The Funeral

    Several nights ago, I dreamt of my mother’s funeral. Everything was exactly the same: family, church, preacher 

(yea, that guy), video collage, my Uncle Walt singing. Everything. But as the funeral was playing out in my mind, I 

was keenly aware that I couldn’t leave. I wasn’t physically detained but I couldn’t leave. I knew that I couldn’t 

leave. I wanted to leave. I tried to get the people around me to realize that I wanted to leave but no one would help 

me. And the funeral continued, exactly the same way, in all its ugly and humiliation. And I couldn’t leave. And as it 

continued, I was hit with a profound realization — the funeral was holding me hostage. It was like the line in Hotel 

California “… you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” 

As I realized this, I felt my mother. I didn’t see her in my dream. In fact, I don’t even remember seeing the 

coffin; but I felt her. I felt her watching the funeral, seeing all that transpired and got a very deep and definitive 

feeling that my mother didn’t approve of the funeral, that she was disappointed in the things that transpired like a 

parent is with a child that misbehaves. I very clearly felt her saying, “This isn’t what I wanted. Your hurt is not what 

I wanted.”  I felt my mother’s genuine apology for what happened and for the pain that it caused me. And I woke 

up.

I would love to tell you that that was a turning point for me and all the hurt, humiliation, and anger were gone 

like the wind, but that would be a lie. What I do realize is my mother’s funeral was ONE PERSON’s interpretation 

of my mother’s life. It wasn’t a celebration of my mother’s life. It was a showcase of one child with a sprinkling of 

another and a half a dash of two others. That’s all it was. 

My family, my husband, who I have been married to for 15 years, not 15 seconds, and who my mother loved 

dearly, was erased from my mother’s life. My children, who are biologically hers and who’s letters she clung to on 

her deathbed, were erased from my mother’s life. My father, who fathered half of her children, was erased from her 

life, while I had to look at pictures of a man who terrorized me and beat me so viciously he broke a belt buckle over 

my face.  My brother, who loved my mother with all of his heart, and his family were erased from her life.  We 

were erased for the ego of someone else. It was intentional. It was purposeful. It was disrespectful. It was malicious 

and it was a testament to the character of those who planned it. 

That’s the truth of the funeral. That’s how it went down. That’s what went down. Everything about the funeral, 

every decision, every detail, was not to celebrate the totality of mom’s life, but to showcase one who thought she 

was mom’s favorite. It was very much like going to someone’s wedding and the maid of honor deciding to outshine 

the bride.  My mother should have been the bride. It should have been about my mother. It wasn’t. 

But at the root of it, I can’t even blame those people. I can only blame myself. As cliche as it is (and boy, do I 

hate cliches), I am a firm believer that when someone shows you who they are, believe them.  And I’m not talking 

about misunderstandings or disagreements that everyone goes through in relationships. I’m talking about when you 

know what people are capable of, when you see their true character. I’ve always been able to see behind the masks 

of people and I saw who these people were from first time I met them. So it is my fault. I knew who I was dealing 

with; and  yet, I still gave them more credit than they deserved. 

I was also angry at myself that my brother was right. I hate when Michael is right. It is a bantering that he and I 

have with each other, where we joke about one or the other being “right.”  It’s the typical big brother/little sister 

teasing that we still participate in. It’s good-natured, silly and usually results in a lot of laughter between us. When it 

comes to our mother’s funeral though, I take no pleasure in the fact that Michael was right. In fact, it makes me 

very, very sad. You see, Michael wasn’t going to go to the funeral. He had been very clear about that for several 

years. Pretty much everyone knew that Michael had made a decision that he wouldn’t go. It wasn’t for malicious or 

ill-natured reasons. He didn’t have any hard feelings against mom that prevented it. It was just a personal decision 

and one that everyone respected, including mom.  He just wasn’t going to go. And then…I told him I needed him 

and he was on a plane.  I played the little sister card; and Michael, being Michael and the amazing big brother that 

he is, decided to come….for me.  It is something I will regret for the rest of my life. Not only do I wish I wouldn’t 

have pressured him to come, but I wish I would have heeded the advice myself. 

I didn’t go to my mother’s burial. The funeral was literally more than I could bear and my self-control was at 

zero.  More than that, I didn’t care to ever see those people ever again. I still feel that way. Not so much because of 

the funeral anymore but because when people show you who they are, you believe them. I finally believe them.