Right Now, the World Needs Someone Like my Mother Alive to Help Care for Everyone Else

And maybe I’ve been nominated

I have been thinking about the graveside ceremony we had for mom. Like most things that happen around the time of a significant loss, the whole event seemed unreal, and I felt as if I were watching it from afar — undeniably a participant, but not truly present.

They buried my mother next to her husband, Theodore, and beside her parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles in Miller Cemetery in New Gretna, New Jersey. The cemetery was just across the backyard from the home on North Maple Avenue, where she grew up.

The cemetery where she and her siblings and friends ice skated in the winter, in a spot that was low, and chased each other with their dogs through the headstones of their elders in summer. A mysterious place, but safe enough for racing through in daylight. There were the seven child-sized stones in a row, commemorating the death of her little great aunts and uncles who all died in some outbreak of influenza years ago in the 1800s, hardly legible, now.

Mildred was the second child of Minnie and Fred Shropshire, who lived across from the Presbyterian church. The couple was to have five children and raised them through the depression with typical country ingenuity and hard work. The family ate from the land and the waters of the bay. They had a garden, chickens, and a cow. The children thrived, and all lived into their eighties and nineties.

Mildred died at the age of almost — but for 4 days — 95. Her health had been deteriorating for a while and she was not enjoying much about her life, though she still took pleasure in her children and their families, the wild turkeys and deer that began frequenting her neglected backyard, the birds she watched from the porch, and her daily breakfast of two eggs and raisin swirl toast.

After having several extended stays in the hospital, then a nursing home for rehabilitation one year, she decided she wanted to remain at home for the rest of her days. My brother and sister and I had to figure out how to make that happen. Toward the end of her final year, it was becoming impossible, and we finally hired a nursing care group to come into her home. She died after the first day of her caregiver’s visit, no fault of the kind woman who tried to help her that day.

My siblings and I decided on a simple graveside ceremony. Mom had outlived most of her relatives and friends, and we weren’t in the mood for an extended ceremony. With the added danger of Covid-19, an outside service seemed appropriate. Her funeral had been prepaid and even with these simplifications, all the ten thousand dollars she had paid years ago were neatly used up by the funeral home. Fine. We didn’t owe any money, everything was done around us as we watched, kind of dazed, and made necessary decisions. It was strange, but all three of us seemed in accord with everything in those days after her death. Just wanted to get it done. Mom was gone and we weren’t sure how life would go without her holding it all together. Three orphans. And I was the elder.

For the ceremony, the company set up a square white tent which turned out to be just big enough to hold the thirty-some mourners. The tent came with five tall men in dark suits clustered around the table where guests signed their names. There was a beautiful basket of flowers on this table. We had asked for donations to mom’s favorite charity instead of flowers, but flowers arrived anyway. Relatives from far away who couldn’t be there and wanted to send something, couldn’t resist sending flowers. They were beautiful and appreciated, of course. There were flowers from the children on the casket. A grave blanket, several peace lilies. One giant basket that contained literally hundreds of flowers — three dozen roses for starters. Mom would’ve been amazed.

People came I wasn’t expecting and filled the tent. We were glad to have them all. The rain began as we set out to drive to the service. Thunder threatened and the weather report predicted a chance of tornadoes or micro bursts. These things actually happened a little to the north of us. Our brief ceremony was untouched except by rain. The dark-suited men handed out umbrellas to guests as they walked from their cars. Then they gave out carnations for each person to place on the casket at the end. They herded people to the right places, helped carry the casket from the waiting hearse to its resting place next to dad’s grave.

A long-time minister and friend of my parents spoke the required words about life and death and the glory awaiting Mildred up above. My parents both believed strongly in a glorious afterlife of reunion with those who had gone before. Me, not so much. But, it was a comfort to some; I suppose.

I felt almost like I was catering a party — a white tent party in a cemetery — and needed to make sure things went well, right down to the dinner at a restaurant afterward. I was as present as I could be. I tried to really talk to the guests, thank everyone for coming, to make sure they were introduced to each other. All sorts of smooth and kindly language flowed out of my mouth. I remember continually wiping my eyes, opening them wide to be clear about who and what I was seeing. The rain was a hindrance, as were the tears that seemed to be dropping out of my eyes though I didn’t really feel like I was crying. I ignored them, let them fall, kept wiping my face with tissues.

Oddly enough for me, I was able to somewhat calmly read a prepared statement about mom, make jokes and loving remarks to people in the audience. I felt especially bad for her grandchildren, just coming to terms with this loss, and tried to let them know how much they had meant to their grandmother.

I hugged and cried with others who were falling apart, and generally tried to help wherever possible. It didn’t really feel like me doing all that stuff, though. My usual sarcasm, intolerance, independence, skepticism about anything religious, safely hidden away in the background. I was somewhere else, up in the branch of a nearby tree, perhaps, watching the tent party.

I have felt different since mom died. Like I have more responsibilities, now. Not just the work of clearing out and selling her house, or managing her meager estate, but emotional responsibilities. I don’t feel free to be cruel or sarcastic. To make jokes at the expense of others, to be impatient. Right now I am trying to stay steady.

It seems like she is somehow watching me, maybe from inside my own brain, to see how well I do. Mom was never a harsh judge of me. But she was a living example of goodness. I want her to know I learned the lessons she taught.

Who knows, maybe all this kindness and tolerance will gradually dissipate along with the acute pain of her death. Or, maybe I will continue to act as if I were my mother’s representative on earth. To be kind, honest, taking care of everyone around her, trying to relieve suffering, to spread good cheer, all with her own quirky style. It sounds pretty nice, I guess.

This is what I do know: since she isn’t here anymore, this poor suffering world needs someone like her. Maybe a whole bunch of them. Maybe I’ve been nominated. And I nominate you, too.

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