avatarDana Swoyer

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Trinkets

Nothing prepares you for when someone dies but there’s absolutely nothing in the world that prepares you for what happens when they die in your house. While it was a privilege that she allowed us to be part of her final and most important journey, there are some things that would have been better not to witness after she passed…but we did.

My brother and I stood quietly in her room while the hospice nurse stepped away to make ‘the call’ to the Coroner. Our oldest brother was twelve hundred miles away with his tongue stuck in a bottle, sleeping it off.

It was like being in a bubble, just the three of us, and it was quiet. Really quiet. It seemed surreal, like we were suspended in a time warp standing there, bewildered as we looked at Mom. Through the tears, it almost seemed peaceful and I couldn’t help but look toward the ceiling wondering if she was ‘still there’ watching us, if she hadn’t quite left yet. Suddenly, we realized the funeral director was standing in the doorway and just like that, the bubble popped, yanking us back to real time. He was a large man dressed in a dark suit. I’m sure that’s the professional funeral parlor attire, but to me, it magnified the creep value that he was a guy who made a lot of money collecting the deceased.

It really was over, or so I thought.

At the funeral director’s suggestion, we left the room. “This is something you probably shouldn’t watch” he said, placing a weighted hand on my shoulder. “It can be disturbing for most people.” What disturbed me was that his touch wasn’t consoling in the least so I wasted no time ducking out from under the hand that touched dead people and was now touching me.

He was right. We didn’t want to watch what happened next. After giving one last look at our tiny mother asleep in the bed, we turned to leave only to be met by an ominous metal gurney accessorized with a black zipper bag that was parked outside her room. It was a horrible thing to have in my house and I don’t think I’ll ever understand why he didn’t tell us about it.

I remember shifting my gaze away, hoping to ignore the residual energies of all those who rode it before her. I swear I could hear faint, far off whispering voices of all those expired souls. I couldn’t reach the front door fast enough. Before I knew it, my brother and I were pacing outside on the coldest night in February as our mother was prepared for her ride downtown.

I can’t remember what my brother and I were talking about while we were outside or if we were even talking at all. It was all such a blur. The night was cold, silent and very dark except for the stars, which somehow seemed to have multiplied in tenfold that night. For some strange reason my thoughts went to the neighborhood. All those people I’ve known for years had grown to enjoy my mother over the last nine months during this temporary arrangement. They were sound asleep in their beds and unbeknownst to them, her body was being wrapped and gathered and zipped.

I still struggle at the memory of the dark silhouettes. The funeral director, the assistant, the cart, and my mother — as they slid her into the back of a van. Now it was really over, or so I thought.

Before she died, I had to secretly make her ‘arrangements’ during trips to the grocery store. She would give me a list of things she needed and I’d go get them — after detouring to the funeral home. She wanted absolutely nothing in the form of visitation, a memorial service, nothing. “I want to be cremated immediately” she told me. It made me sad that she didn’t want people who loved her, and there were plenty, to come and say goodbye. But it wasn’t about me.

During a short meeting with the people at the funeral home, I was very curious about ‘the process’. They explained everything to me but my big question was “And then what?” “Well, she’ll be returned to you.” “Do I have to come pick her up?” “Not necessarily. Often times we mail loved ones to the family.” “Like, in the regular mail?” “We use Fed Ex.” (my eyes a bit wide now) “Well do the Fed Ex guys know that?” They smiled, understanding where my head was about this. “Yes, they’ve been doing it for years. It’s very discreet.” I sat there a moment, processing. “Do you have to mail her to my house?” “Whose house did you have in mind?” “My brother. If possible, I would prefer she be sent to my brother in Buffalo. That’s where we’re all from and where we’ll have a family ceremony.” “Yes, we can send her to your brother.”

Well at least that detail was taken care of. It’s the little things.

The next forty-eight hours after she died were a blur and I don’t know if I could have held it together if not for my brother being there. I dreaded his departure but knew it was inevitable because he’d been with us for nearly three weeks and had a family back in Buffalo to go home to. With that, I knew there was no way I could go through ‘her stuff’ alone. The keepsakes of my mother’s entire life were condensed into what could fit in the nooks and crannies of her 12’ x 12’ room. We took advantage of our mental fog and got to the task immediately, like ripping off a bandage. Anyone who’s been there knows, it’s one of the most difficult, intrusive, and painful things you have to do.

There really wasn’t much. We got a good laugh stumbling upon a couple things, (our mother was quite a character with a great sense of humor) like the plastic Excedrin bottle full of — water. That might confuse some people but knowing our mom, we both drew the same conclusion and said in unison: “holy water”. Our mom was a nut. A sweetheart, but a nut. It would be exactly her style to empty a bottle of aspirin into the bottom of her purse and fill it with holy water from a church she rarely attended when nobody was looking. That way she’d have her own personal stash just in case she found herself in some moral emergency, she was covered.

When we got to her jewelry box, it was basically full of small and sentimental things, all worthless, yet priceless. An old coin here, a pretty piece of costume jewelry there. For the most part, it was full of a bunch of little things I knew I’d hang on to for the same sentimental value till a day came when I felt I could let go. With the exception of two things.

Original photo by Dana Swoyer

I caught my breath when I found the gold ‘coin’ necklace I remembered seeing in her jewelry box since I was just a little girl. It was definitely solid gold and had the most exquisitely engraved “J” on it. I handed it to my brother and while he looked at it, I picked up its partner, a gold Bulova watch. When I handed it to Greg, he noticed more engraving. “Hey, look at this” and he read it aloud. “JOYCE 12–25–54 LOVE BOB”.

We looked at each other with our mouths half open a moment and at the same time said “WHO’S BOB?!” Our father’s name was Jim and they got divorced in 1972. What a fun distraction this was! We started doing the math and Mom would have been 18 when ‘Bob’ gave her this watch. Back then, this was a very expensive gift for a teenager to give or get. And that’s when I noticed the J on the necklace was cleverly paired with a B.

The remainder of the morning was spent sorting through knick knacks, a treasured box of old photos, her clothes of course, things like that. We decided it made sense that I would hang on to the watch and necklace.

The next day, after some much needed sleep, my brother had to set off for home. I don’t think it was ever harder to say goodbye to him. But, he was there for me during Mom’s final moments, through the sorting of stuff, and I was so grateful. It was time for him to go and I would be ok, because this time, it was really over…

…or so I thought.

“Hello?” “Exactly when were you going to fill me in?” My brother was on the line and I could detect a mild degree of WTH in his voice. “Fill you in about what?” “About? How about when were you going to tell me (at that instant I knew what this was about) MOM was coming to my house?” “Oh, that. I guess I forgot. Sorry. But I’m glad she made it there ok!” “If you can call it that! The kids almost opened the box! What am I supposed to do with her now?”

I couldn’t tell if he really was upset or annoyed or what. For the most part I had done a mediocre job recovering from the mom bomb going off in my house but not without the daily stressors that stick around like an earthly purgatory for the mortal family members. Nobody tells you about those. And that’s when I cracked.

“Greg! Do whatever you want with her! In the spring we’ll all get together and take her out by Gramma’s grave. I just can’t deal with this right now! Not with all the calls and letters coming in! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your mail and find things addressed to your dead mother? Do you?!” He tried to say something but I wasn’t done.

“I’m trying to recover from the giant hole left in my bank account because every single day I left the house, it cost me fifty bucks because she needed something! My kids don’t live here anymore! I’m getting ghost letters! I’m getting bills for her unpaid medical and phone calls from a collection agency for the things she didn’t pay! I can’t deal with what to do with a shoebox full of Mom right now!”

It was like a major pressure valve finally being released and I was partly crying, partly laughing like a mad person, partly whining because I thought it was over, and clearly it wasn’t. I was rambling on and running sentences together when he finally interrupted me.

“Wait…wait, wait, wait. What? Who’s calling you? Who’s sending you bills?” I told him. The minutes that followed put my brother Greg into Hero status in my eyes. He put us on a three-way call to the collection agency and the conversation is embedded in my brain forever:

“Stop sending my mother’s bills to my sister.” “Mr. Anzalone, I don’t

think you’re aware she had accrued over thirty thousand dollars of unpaid

medical services.” “Yes, she did, and now she’s gone and won’t be paying that.”

“But Mr. Anzalone, certainly she must have left something of value for us to collect

on.” “No. She had nothing.” “You’re saying she didn’t have a house?” “Nope.” “A

car?” “No, no car.” “Mr. Anzalone, surely there must be some sort of estate

that…”

and that’s when he finally blew. Greg was always a patient, easy going guy but when provoked, his temper would simmer quietly and all the sudden erupt like lava.

“Listen! No! Our mother had no estate whatsoever! No bank balance! No car! No

house! All she left behind were a few trinkets in her closet! Come to think of it,

now SHE is a trinket in MY closet!”

And that was that. They never called again. Not one more bill. Now it really was finally over. Or so I thought.

Other than the memories of our mother and sentimental treasures that are no bother to hang on to, I’m left with a beautifully engraved gold necklace and watch. She left me with a romantic mystery, a priceless treasure. Who’s Bob? Was he her first true love? Did he take the photo of her on the slide? Is he still alive today? I get lost in the nostalgia and romance of who Bob is and why they never got married. And I smile, because I realize that as long as I’m asking “Who’s Bob?” it will never really be over, and a bit of my mother will remain alive always.

In Loving Memory of Joyce M. Nielsen (Herman) 11/7/1936 ~ 2/7/2007
Death And Dying
Romance Story
Lovestory
Humorous
Family
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