...And I Feel Fine

My dad arrived safely in Cayucos today so I guess we won’t be arrested as terrorists or drug dealers after all. He will be buried next to my mother tomorrow afternoon. I said my goodbyes weeks ago, so I won’t be attending. That might seem awful and selfish, because well, it probably is, but it’s what I had to do for my sanity right now.

Burying my dad on Friday the thirteenth was not my idea. No, really, it wasn’t. I know it seems like something I would do, but my sisters get all the credit for this one.

My sisters are not handling this whole dad dying thing any better than I am. My little sister seems to want to pick fights with me and my big sister is falling apart. Now, my little sister picking fights is nothing new but my big sister falling apart is very disturbing. Char is the voice of reason, the face of sanity, the only normal sister out of the three of us. If she is coming undone, Armageddon cannot be far behind.

Going Postal

My dad is finally on his way to California. Seems Fed Ex and UPS will have no part in delivering human remains in any form. Only the United States Postal Service is brave enough to take on that challenge. So, my dad has officially gone postal.

When I called my little sister to deliver the news, I thought for sure she would be happy. Nope. She was worried. "What if dad gets lost in the mail?" I had to think about that one. Other than being mistaken for a giant box of anthrax or heroin, I am pretty sure he will make it to Cayucos all in one … well, in one box.

My sister says she does not find me funny. Oh, really? Then why do you keep laughing at my sick humor? You know darn well, it only encourages me to continue in my inappropriateness.

The fact of the matter is, as my sisters have stated repeatedly lately, everyone grieves in their own way. I am not going to tell my sisters, or anyone else, they are wrong for having a funeral, spending tons of money on flowers and crying over an open grave. They aren’t wrong. That’s just their way. That is just not how I choose to grieve. I don’t know if choose is even the right word because I don’t feel like I have made this choice. It’s just the way I am. Sorry folks!

I really am not cold-hearted and callous. I just pretend to be. I cry every time I open my dad’s closet and see that blue boxing jacket he wore everyday. I cry every time I see applesauce on my pantry shelf, the one food he insisted I serve at every meal. I cry when I smell Old Spice, or see a stinky, old man at the store, or John Wayne on the television. I cry when I think about Thanksgiving and Christmas without him. I cry without him.

So, as I sit here crying, typing this inappropriate blog, I am also hoping he makes it safely to Cayucos all in one …. um, box. If he doesn’t, somebody please call me. I know how to improvise ashes, if need be.

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste

Have you ever done something that you knew you really should not do, but you also knew if you didn’t do it, you would always wish you had? Yeah? Me too!

A few years ago, one of my aunts passed away. It was very sudden and sad for so many reasons. One of those reasons was her husband, my dad’s brother.

When I got the call that Aunt Audrey had died and Uncle Louie had been taken to the hospital because of his heart, I got on the first available plane to California. My sisters and I were responsible for Uncle Lou since he and Aunt Audrey had “adopted” us in their will, not to mention, we loved that crazy, old couple. As I flew out the next morning, I wondered how my uncle would ever live without his wife. Eleven days after arriving in California and bringing Louie home to live with my dad, my uncle passed away in his sleep. I remain thankful to this very day for being able to spend those last days with him.

Surely, you can imagine the stress of dealing with two deaths in twelve days, not to mention having to clean out a house full of fifty years of junk. Then there was selling the house and closing accounts, notifying family and friends. It would have been overwhelming at times if my sisters and I had not had one another. Even so, we did get a bit crazy here and there along the way. Case in point:

I had taken care of Aunt Audrey’s cremation but had not picked up her ashes yet. I was too busy taking care of my Uncle Louie, who was obviously not doing well. When he passed away so soon after Aunt Audrey, I ended up having to retrieve two boxes of ashes at once. My sisters would have no part of the ashes thing, so they did all the administrative stuff. Driving back to my dad’s house with my aunt and uncle buckled in the backseat … hey, I did not want to take any chances of a Stephen King type event on the freeway … I started to get irritated. How come my sisters always get to look good, smell good and take care of the easy crap, while I am always wiping butts or driving dead people around? That’s when I began to devise my plan.

My aunt and uncle did not want a funeral. They specifically stated in their wills that they were to be cremated and the ashes sprinkled at sea. I had taken care of the cremations and my sisters had made the arraignments for the sprinkling at sea with the Neptune Society. When I arrived home and found my sisters had gone out … probably for a nail or hair appointment or some other stupid girl thing … I placed my aunt and uncle in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and went to work.

First, I ran out to the front garden carrying a plastic bowl and big spoon with me. I quickly filled the small bowl half full with the fine, powdery dirt in my parent’s front planter. Next, I ran back into the house and dug through my mother’s junk drawer finding exactly what I was hoping would be there … chalk. I placed the chalk in the bowl with the soil and grabbed a potato masher out of the pottery crock on the counter. As I mashed the chalk into the soil being careful to leave just the right size and shape pieces, I literally began to sweat with anticipation. For a split second, I imagined my mother standing next to me ready to thump me upside my head in the hopes of knocking some sense into me. Luckily for me, my mom had died two years earlier or she would have killed me right then and there.

Once the bowls content was the exact color and consistency of what I imagined people ashes might look like, I grabbed three plain, white envelopes from the desk drawer in the foyer along with a blue, ink pen. Carefully writing each of my sisters names along with my own, one on each envelope, I could only imagine their faces when this was over. I then slowly scooped a few spoonfuls of “ashes” into each envelope, sealed them and placed them in the bottom drawer on top of my aunt and uncle. I laughed out loud, knowing Lou and Aundrey would have loved this! I quickly cleaned up all the evidence and ran upstairs to change and wash up.

No sooner had I come back downstairs, when my sisters walked in the kitchen door. They were happy and chatty as always and had even brought back dinner for all of us. As we sat eating in the kitchen, my older sister asked if I had picked up Uncle Lou and Aunt Audrey. When I said yes, through a mouthful of coleslaw, both their faces dropped.

“Where are they?”

“In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.”

“Why are they there?”

“Where would you like me to put them?”

“I don’t know but somehow the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet just doesn’t seem right.”

“Ok, I’ll go get them and we can put them anywhere you two would like.”

At that last comment, they both began screaming, “No! Don’t bring them in here! Leave them there!”

That’s when I did it. I went into the dining room, opened the bottom drawer, took out the three envelopes and took them into the kitchen. I placed one in front of each of us and sat back down.

“By the way, the people at the mortuary gave me these. They are for the service on the boat, you know, when we go to sprinkle the ashes.”

As they each reached for their envelope, my oldest sister asked, “What are they?”

“They’re part of the ashes.”

Both my sisters literally threw the envelopes on the table screaming.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you two. It’s not like they had cooties. All we have to do when we go out on the boat is stand at the railing, say something nice, tear open our envelope and pour. Simple.”

My little sister sat staring at me shaking her head. My older sister looked completely horrified and made it clear, that was not going to happen. That’s when I grabbed my envelope, ripped it open and poured some of the “ashes” into my left hand.

“Look! It’s no big deal. It’s not like they’re going to bite you.”

My sisters jumped up and looked at me like I had completely gone mad, yelling, “Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?”

I replied, “Crap, now I have ashes all over me.” I then reached out and wiped my hands on the front of my oldest sister’s sweater. I truly thought I had killed her by the look of terror on her face.

Falling to the ground, unable to breathe from laughing so hard, I believe I heard “Idiot” right before I heard the front door open and then slam shut.

Ashes To Ashes

My sister is literally driving me crazy. It’s almost like having my dad back. Let me just say, the two of them are definitely from the same gene pool.

Her latest gripe is, “Where is my dad?” Everyday I get this call from her, wondering when our dad’s ashes will be delivered to California. I understand it has been one week and two days since he passed away and that his ashes are sitting in a box in a funeral home here in Oklahoma. I also understand that there are rules, regulations and the usual ridiculous paperwork required for “mailing” dead people ashes from one state to another. So what does she want me to do, go downtown, slam “the box” on the health department’s counter and yell, “Listen up! My dad is sick of waiting around. Not only that, do you have any idea who you’re dealing with here? This guy was a famous boxer or something and even his ashes can kick your ass if need be.”

When I raised my voice to that mother-tone decibel and told her to knock it off, dad would get there when he gets there, she started crying. This was followed by her famous, “I have cancer and you need to tell them that.” Um, I am pretty sure the funeral home deals with cancer people everyday. Do you really want them knowing your info? It could be bad, like vultures circling. I’m just saying.

Famous Last Words

One of my sisters called tonight to ask me if I was going to keep writing this blog. I told her I wasn’t sure what to do anymore. This is when she had the great idea that I should write about her. Of course, being the baby it’s always all about her.

The truth is, she has cancer and thinks she is next in line for the Death Train. Some days, like when chemo is kicking her butt or our dad has just bought the farm, she has her ticket purchased, bags packed and is ready to board. She usually says some morbid, creepy thing like, “I just want to be with Mom and Dad.” Oh really, because you didn’t like being around them that much when they were breathing. How quickly we forget how crazy our parents made us once they are gone. All of a sudden my sister is a flaming Catholic again and thinks our parents should be canonized saints. Don’t worry, I plan on reminding her daily of the awesome things they use to do to make her life a living hell. This is going to be great. I think I am even beginning to feel a bit happy again now that I have a new mission.

In one of our last conversations, little sister was bawling her head off instructing me regarding her last will and testament wishes. I told her to knock it off because I knew for a fact she was not going anywhere anytime soon. I told her I could even prove it. So, here is the proof.

A few days before my dad died, I became very aware of what was happening. He had stopped eating, was barely drinking anything and slept constantly. He would open his eyes for a very short time, say a few words and then be back to sleep for hours again. When I realized time was very short, I grabbed my laptop, sat next to him and waited. Every time he would open his eyes and speak, I would type down what he said. I did this for several days until he eventually passed away. I found it nearly impossible to leave his side, afraid I might miss something, a last word of wisdom or love or affirmation. Even in walking with my dad to the end, I remained selfish, not wanting to lose the last drop of my dad that might be mine if I only listened. This is what he left me.

“I need a girlfriend. She can be old.” (Yes, ladies, even when dying, men only have one thing on their mind. Amazing!)

“One day I’ll die and then you’ll cry.” (My dad made up little poems on a daily basis. This one was voted one of our least favorites.)

“I wish there were more men around here. It’s nothing but women in this place.” (Excuse me for being a girl. This statement of his might explain why he told my sisters and me that he wished we had been named Joseph, Thomas and Bobo. By the way, Kelly was Bobo.)

“I bet I could beat you in a race with my car.” (Again with the car?)

“Do you feel alright? (I responded, yes.) “I do too.”

“Are you still here?” (I said yes I was here and I wouldn’t leave him. His answer?) “Me too.”

“It’s just my arm, that’s all. It’s nothing.” ( I am pretty sure it was more than his arm but I still wish he had been right.)

“My butt’s sore. I’m gonna get up and dance with you pretty quick.” (Of course, this made me cry because I wanted to dance with him like we had just a week or so before.)

Finally, he was silent for an entire day. It was brutal thinking I would never hear his voice again. I wept wanting my dad to stay with me but knowing he was leaving and then it happened. As I stood near his bed, rubbing his cheek and kissing his forehead, he opened his eyes and spoke one last time. What did he say?

“I’ll be ok. Then we’ll get that weight off you.”

What the heck!?!?!?!?! Do you remember my mother’s last words to me? Let me remind you. They were, “Well, you are fat.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph save me from this crazy family already.

Still wondering where the proof is that my sister is not dying anytime soon? She has not mentioned my weight … yet. Once she does, I figure she’s got three days tops.

Wanted: One Old Person

So where do I go from here? I am completely lost ... for the moment. Do I keep blogging about my dead dad and other dead relatives? I know this may sound a bit crude but hey, this is my reality right now. Do I just quietly slip away into blog oblivion? I need to keep writing but my dad has died and screwed up everything. I think I may be entering the anger phase of grief. What do you think?

Maybe Butts and Ashes isn’t my “book” after all. Maybe it’s just a chapter. Even this idea makes me mad today. I had things figured out for once. I was going to finally get all those things I had meant to write down written down. I had plenty of time. My dad gave me daily material. It was going to be great. Well, it’s not so great right now. It sucks.

I don’t feel clever or witty or anything good only tired. I feel sad and disappointed and angry. I am not really sure who I am angry with but I have a sneaking suspicion it might be myself. I have been accused in the recent past of having empty nest syndrome. I can assure you this is not even close to the truth … in the normal sense of the term anyway. Six of my seven children have flown the coop and I am ready for the seventh to do the same someday. I like seeing my children independent and happy, standing on their own two feet.

I think I am feeling something worse than child-free. I think I am feeling butt free. I have run out of old people to care for. The older generation of this family appears to now include me. What the heck? When did this happen because I am not liking it one single bit. I have spent the greater part of my adult years caring for someone older. Now what? Several well-meaning people have said to me in the last few days, “Now it’s time to take care of you.” I have no idea what that even means. Maybe that is why I feel so angry with myself. How can you live in a body for fifty-one years and not understand how to take care of it? How is it possible to go through life for five decades and not ever figure out who you are or what you need to feel really taken care of by yourself? Maybe my sisters are right. Maybe I do need medication and therapy.

I have a great life. I have a husband that adores me and is my very best friend ever. I have awesome kids and wonderful grandchildren. I have some of the most amazing family members and friends a person could ever hope for. I live in a beautiful place surrounded by my beloved animals. I have more than most and more than I deserve. So what’s to be unhappy about?

Ok, I think I have now officially slipped from anger to full blown feeling sorry for myself mode. Somebody, please slap me.

A Face Only A Mother Could Love and She Ain't Here Either

It has been three days since my dad died. Three days. In those three days, I have cleaned out his closet, scrubbed his bathroom from top to bottom, redecorated his bedroom and his living room. I do not feel any better.

I have never been a sit on my rear kind of person. I get that from my parents. Relaxing to the average person is normal. Relaxing to my parents always meant building something, throwing a party for three hundred people or moving someone in need into their home. Idle hands were not allowed in the Casas household.

I really want to just curl up into the fetal position in the corner of my closet and cry until I can’t cry anymore but who has time for that. So instead, today I will be cleaning the garage, brushing down the horses and maybe I will put a new roof on the house. It’s what my dad would be doing if his dad had just died.

My friends and family have been amazing. People are bringing food, calling, and writing. The words written and spoken to me have been deeply touching bringing me to tears each and every time. I have been saving every card, letter and email knowing that later on down the road, they will bring me great happiness when I re-read how loved I am. Right now, I just cry.

I hate crying. I especially hate crying in front of people. I have seen myself cry before. No, I did not stand in front of the mirror and practice but I have caught glimpses of myself as I wept. It was not a pretty sight. I guess crying wouldn’t be so bad if I could do it and look like one of the actresses you see on TV or in the movies. They still look great. I, however, look worse than I normally do. My face contorts, the small amount of make-up I usually wear magically multiples into massive rivers of black running down my face and snot drips from my facial orifices. Seriously, not a good look even for an Okie.

The other thing that is starting to really annoy me is my loss of control. The truth is, I never really have control over my life, but I have learned to pretend I do. These last three days have brought reality crashing down on me like Dorothy’s house on the Wicked Witch of the East. I can be going along just fine, cleaning and cooking and talking to Bob or one of our flying monkeys and wham! Out of nowhere, I am bawling my head off, face contorted, black river running, snot dripping bawling. The more I try to stop, the worse it gets.

This orphan thing is not working for me.