On my return yesterday from visiting my friend Carol in Bloomington, Indiana, I detoured to attend the service and funeral of my next-door-neighbor’s granddaughter in Indianapolis. It wasn’t really out of my way — just off one of the main highways that I traversed — so I would have felt badly not to have made the effort.
The granddaughter was an adult in her own right. She was thirty-six, had two children and three stepchildren whom, all accounts bear witness, she considered as special as her own. I had only met this woman once, so it was rather a desire to be there for my neighbor than any direct feelings of loss. But I was struck with several things.
Clara, my neighbor, said to me, “A grandmother shouldn’t outlive her granddaughter. It isn’t right.” I understand the accepted progression of life, and I agree with Clara. But these things happen, and I think it’s best not to question when they do.
The service was at the funeral home; I learned later that the surviving husband and the woman’s parents collaborated on creating it. What I took away mostly was how the shock of this unexpected death — and it was unexpected — seemed to numb everyone. Sniffles and tissues were the order of the day, rather than special hymns and personal recollections. When the minister asked if anyone wanted to say a few words about the deceased before the end of the service, only one person came forward. I suspect the rest were too distraught.
I can honestly say I’ve never had anybody that I’ve been especially close to pass away, so I don’t know how I will feel when someone I truly care about does die. Watching this family, however, I believe I’ll be as shocked as these people were. I also think the hard work begins when the burial is over.
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