Saturday, November 27

Saturday we woke up early. We had to identify Annajane's body at the funeral home—this was the only time we saw her. Her face was perhaps less gaunt than I remembered. Her mouth was stretched wide, the corners of her lips turned down. Her nostrils seemed creased, her eyelashes ragged. She was pale, pale, pale, and her hair was combed down in a way that showed all her grey. They'd twisted a rosary in her fingers. I'd been studying childhood pictures of her all week, at Nanna's, and oh, but it was her, still... she wasn't old enough for her face to have lost any of its character. I slipped an envelope with pictures of her dogs under her scarf.

They gave us too much time with the body. I think it was only half an hour or so, but Nanna was getting antsy and Marina had started telling too-long stories of the deaths of some of her distant relatives.

Beaker's parents, whom I love dearly, came up for the mass. Several of our close friends who were in the New York area for the holiday came, and both of Annajane's social workers. We clustered in three pews at the front.

The priest came in very flustered that we hadn't volunteered anyone to do the readings (Beaker went up, finally). He was Indian, and I suspect that Nanna couldn't understand anything he said. But the organist was there, as was the resident soprano, who sang "Ave Maria," as Nanna had requested. I was surprised to be so comforted by the mass. I am an atheist. But I attended that particular church so many times, as a child. Seeing the pall in a familiar tapestry over the coffin, smelling the incense, listening to the intense focus on death as a gateway to something better... yes, the abstraction of Catholicism, and all its rituals. Yes.

We were a small procession up to the cemetery. Ricky had gotten two bunches of flowers at the supermarket that morning. We each laid a long-stemmed pink rose on the coffin. (To all those present who had never met my mother, and who stepped forward with roses: I am in awe at your aplomb, your grace, your being there for me. I will remember your example when I must be strong for others.) Ricky put down the entire bunch of yellow daisies, and the flowers lay bright in the sun against the slate-gray coffin on the green astroturf mat covering the grave.

We had made a reservation for lunch afterwards at a restaurant near the cemetery. Ricky and Marina sped Nanna back to the apartment, even though she'd said at the gravesite that she thought she could manage to talk with people for a bit (she apparently went straigh to sleep as soon as she got home). At the restaurant we talked of upcoming weddings, of traffic encountered, of poison ivy and New York accents.

Beaker's parents weren't leaving until 8:00 p.m. We spent the afternoon with them, touring a silly old mansion. After checking in on Nanna (just up from her nap, and turning the mass over and over in her mind—happy with how it had gone), we had dinner with them. We discussed the IVF cycle. They came through with their often-offered financial help, finally: a check that will cover about a third of Cornell's fees, never mind travel and drugs, and that's only a little less than the funeral was.

Comments

[Cecily]

Wow. I can't believe you started stims in the midst of this... sorry again and again...

[jen]

I just want to tell you, for what it's worth, how much I have come to admire your strength and common sense and grace. You have been through so much, with so much grace and dignity, and I'm sorry you've had to go through this as well. Thinking of you.