As I have recently mentioned in earlier posts, my uncle died on Friday. Yes, it was sad, even though we knew it was coming. But since my dad excused me from coming home for the funeral services, I have been left to deal with it on my own.
In most cases I'd be fine with being left to my own devices in order to cope... but this is not one of those times.
I went to work this morning, as usual, and as the brokers filed in, one of them asked me how my weekend was. Being the honest person that I am, I told her.
"Not great... my uncle died on Friday."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Why are you here? Why aren't you at home?"
"Because I'm too new here to have any personal days yet, and because my dad told me since I was so recently home, that I was excused from attending."
"Oh... I'm so sorry... Do you need a tissue?"
[Visibly upset, though not actively crying] "No, thanks, I'm ok."
The truth is that as far as mourning the loss, I am ok... Where I'm not ok is the instances where my mom gives me tidbidts of information that tug at my girly-emotional-heartstrings.
Example: The other night after the showing, my mom called to inform me that in his last days my uncle apparently went on and on about how beautiful I was, how well I'd grown up, what a fine young lady I'd become, and how proud he was of me... Apparently he'd said something of that nature to many of the people he had contact with in the time since I left, as several of them came back to my mom and said so.
We're a close-knit family, so that got me a little misty-eyed.
The actual funeral service was today... Again, mom called me afterward to give me the details. She noted that the entire classes of my young cousins had come to the service as a display of support... And also because he had coached them in their athletic endeavors for the past several years. While I found that particularly sweet, (because it meant that my cousins have support extending well-outside of the family,) that didn't quite catch me the way that the next bit did.
After noting other assorted details of the funeral, like the fact that nobody could maintain their composure throughout the event, including what most would consider the hardest, and most jaded of my family members, and that there was nary a dry eye in the entire church, then she told me about the service at the cemetery.
This is what metaphorically killed me.
(A little background: My grandfather died back in 1991. My, now deceased, Uncle Jim was married at the time, but got divorced about a year ago.)
My other uncle, seeing Jim's condition rapidly deteriorate decided to go ahead and purchase his burial plot. And being the tight-knit family that we are, he didn't want Jim to be buried alone. So when he went to look for a plot, he decided to go ahead and get a grouping of three plots, one for himself, one for his wife, and one for Jim. And as he looked through the list of available plots, he found something infinitely better.
He discovered that the plot immediately below my grandfather's plot on the hill was available. So, Jim is buried at his father's feet. Right where he should be.
And when I heard this, the dam broke, and the waterworks started.
Mind you, this is while I'm walking to a Michigan Avenue eatery for my lunch break.
The day's makeup was damaged beyond repair, and my fellow Chicagoans (depending on their dispositions) looked at me as though I were either a total pity case, or some kind of freak.
I was a mess throughout lunch.
Fortunately I happened to have a particularly funny book in my purse, so I had some means of distraction while trying to eat and regain my composure before going back to the office.
A quick trip to the executive washroom to fix the remains of my face before returning to the office, and I was all set. And it was a light afternoon, so the brokers and I had a chance for some light-hearted, non-funeral related chitchat.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go seek out that tissue now, and then I'm going to go read "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs."
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