The Truth About Death (My Mom Died–Part 3)

At my mom’s funeral in Riverton, Utah it was storming. Ice cold rain and wind. There were tents and chairs, but I stood in the rain. My wife and kids asked me to come under the canape, but I ignored everyone. I was in shock. The cold water soaking into my suit and rolling over my skin helped my mind to numb.

I remember a lot of people talking, saying things that just didn’t matter. Their opinions, their thoughts on trivial things. Crap, even my grandparents talked about what great missionaries they were, but hardly a word about my own mother, who was sitting there in the casket beside them. The only thing that mattered to me or held my attention was the bringing in of the casket, and my beloved father singing to his sweetheart for one last time.

When it was all over, the crowd rose and started finding members of my family to give their condolences. Kind, heart felt words that didn’t make much sense, but that’s all they knew to give. They would pat me on the shoulder or hug me, with advice like “you’re gonna get through this”, or “It’ll take time, but it’ll get easier”, or “Time will help heal.” The only family that held their tongue was Chad’s, the same family who had lost their little boy. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to.

They knew words would be more for them than for me, so they gave us hugs and moved on with a smile and tear of understanding. I just stood there, silent, my little children wrapped around my soaking legs, hugging me.

The last person there waited until everyone had passed and said their peace, never making a sound or a motion towards me until I was alone. A good friend of mine, Paul, who I hadn’t even noticed was at the funeral in the first place. He walked up slowly and waited for me to look at him. His words were golden to my ears, and they have helped me through the toughest parts of my life after my mom died.

Here’s what he said:

“Jaime, I wanted to wait until we were alone, so we could talk. I know you’re a blunt person, so I want to say something I think you’ll appreciate.

“The closest person to me in this world was my little brother. For the past 8 months, I have cared for him and bathed him and lifted his frail little body into bed each night as cancer ate him away to nothing. My sweet, kind baby brother, who gave no offense to the day I placed his body in the ground.

“People came to the funeral. They gave their condolences and they expressed their sorrows, saying the same things I heard your friends and family tell you today. But I want to give you a sliver of truth here, because you’re my friend and I love you.

“Everything they said to you is complete and total bullshit.

“Your mother was an incredible person. She gave birth to you, she loved you, she cared for you Jaime. The fact is, she owns a part of your heart. It belongs to her,and she’s not here anymore. No one else can fill that hole. It’s not possible. You’ll have that hole for the rest of your life…and it’s not going to be ok. and it’s NOT going to get easier! It hurts. You were robbed of a loved one and it’s perfectly ok to be pissed off, to be angry and to scream and shout.

“It’s going to hurt like hell for some time. Who knows how long. You’ll have good days and you’ll have days that feel like complete shit. But you’ll cope. You’ll find a way to take one day at a time. to breath in and out and put one foot in front of the other. And after a time you’ll manage and move on, not because it doesn’t hurt anymore–but because you understand that the feelings of pain are just a reminder of that hole which can’t be filled.

“It will never get better, Jaime. But you will learn to manage.”

He gave me a strong hug and left me standing there alone, with a truth I have cherished to this day.

Some might not like that type of talk, but Paul knew me and he knew I would fight if I just had a shred of truth to stand my ground. It has never gotten better. I miss my mom every day, and there are times when life gets so hard that I take that ghastly perfume she wore, spray a bit on my pillow and hope I’ll dream of her, walking with me, holding me and having one of the many talks I remember growing up.

But I have learned to manage.