I Embalm the Grandparents
Unfortunately, there’s something uncomfortable at the center of this piece, and I’d like to start by dealing with it, so no one feels weird while reading: My grandfather died last November. He was a spectacular human being, but he was also 94.5 years old and in rapidly declining health, so while we all miss him, we also know it was time and that his quality of life was not going to amount to much. That doesn’t mean it’s nice or fun or that I’m not sad, but it does make it a little more tolerable.
When someone dies, surviving relatives often leap into their postmortem responsibilities. Some are on notification duty, getting the word out by calls, texts, and Facebook to everyone who needs to know and some who don’t — hoping not to forget anyone because we all remember what happened when Carole forgot to tell Mrs. Doris when grandma died, and she had to find out from the newspaper! Some are on research duty, hitting the internet searching funeral homes in the area, reading reviews, and calling about options and pricing. Some sprint to the closet to find the perfect viewing outfit. Some break down and become completely non-functional. And some raid the house while everyone’s distracted to ensure they get the items they want because “Daddy wanted me to have the Winchester” is basically the same as probating a will, right? Everybody plays a part.
