The next morning, with still so very much to do at the apartment, my oldest son and I went to the funeral home where they had taken Daddy to make arrangements. My youngest son chose to stay at the hotel, a decision I totally understood and supported. I had never been involved in anything like that before and was completely overwhelmed; I can only imagine how my boys must have felt. Stormi and I had already made the decision to have him creamated for several reasons. All of his life, our Daddy loved New Mexico. And for years, he had told me that when he died, he didn't want to be buried at the family plot in Childress, but rather, scattered in the mountains and by the streams that he so loved. I felt that I owed him that much. And, I was glad that I had no doubt as to what his final wishes were and could follow through with them, because his life insurance had lapsed and creamation was really all I could afford at the time. I was thankful to be at peace with a decision in which I really had no choice.
With a very heavy heart, I drove to the funeral home with my barely 21 year old son. Once the paperwork had been signed and arrangements had been made to send his ashes to my little sister in New Mexico, I asked if I could see my Daddy. The funeral director was kind but seeemed surprised by my request. She explained that because we were creamating him, nothing cosmetic had been done and she was afraid it would be upsetting to me to see him like he was. I did not understand what she meant by that. At that point, I was still numb with shock and I felt that I had to see him, no matter what. I honestly still didn't believe he was dead. I assured her that it did not matter and she left to bring him into a room. My son and I sat there in silence and although I was calm on the outside, I could feel every fiber of my insides shaking. Soon the funeral director came back and led us into the small room usually reserved for preparing bodies for viewing. It was cold and sterile and there were counters with scissors and combs and make-up along one wall. And there, in the middle of the room, lay my Daddy, on a cold metal table, wrapped in a sheet. I didn't even recognize him. He had lost a great deal of weight and was so small, maybe 140 pounds. The entire right side of his face was nothing but a huge black and purple bruise embedded with cuts. His skin was the yellowish color that indicated all too clearly that he had been drinking a great deal. I remember gasping and taking a step backwards into my son's chest. He held my shoulders firmly and whispered that it was okay. The only thing that made me finally believe that this really was my daddy was when I saw his beautiful, white hair. That old man had some fantastic hair. So many thoughts were going through my head. I was forced to admit that he really was gone, I was thankful that my youngest son wasn't there to see him so beaten up and bruised, I was heartbroken that my oldest child's last memory of seeing his grandfather would be like this, and I was beginning to put pieces together which made me believe that there was more to the story of Daddy's death than I knew.
I asked the funeral director if I could have a small cutting of daddy's hair for me and my sister. She agreed and slowly combed out a section of his hair, cut it, and put it into two small bags for me. Then she did something that truly touched my heart. She very gently re-combed his hair and arranged it to cover the section where she had just cut. She then stroked the side of his head with her hand, smoothing his hair down. That small act of tenderness meant the world to me. She saw my daddy as a person, a cherished human being who was loved, and not a poor drunk who was beaten and dead. I will never forget her kindness.
I touched his poor swollen, bruised face and with tears flowing, told him I loved him and I was so sorry. I felt like I had failed him. Actually, to this day, I often still feel that way. Perhaps the outcome would have been different had I not distanced myself from him. But I will never know. And then, all too soon, it was time to go. I remember looking back over my shoulder on the way out the door, still not believeing he was gone; but sadly, he was and there was nothing I could do to change it.
On the way back to the hotel to pick up my youngest son, I called my little sister and in between sobs told her how he had looked. I remember thinking I should shield her from the worst because she was pregnant and she felt horrible that she was not able to be there with me. I didn't want to upset her more than necessary, but I could not contain my emotions. I had been so shocked by how battered his poor face was and I was sickened to think of what his last days and hours must have been like. In the days and weeks to come, those thoughts would continue to haunt me and even know, two years later, I still literally feel sick when I think about the end of his life.
To be continued......
With a very heavy heart, I drove to the funeral home with my barely 21 year old son. Once the paperwork had been signed and arrangements had been made to send his ashes to my little sister in New Mexico, I asked if I could see my Daddy. The funeral director was kind but seeemed surprised by my request. She explained that because we were creamating him, nothing cosmetic had been done and she was afraid it would be upsetting to me to see him like he was. I did not understand what she meant by that. At that point, I was still numb with shock and I felt that I had to see him, no matter what. I honestly still didn't believe he was dead. I assured her that it did not matter and she left to bring him into a room. My son and I sat there in silence and although I was calm on the outside, I could feel every fiber of my insides shaking. Soon the funeral director came back and led us into the small room usually reserved for preparing bodies for viewing. It was cold and sterile and there were counters with scissors and combs and make-up along one wall. And there, in the middle of the room, lay my Daddy, on a cold metal table, wrapped in a sheet. I didn't even recognize him. He had lost a great deal of weight and was so small, maybe 140 pounds. The entire right side of his face was nothing but a huge black and purple bruise embedded with cuts. His skin was the yellowish color that indicated all too clearly that he had been drinking a great deal. I remember gasping and taking a step backwards into my son's chest. He held my shoulders firmly and whispered that it was okay. The only thing that made me finally believe that this really was my daddy was when I saw his beautiful, white hair. That old man had some fantastic hair. So many thoughts were going through my head. I was forced to admit that he really was gone, I was thankful that my youngest son wasn't there to see him so beaten up and bruised, I was heartbroken that my oldest child's last memory of seeing his grandfather would be like this, and I was beginning to put pieces together which made me believe that there was more to the story of Daddy's death than I knew.
I asked the funeral director if I could have a small cutting of daddy's hair for me and my sister. She agreed and slowly combed out a section of his hair, cut it, and put it into two small bags for me. Then she did something that truly touched my heart. She very gently re-combed his hair and arranged it to cover the section where she had just cut. She then stroked the side of his head with her hand, smoothing his hair down. That small act of tenderness meant the world to me. She saw my daddy as a person, a cherished human being who was loved, and not a poor drunk who was beaten and dead. I will never forget her kindness.
I touched his poor swollen, bruised face and with tears flowing, told him I loved him and I was so sorry. I felt like I had failed him. Actually, to this day, I often still feel that way. Perhaps the outcome would have been different had I not distanced myself from him. But I will never know. And then, all too soon, it was time to go. I remember looking back over my shoulder on the way out the door, still not believeing he was gone; but sadly, he was and there was nothing I could do to change it.
On the way back to the hotel to pick up my youngest son, I called my little sister and in between sobs told her how he had looked. I remember thinking I should shield her from the worst because she was pregnant and she felt horrible that she was not able to be there with me. I didn't want to upset her more than necessary, but I could not contain my emotions. I had been so shocked by how battered his poor face was and I was sickened to think of what his last days and hours must have been like. In the days and weeks to come, those thoughts would continue to haunt me and even know, two years later, I still literally feel sick when I think about the end of his life.
To be continued......