Greatful Dead Funeral

Grandmother Ruthanne had a stroke while watching TV. Probably “her program” Judge Judy. She hit her head on the nightstand as she fell out of bed. At the time, Marty lived thousands of miles away. She would never stoop to our grandmother’s level, but I am not as evolved as Marty, so I like to imagine that when Grandmother Ruthanne bashed her head on the corner, Marty’s spirit was hovering over her saying, “You get what you deserve.” That was Grandmother Ruthanne’s response to eight year old Marty when Grandmother Ruthanne chased her around the house to spank her, and Marty stumbled into the ironing board, tipping the iron over onto her head.

When Grandmother Ruthanne didn’t show up for dinner downstairs, one of her neighbors who had a key to her apartment came to check on her and found her unconscious on the bedroom floor, bleeding from her head. The neighbor called 911, then Walt. Grandmother Ruthanne died later in the hospital, with a morphine drip flowing through her veins. She was ninety-four. She had lived alone in her senior living apartment for about five years after her third husband Gene died. In her early years she needed help with nearly everything, she was so sick with her “nervous condition.” Mom remembers the day when she was very young and realized all along her mother had not been calling her a “nurse” but instead was saying “Go away. You make me nervous.” But by the end of her life Grandmother Ruthanne had become a pretty self-sufficient tough old broad.

Walt got stuck with most of the grunt work, calling all the family, making the funeral arrangements, and picking out which photo to use for her obituary. But the worst part was cleaning out her apartment. He tried to give away most of her stuff to various family members, but a grandmother’s treasure quite often is her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren’s crap.

Hank and I went through her apartment and took a few things we wanted—mostly family pictures, her bed for Stella who was still in a crib at the time but we knew she’d need a twin bed soon. My favorite memory of rifling through Grandma Ruthanne’s things was when I opened her freezer and discovered ten boxes of Twinkies. This from the woman who argued with me once as our family was playing Scattergories that apple pie is indeed a health food because it has apples in it. She had been diagnosed with diabetes about twenty years before she died, but it didn’t seem to curb her sweet tooth. As I looked at her Twinkie stash, I thought, “Good for her.” When I’m ninety-four I’ll eat whatever the hell I want too.

The funeral was pretty small. Mom’s brother, who had been estranged from Grandmother Ruthanne for years, flew in for it, but stayed just one night before he got the hell back out of St. Joe. Mom’s kids were all there, mostly to support Mom. Even Murray and Cheryl made it. When they entered the visitation room before the funeral started, Cheryl was leaning on Murray, who was helping steady her walk. Murray seemed fairly sober, not just because he was the designated driver that day.

After the visitation and funeral, we were all supposed to drive out to the burial site to pray over Grandmother Ruthanne’s casket as it dropped six feet below the earth. Walt, Murray, Dan and Keith were elected to be the pall bearers whose job was to unload the casket from the hearse to Grandmother Ruthanne’s grave next to Gene. As Hank, baby Stella and I exited the funeral home into the bright sun and headed over to our car so we could drive to the burial site, I saw Murray retching at the side of his truck. Cheryl was sitting on the passenger’s side. I couldn’t see her face, but the angle of her head made me think she was asleep.

Hank took Stella to get her buckled into her car seat. I went over to Murray, who was still spilling the contents of his stomach onto the asphalt parking lot.

I put my hand on his back, “Are you ok, Bud?”

He flinched when he felt my hand, stood up straight, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of the suit Walt had lent him, and said, “Yeah. Yeah. I think I’ve got some kind of bug. I’ve been feeling really lousy all day.”

All I could think to say was, “Yeah.”

“Fuck, don’t look at that,” Murray said, nodding his head toward the vomitus in front of us.

“I’m not. Don’t worry about it. I bet they get lots of puke in this parking lot. It’s not the happiest of places.” I smiled and Murray faked one.

His eyes looked desperate. It reminded me of the way Dad looked when he was leaving Trudie and he told me he didn’t know how much time he had left and he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life miserable. “Syd, I gotta get out of here. I can’t stand this.” He nodded toward the hearse. “Will you tell Walt and Mom and everybody I’m sorry?”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Go home. Take it easy. We all understand,” I said, patting his shoulder.

“Yeah, I think I have a bug or something,” Murray said again as he climbed into his truck. I looked through his driver’s side window and saw Cheryl was indeed asleep. She had an open beer can resting in her lap. At her feet there were several cans of Milwaukee's Best floating inside a cooler full of melted ice. I didn’t see the lid anywhere. I started to wonder where they stashed their empties, but then I realized I was staring too long and didn’t want to embarrass Murray so I looked away.

“Thanks, Hon. Give us a call and we’ll hang out soon. Love you,” he said as he started the ignition and drove off.

“I love you too.” I said to the back of the truck. I looked down at the ground. All I could see was bile and beer.

I couldn’t find Walt anywhere, so Hank and I drove to the burial spot to see if he was there already. He was, standing right by the hearse with Dan and Keith.

“Murray can’t make it. He’s throwing up.” I announced as I approached them.

Walt half-heartedly smiled and said, “I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. Good for him. He doesn’t need to be here. Come on, men, the three of us can take this.”

“Wait. Let me get Hank.” I ran off before they could say anything.

Hank stepped in, no problem. He looked a little funny in his Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans next to the three others in suits, but it was his brawn and not his clothing that counted. Marty leaned over to me as they carried the casket in front of us and whispered in my ear, “We should have all worn Grateful Dead shirts.” We smiled and tried not to giggle.