I do not consider myself a socially awkward person. I don’t think I have a problem talking to
people. I sometimes talk to strangers
while standing in line at the grocery store (no, I’m not THAT crazy old lady
who turns to the customer behind her, smiles just a little too crazily and says
something like “there’s a great sale on fancy feast cat food today. I’m gonna
buy 3 cases. The neighborhood stray cats are going to be happy today.”) If a stranger makes small talk at the table next
to us at a restaurant, I’ll politely converse with them. I’ve also been known to initiate small talk
by saying how adorable their children are or to ask what they ordered because
it looks delicious. Hell, I talk to all
levels of professionals, from admins to presidents of large companies, for a
living, all day every day. I can talk to
people fairly intelligently and easily.
EXCEPT at a funeral. For some
reason at a funeral there is a switch in my brain that shuts off. The one that sends the signal to my mouth
saying “this is an appropriate comment of condolence and comfort you say in
this situation” before I speak. For some
reason at a funeral I turn into a bumbling, mumbling idiot! It’s a wonder I can even form a complete
sentence, however it’s probably a sentence I should NOT say, like “there’s a
great sale on fancy feast cat food at HEB today.” Even before the funeral, I start getting very
nervous and my hands get clammy and my stomach starts to turn in on itself…general
anxiety at the thought of having to address the family members of the departed.
Fortunately, I have not had to attend
very many funerals in my adult life.
A few days ago, my mother tells me Jack passed away. Jack and his wife, Martha, were the first
people my mother, sister & I met when we moved to Austin some 35 years
ago. They lived across the street from
us and quickly became a permanent fixture, as close to family as possible if
you will, in our lives. So, when my mom
was telling me, I immediately braced myself for what I knew was coming next,
the dreaded “His funeral is Saturday, I’d very much like it if you went with
me. It would mean a lot to Martha and to
me.” I’m relieved this conversation
between my mother & me was taking place over instant messenger so she
couldn’t see the immediate distortion of anxiety and despair on my face. I told her I would have to think about it and
get back to her.
Some of the first thoughts I had were of excuses of why I
couldn’t go. “oh, I wish I could but I’m
going to be cleaning my oven.” Or “I wish I could, but I’m going to be studying
up on my quantum physics.” Please know
these excuses were not to be rude or insincere at all. I was truly saddened by Jack’s passing and I
wanted to pay my respects. But in a way
that wouldn’t cause me to convulse in a full on panic attack at the thought of
talking to Martha and their family. Then
I started to think about my Dad’s funeral and how people spoke to me. Unfortunately, because it was MY Daddy in
that coffin and I was an emotional basket case and deeply devastated and numb and
mildly sedated, I couldn’t really remember actual words spoken to me. NO, I wasn’t blitzed at his funeral! I just had to take the edge off because I tend
to cry at pretty much anything…I’m a crier…and I didn’t want to full on bawl
during the service.
For as long as I can remember, Jack & Martha have been a
significant part of our lives. When we
lived across the street from them, they were pretty much surrogate parents to
me & my sister. I know they are the
primary reason my mother made it those first couple of years as a single parent
of two small girls in a new, big city without one single trip to the mental
hospital. I know they were her strength
and support when she needed it most. Even
after we moved from that house and throughout the years, Jack & Martha were
always the first to arrive for Christmas Eve dinner, graduation parties, weddings
& receptions, baby showers, birthday parties, they were always there! I also remember Jack as always smiling and
happy and fun to talk to and just nice to be around.
“Ok, Lara, time to suck it up, put aside your fears and do this
to show sympathy for Martha and support your mother.” I finally decided. I knew it was going to be tough but I was
determined because Jack & Martha have done so much for us. I had to mentally prepare myself for several
days but I went. I told myself I was NOT
going to cry!! Yes, I was very sad and I
know it’s ok to cry at funerals.
However, I also know once my waterworks start, there is no stopping the
oncoming flood of tears and I’ll wind up crying over the craziest things for
the rest of the day. I made it about ¾ of
the way through, holding fast to my resolve not to cry. Then someone got up and read letters written
by Jack’s granddaughters, saying goodbye to him. Cue the full on bawling from Lara! When I cry, my nose sees this as a signal to
flow full throttle. Thank goodness we
chose a pew that had a box of Kleenex on it, almost as if it were a sign from
above, because I couldn’t get them out fast enough. My sniffling can be heard for blocks and
sometimes a pig like snort escapes. I
needed to stifle this with the Kleenex before the church was completely quiet
for the final prayer.
The service ends and we are directed to the front of the
church, where the family is waiting to accept our condolences and
sympathy. Nope, I can’t do it. I can’t go through this receiving line and
talk to the family looking like a puffy eyed Rudolph the red-nosed rain
deer. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to
shake their hands or hug them, considering I’m now carting about four thousand
cried on and wadded up tissues, with NO trash can between me & them. There was no way I was going to open my
mouth! I probably would have told them I
prefer liquid laundry detergent over powder because the powder tends to clump
and not fully disperse unless you dissolve it some of the water before you put
the clothes in the washing machine.
Marcus and I said goodbye to my mother & sister on the
walk over from the church to the reception hall, where they were hosting a
reception for the family, and left before I could say anything completely
stupid to anyone.
Maybe Martha will read this one day, maybe not. But if she does, I want her to know my heart
grieves for her and with her. Jack was a
wonderful man and I’m deeply sorry for her and her family’s loss. I just don’t know how to verbalize it, but I
can convey my deepest sympathy here, by writing it.
I don’t know if I will ever be completely rid of my “funeral
anxiety” and I really hope I don’t have to make any more attempts at it again
anytime soon. But for now, I’m off to
HEB to get cat food and laundry detergent because they are both on sale!!
