As I walked into the church familiar feelings of warmth and affection greeted me. The old and traditional Catholic Church was magnificent, like ones I fondly remembered from childhood. The inside permeated with an aroma of incense dispensed in this church for years reminded me of the sacredness of the place. I wondered how many times I’d heard my favorite mass hymn “Ave Maria” sung in Latin in churches resembling this one. Sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows cast rainbow colors everywhere I looked. As I waited to sign the register, I noticed the high ornate ceilings with fans and lights. As long as I can remember, I have wondered, how do they dust those high blades and change the bulbs? The church, probably remodeled in the mid 1960s, met the Vatican mandate to modernize, moving the main altar to face the congregation, and moving saints’ statutes to side altars. It crossed my mind I’d moved a good deal of my spiritual beliefs to the side also.
The lady at the table in front of me was slowly registering names in the visitors’ book. Becoming impatient, I saw a man helping a young child in a wheelchair. Realizing they must be her – Laura’s, the deceased, family - I scolded myself for looking agitated instead of looking with my heart.
I hadn’t known Laura and was curious about her. The company I worked for required an employee to attend the funeral of any employee’s immediate family. Our local office had received a call from HR personnel at a plant 1500 miles away. To avoid sending someone that far, they asked if the local office would provide support. Fall hunting season had started, and I, the lone non-hunter, volunteered to attend the service. The primary duty being to attend and ensure the plant employee knew I was representing the company.
Early Saturday morning, coffee cup filled, gas tank refilled and music at high volume I set out. I wasn’t particularly happy to attend and decided to consider it my Sunday church obligation (although I hadn’t attended Sunday mass in years). The fall day, overcast, foggy and dreary, matched my feelings perfectly. For a long period, I had questioned my life. I wasn’t happy with anything - my job, friends, or myself. I knew my life-long uneasiness had turned into depression. Self-medicating with booze wasn’t working. Periodically, I would consider not drinking, only to continue that constant drip trip down further. Over the years I lost hope that I would never feel uneasy or have peace.
After I had signed the guest book, the usher asked if I was family. I said no, and considering myself an independent and successful professional woman, didn’t hesitate to indicate where I wanted to sit. Minutes later, seated where I’d asked, I realized I was sitting in the middle of the family section. I’m sure the family members around me were asking each other “Is that so and so’s cousin or first wife?”.
The only funerals of my family members I had attended were when I was quite young. I couldn’t remember them – the services or the people, and no one ever talked about who they were. Estranged from other family members for years, I regretted losing track of them or not attending their funeral services. While sitting among Laura’s largish family, in pews, polished for centuries, that had welcomed generations of her family to worship; I decided to consider this service a substitute for the many services I had not been present at. Laura’s children spoke of their mother, her care and love. “She always loved us, and we knew it.” The old saying is “You don’t miss what you don’t have.” I’ve never found being told that comforting or true. You know others have the piece you are missing. I’d never felt loved like Laura’s children had, because I’d always thought there was a fault with me. I was constantly trying a new fix – church groups, dating, friends, exercise classes, therapy, drinking, whatever – anything to be comfortable in myself and feel peace. As we prayed for Laura’s soul, and comfort for her family and friends, I felt anger and resentment at my missing pieces.
I’d spent my childhood shuffled between grandparents, aunts, and boarding school, living with my mother for short periods of time. And where was my father? Since I was thirteen, I had thought my mother and other family didn’t care about me. I’d thought I had to take care of myself. If reincarnation existed, I must have brought this unhappiness on myself. What had I done to deserve this life? I never talked about feelings, others invariably became upset and unhappy, it was bad luck, and it only made things worse. Or I would be called weak and flawed. Toughing it out seemed the only possible solution.
As the service ended, I found myself waffling between begrudging her children’s memories of their mother, or envying their grief, wishing I felt at least one of those. After the service I entered the church cafeteria for the traditional plate of deli meats, potato salad, Jello salads, and baked desserts. I wandered from table to table, introducing myself, until I found Laura’s son. Expressing my condolences, deciding no requirement existed to stay longer. I hurried to get away.
The drive home was fast - I had feelings and thoughts to escape. The service had brought back memories of growing up. The mass ritual, incense fragrance, prayers and music were all familiar and comforting. Similarly, the ever-present refrain “something is wrong with” thoughts crept in. It didn’t matter what was wrong, the problem was I always felt something (or I) needed to be fixed.
I focused on getting home to drink. Drinking had been a refuge, a familiar home, for a long time. I never took one sip, or glass. Why else did I buy liquor by the case?
Interested to know more about Laura’s life, I had unsuccessfully searched for her obituary. Ironically, I didn’t know much about my mother or father. I still didn’t know much about Laura; I do know attending her funeral was a part of events that over a few months brought changes to my life.
Over the next several months, to quell the feelings stirred up by the funeral, my drinking worsened. One day, Jane, my new boss and work friend, confronted me about my drinking and the effect it was having on my professional life. Professional success had been the only goal I’d ever had. Taking care of myself hadn’t left room for anyone or anything. Now drinking had replaced ambition – my ‘take care of myself’ pledge; it was the most important part of my life. I viewed it as an inheritance. Unwelcome inheritance. Laura’s funeral opened my eyes to feelings I thought I’d avoided for years. Now nothing relieved the unease.
“I think you should get help,” Jane said. I’d known for a long time that I had a drinking problem, but no one had ever told me so. It took a new friend, who knew nothing about me outside work, to point out the issue. That got my attention.
About the author
Faye Wright is a retired IT consultant. She is now pursuing her passion for writing. She has participated in the Iowa Writers Summer Festival and other writing programs. Daily grateful to complete a first draft, continually edit and still not be finished.
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