of the living to allow myself to grieve for the dead.
***
My parents divorced my senior year of high school, and to say it was messy would be an understatement. Granted, my parents were not happy together. They probably would have been better suited getting a divorce when I was a kid.
As in most divorces, people took sides. Many people on my father’s side disconnected themselves from my mom. Some parted ways amicably, while others didn’t hide the fact they weren’t the biggest fans to begin with.
This caused a lot of tension and anger between people who used to be considered friends and family. It all started with my grandma’s boyfriend Bob, who insulted my mom at the beginning of the funeral.
When I was younger, Bob was as close to a grandfather as I would get from my mom’s side since my actual grandfather died before I was born. But that day, I didn’t see any of the old man who used to laugh so loud the house would shake and tell such good stories that I grew not to care how many times I had heard them.
I had just learned that before the funeral, he’d thrown away photographs of me and my sister that were hung up in my grandma’s hospital room.
The world had turned him cold.
As a family member, I had to be part of the line of people who stood up at the front and greeted everyone who attended the funeral.
He came up to my younger sister and me and told us how sorry he was about our grandma’s death minutes after calling my mom incompetent for the hairstyle she chose for my grandma.
I stood there politely and hugged him despite wanting to freeze. He went to my sister and did the same, but he placed his hands on her shoulders for too long. Instead of jumping in and breaking it up, I darted away into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
Why didn’t I just push that old man down the stairs? I thought as I looked into the mirror. Sure, I would have committed murder, but it would have been better than just standing there.
I washed my hands multiple times and wondered how I would get through the day.
When I returned from the bathroom, I saw that Tammy had decided to attend.
***
Tammy used to be so close to me that I would call her my favorite auntie, despite not being related by blood. Her daughters were my favorite cousins, and her husband was my favorite uncle. However, we weren’t so close anymore.
After the divorce, Tammy texted me one day and asked me if I would like to visit her mother. She used to be like another grandma to me, and she was dying of cancer.
I knew I had to see her.
When I arrived at her mother’s house, my father who I hadn’t seen in months was there, along with Tammy, who smiled at my sister and me as we entered the room and told us to have a seat.
The following two hours involved Tammy saying awful things about my mom, including how she was unfit to parent, how we shouldn’t trust her, and Tammy’s mother’s dying wish that I spend more time with my father. Her mother agreed.
I couldn’t understand where this was coming from, but looking back, I realized that Tammy’s mother was in so much pain, and Tammy had a way of manipulating people. I don’t hold it against her.
In December 2019, when Tammy’s mother passed away, it was heavily implied that my mom was not invited to the funeral. Tammy had her daughter lie to my sister and me that the funeral was “family-only.” I later found out that everyone else I was related to got to go, except for me, my mom and my sister.
I know my mom, though. As much as she wanted to say goodbye to Tammy’s mother, she would not have done something as cold-blooded as showing up to someone’s funeral uninvited.
And yet, here Tammy was, showing up to my grandma’s funeral. Uninvited.
***
The line was still moving. I stood there staring blankly ahead, hugging people I didn’t know. Then, Tammy came in, arms outstretched, approaching my mom for a hug.
“No, bitch!” my mom said, moving on to the next person.
Tammy was dumbfounded.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this here!” she exclaimed, turning to hug me.
“I’m so sorry this is happening to you, David,” she said to me.
In a catatonic state, I raised my arms and hugged her. I didn’t know what to do. My body was on autopilot. The most I could do was give her an attitude-ridden “Thanks.”
Tammy went to the back of the room and laughed, telling everyone how my mom called her a bitch. I felt terrible that I stood there and did nothing.
Everyone hugged me because I didn’t put up a fight.
My mom ran to the funeral home basement, wiping tears from her eyes. I came back to life and followed her.
“David, you have five minutes to get that woman out of here, or I am going to kick her ass,” she said to me.
I knew she meant it. I could tell by the tone in her voice and by the fact she had taken off her stiletto heels. I turned, nodded, walked upstairs and went straight into the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet, I set a six-minute timer and watched the clock run down. I couldn’t believe how heated this had become. I wanted my mom to beat Tammy up. I wanted it so badly. I am not one to wish violence on anyone, but I had never felt so betrayed.
I had been caught in the crossfire of problems that had nothing to do with me yet again.
My mom has her faults, but she still deserved to grieve her mother peacefully. I took a deep breath and ran cold water on my hands.
I finally left the bathroom to see that Tammy was still there, and I began shaking. I fumbled with my hands as I rocked back and forth and stared at her from across the room. My sister and I watched as Tammy began to spin the narrative that my mom had lost her mind.
How did the day meant to be about my grandma become about Tammy?
Tammy eventually left, laughing on her way out, but I was already too far gone. I had to take a bathroom break every five minutes to hyperventilate alone.
At the end of the funeral, I went up to my grandma lying in her coffin.
“I’m so sorry, Grandma.”
***
My mom, sister and I have flashbacks to that day, which hasn’t been easy. Even now, I have no idea who invited Tammy to the funeral. Not that it matters. I can forgive, but I will most certainly never forget. I was robbed of the day designated to grieve my grandma properly.
So, I’ve had to find other ways to remember her.
We always spent Christmas Eve at her house, and that day has now officially become our day of remembrance for her. Last Christmas, I was in isolation with COVID-19 and this was the aspect of the holidays that I missed the most.
Our birthdays were also two days apart, so I got a tattoo of our astrological sign with a periwinkle flower. The flower symbolized the name of her street, and whenever I find myself thinking about her, I glance down at my tattoo.
One time when I was little, my younger sister and I stayed over at my grandma’s house for a weekend. On the second day, we cried about wanting to go home. Our parents eventually picked us up, but I’ll never forget what my mom said to me.
“One day, you’re going to regret missing out on that time with your grandma.”
I do. And I always will.
