Our Story

I don't like my story. It's sad. I know it's taken me weeks to put it to writing because it's my story, and if it happened to me it's real. It's tangible. And I'm not ready for that yet. So first, I'll give you their stories. Because it happening to someone else is removing oneself at least one degree. That separation is just easier for now.

So this is their story.

I'll start with Mom's story:

She texted me right after his operation because that's what moms do. They are the family telegraph. She let me know he was fine. A few days later, she called to let me know he was less than fine. Always the vigilant messenger, she kept me up to date up until the point where there wasn't anything else to report. One of the few people to have the strength to bear the burden of the worst news, she called to tell me and then said she wished she could have let me know in person.

This my sister's story:

She kept texting me, letting me know she was thinking of me. As the two of us being the farthest away, she understood when I told the rest of the world I wanted to be alone; she let me know that was okay. That she felt the same way. That he would have understood that we didn't make it on time. Ever compassionate and understanding, she made me feel less selfish for choosing to wait a day to make my way to the hospital. And as any good sister would, she reminded me to call home. That mom worried about me.

This is my grandma's story:

All of her marriage had been devoted to him. Some unshakable love that I still don't think I quite understand. She sat by the casket and waved away the sympathies with a sad smile, letting us all know she would stay strong and move on. That she was lucky to have us there to help. I never saw her cry. She said the noise of the family around eased the quiet that would come while she sat in his old rocker.

This is their story:

At the funeral home all of the relatives seemed to find each other in a unspoken ritual. They would kindly ask how the other was doing, shuffle about, too uncomfortable to tell the truth, and move on to the next. The great solace that they took from one another was that it was a shared pain.

This is my sister's story:

She huffed to her seat at the wake, upset that she couldn't choose to sit with her husband. No, she wasn't going to get up and move again, that would cause a fuss that wasn't needed. It just seemed stupid to her to split the families into generations. She wanted to be able to sit where she wanted.
When she began to sob, she didn't seem to mind that I put my arm around her even though I thought she might.

This is my brother's story:

He hates funeral homes. Even though it seemed to pain him to move any further inside he made sure to keep a watchful eye on the rest of the family as they edged into the room housing the casket. Always the first to crack a joke, alleviate some of the dull ache, he tried his best to keep everyone around him smiling. At the funeral, he took me into a hug and with his strong arms wrapped around me whispered, "I love you."

This is my step-father's story:

He probably saw him the most often. He loved to stop by in his truck and just poke around the shop after he'd finished up at Farmer's Tavern. Keeping him entertained was just another part of the job for my step-dad. He'll be missing him come the busier seasons, as much of a pain as he was, really he just wanted to stop by and see a farm in its hay day again. After the church service was the first time I'd seen him cry.

This is my newest sister's story:

Keeping up with this new family has got to be a challenge, but she always seems more prepared than any of us. She knew we all needed time to decompress after everything. Dinner was finished, dishes were done, and suddenly it seemed like the entire family had a lot of nothing to do. She brought a movie, insisted we watch it for all of the corny musical numbers and even with the complaining in the beginning she got us all to sing those same songs at the end of the movie. Because life is going to continue, and maybe we need Disney movies and singing snowmen to help us remember.

So those are their, our, stories. Tangled and matted and ... together.