She would never see them again. The light sprinkling of snow drizzled over mountains outside her window, kookaburras laughing in nearby gumtrees, and the sound of waves rolling ashore at night. She was dead. I kissed her forehead goodbye and stepped back, small tear forming in the corner of my eye. She had gone. I was overcome with the realization of what being dead truly meant; what she would miss, the things she would never experience again. Waves of guilt rippled through my body, because I knew that tomorrow, I would walk out of the house into bright sunshine. I would put one foot in front of the other, feel the warmth of sun against my skin, and breathe crisp air into my lungs.
The small bed seemed so large around her shrunken frame. I finally understood why people say things like, she has left us. She was certainly no longer in this room; the one we kept vigil in for months. She was just as stubborn in her final journey as she had been in life and refused to die. In her place now was an empty husk, a shell of a human; wrinkled skin covering skeleton. Her mouth lay open, frozen in time, the body’s last attempt at sucking in air.
Family members buzzed around the otherwise serene room. Phone calls were made, people cried and others commenced to-do lists months in the making. But I just stood there. Motionless. I stared at her face trapped in time; frozen in a room filled with life and movement.
“I’ll be alright,” she told me days earlier.
People stared into phones; faces illuminated by screens. Others held them to ears, barking announcements down the other end.
“Don’t know when it will be yet,” they said to people who weren’t here.
An entire life lived; a human being who breathed the same air moments before. Now all people wanted to know was when they could chuck her in the ground, and throw dirt on top, like a cat burying shit. Only then could they squabble over inheritances, await larger bank balances and plan distant trips.
I knew that if she was free from this; removed from the materialism of life, the narcissism, and frenetic pace, then she would be alright indeed.
***
“Bullshit.”
This was her final word.
“Bullshit.”
It was spring and while I witnessed death, everything else was blooming to life. The colors outside her room were beautiful and vibrant, in stark contrast to my darkened emotions. These same spring blossoms also triggered allergies.
“Ahh-Choo!”
There’s nothing like a violent sneeze to break the silence that accompanies a death-watch. I was standing at the foot of her bed when it happened.
“Ahh-Choo!”
Everyone glared at me like I was the worst person in the world for daring to wake the dying lady.
She stirred and slowly rolled over, harnessing a final ounce of strength. Her eyes prised themselves open and stared directly at me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I gushed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She listened intently, looked me up and down, and demonstrated a lifetime of perfecting being unimpressed.
“Bullshit!” she replied, before rolling over and returning to sleep.
She never spoke again.
***
I didn’t know how to speak at a funeral. Who does? I felt oddly protective of the memories I had. They were mine. They were ours. They were special to us. So, I talked shit, hoping to make people laugh, hoping to make myself laugh. Laughter was the medicine I needed; the drug to get me through, the only way to distract from her small, rosewood coffin and how it looked so elegant with beautiful flowers on top.
I spoke of the time she gave me gift-buying advice, how she innocently told me to buy a potential date an all-day sucker. To my right, a group of elderly ladies giggled together, like they had transformed into the mischievous young school girls they once were.
I talked of her opinions on rock music, how on hearing AC/DC for the first time, she jumped in horror, stared at the car floor, and muttered, “thought the guts had fallen out of it!”
I reminisced on her dislike for dogs, but how she tended to a small pet cemetery, with more care, devotion, and tenderness that many show the graves of loved ones.
For someone who disliked most things in life, including people, she had a knack for helping others. In her final weeks, a fellow aged care resident became stuck in a doorway, underwear around her ankles.
“I can’t do it!” the lady bellowed. “I can’t do it!”
“Shut up!” came her reply. “You bloody well can do it!”
And it was those words that I clung to now. Her blunt encouragement was something worth clinging to; something to get me through the service, something to get me through life.
One of the elderly, giggling ladies approached me at the wake.
“Did she really suggest you buy the all-day sucker?” she smirked, sipping her Earl Gray tea.
“Yes,” I replied. “But I chose some flowers instead.”
“Bullshit!” she laughed.