LJ Idol Survivor: Challenge 10: All The Fixins

[flipflop_diva]

There was everything you could need for a delicious lunch. Huge sub sandwiches with thick rolls of bread, your choice of turkey or ham or roast beef, five different types of cheeses, lettuce, tomatoes, red and yellow onions, mustard, honey mustard or mayo, plus salt and pepper and some pickles and olives thrown in for good measure.

If you didn’t want sandwiches, there were bowls of pasta salad and macaroni salad, platters of spaghetti with giant meatballs and fettucine alfredo. There was French bread and garlic bread and even breadsticks.

There were bottles of wine, red and white, and even the fixings for margaritas.

And then there was dessert — a beautiful cake with creamy buttercream frosting, plates of chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies and even brownies, baked with chocolate chips inside them.

There were also dishes, casseroles and lasagnas baked by other people, that were placed into the freezer and the refrigerator to be saved for later.

Looking around, almost everyone had a plate of food, and there were a lot of everyones. People filled the kitchen and the dining room, the family room and the formal living room. There were even a few people out in the backyard, trying to keep their food safe from the prying eyes (and tongue) of a dog.

People were laughing, chatting, catching up and sharing old memories, telling stories of the whens and the whys and remembering all the moments that once seemed insignificant but no longer did.

I was with my sister and a group of shared friends — some family friends we’d both known our whole lives, some mainly mine and some primarily hers. We were in the family room, sitting on the floor because we were young and the chairs were taken, talking and eating and taking comfort in being around people we loved and who loved us.

Someone called to us. A friend of our father’s. He was heading out and wanting to say goodbye. Liz and I got up, leaving our overflowing plates of food behind, and went to give our dad’s friend — someone we had also known all our lives — a hug and a thank you for coming.

“Of course,” he told us both, and his eyes looked around the room at all the people. He smiled kindly at us. “If I didn’t know better, I would think this was a party and not a memorial.”

--

My mom always said she wanted a party when she died. But my sister and I were kids at the time, and it wasn’t ever anything we took seriously. It was just something that people joked about in an abstract way and that we never thought we’d really have to worry about.

We didn’t know that when we were barely starting our lives as adults that we would one day have to sit by our mom’s side in a hospital room and watch her die. We didn’t know we would then spend the next few days following our dad all over town to do all of the things you have to do to plan a memorial service — the church she used to attend to see if they could host the service, her favorite Italian restaurant to see if they would cater the after-feast back at our house (really my dad’s house since my sister and I no longer lived at home), the bakery to make the type of cake my mom loved most, the florist to pick out all the flowers our mom adored, the photo store to get pictures of her enlarged and framed to be displayed at the service and our house, the print shop to print the programs.

So many errands, so many decisions, so many people to inform. An obit to run in the newspaper, phone calls and emails about the service. On and on it went, keeping us busy and giving us something to focus on. On most of those days, the tears came at night, when I was alone in my bed and with nothing left to distract me.

But my mom wanted a party — it had been her wish — and we gave her one. All the women in their dresses and the men in their suits. Eating and drinking and laughing and remembering.

I don’t remember many details of the conversations from that day — I remember the people who came and I remember the hugs and the looks of sympathy, but I don’t remember what was said or what we talked about or what made us laugh so hard. But I know that we did, and I know that we smiled, and I know that near the end, my dad put on music and we even danced a little, my dad, my sister and me.

And I don’t know for sure, but I like to think my mom was happy wherever she was, because we did what she asked and, at least in that moment, she knew we would be okay.

--

It was harder a few hours later, once everyone else had gone home. The extra food was wrapped and put away for my dad to have as he needed over the next few weeks. The trash was cleaned up and the extra chairs and tables folded and put aside.

Everything was quiet, and nothing was left to distract us. Just the overwhelming sense of loss and grief and pain.

That night, my dad lit a fire in the fireplace we barely ever used (after all, we did live in Southern California), and my sister, my dad and I sat around it, a glass full of strawberry margarita — my mom’s favorite — in our hands.

“I think she would have liked the party,” my dad said as we watched the flames and sipped our drinks.

“She would have,” Liz and I both agreed.

We lifted our glasses then, held them toward each other, and let them clink softly.

“To mom,” I said.

“To mom,” my sister and my dad said.

We each took a drink, tears in our eyes. And then we sat together, finishing our margaritas and watching the flames dance, remembering the very special woman who would always hold a huge piece of our hearts.






Non-fiction. Sunday (as in two days ago) was actually the 20th anniversary of the day my mom passed away. It's weird to think back on that time. It feels like another lifetime ago, and in many ways it was. But it's also crazy to think it could possibly have been so long ago, because so much of it I can picture like it happened last month.


Here's a picture of my mom. I look nothing like her, although I wish I did :)




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Comments

[gunwithoutmusic]

Wow, she looked like a movie star or something!

This heavily reminded me of when my husband's mom died - it was very sudden and unexpected. I remember being in our studio apartment when his phone rang and his sister was telling him to come up to his parents' house, but didn't explain why. I remember being in the car when his brother-in-law called me and let me know what happened but asked me not to say anything. I remember seeing the stretcher pulling her out of the house just after we arrived. It was a horrible day, and I know he went through many of the same things - being her next of kin (since his parents were divorced, even though they lived together), it was his responsibility to handle many of the things related to the death, and he'd really only break down and cry at night, once everything was taken care of and he finally had time to focus on his grief.

I remember, too, the memorial, and the post-memorial party - all of the family over at his aunt's house, food everywhere, everyone sharing memories and laughing wildly and partying in her honor. Both of my parents are still alive, so I haven't had to experience this kind of thing firsthand yet, thank God, but it really does hit close to home when I think about what my husband had to deal with.

[flipflop_diva]

Thank you! I think she was beautiful. My sister's daughter looks almost exactly like she did when she was young, but my sister and I look like our dad.

And, oh, wow, that sounds so awful. My mom passed away from breast cancer, and although it was unexpected in the sense that we didn't expect it right when it happened, it also wasn't completely unexpected. I can't imagine what your husband went through, especially having to deal with everything. Luckily for my sister and me, my dad handled most of it, and we just came along for moral support and to weigh in, but he knew everything to do. I don't know that I could have done it myself.

[adoptedwriter]

Hugs. This is lovely. So sorry for your loss. My dad has been gone about 25 yrs. that also still seems like last year on some days and eons ago all at once so I totally get this feeling.

[flipflop_diva]

Thank you <3 And I'm sorry for your loss too. It's always sad, no matter how long it's been.

Time is funny, how things can feel simultaneously so long and so short ago. Especially when I think of those first few months and how it felt like it would never get easier, but of course life went on and it did.

[alycewilson]

I know how this feels. My mom wanted a party, too, and we gave her one but not until a couple years later, when we held an exhibition of her art. She would have been so proud.

[flipflop_diva]

Oh, that's such a cool idea! I'm sorry it had to be in that circumstance, but that's a really nice tribute to her. It's nice to be able to honor people in the way they want and deserve <3

[murielle]

Beautiful!

Sorry, needed to wait for the tears to clear before I could write.

What a beautiful tribute to your mother and to the love you all have for her. She was absolutely gorgeous, lovely.

This is not only deeply moving but wonderfully well written, too. Thank you for sharing this very personal story with us.

*Hugs*

[flipflop_diva]

Awwww, thank you so much! This is such a sweet and amazing comment, I don't really even know what to say, except thank you. That means a lot! <3

[bleodswean]

A very lovely testimonial to such a difficult time.

[flipflop_diva]

Thank you so much! (And thank you for reading despite what you're going through. I hope I didn't make things worse for you <3)

[wolfden]

20 years feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? It’s been 30 years since my dad died. Sometimes it feels like a million years ago and sometimes he comes to me so clearly.

Going out with a party is definitely how I want to be remembered. When Sister Patrice died (my dad’s sister- a Franciscan nun) we had coneys and donuts because those were her favorite things. There were more of us than I expected my cousins came from a distance. I just happened to be in NY at the time.

I feel like I am peering into this tunnel again. They put my mom on Hospice this week. For a thing that has been inching closer forever, it’s still a shock to be at this point.

[flipflop_diva]

Oh no! I am so, so, so sorry to hear about your mom. Sending you so many hugs <3 That is so hard. I'm so sorry.

And yeah, time is so weird sometimes, how things can feel so long ago but yet so close all at the same time. There are some moments with my mom that I can remember so, so clearly, and then there are other things that are a lot more vague or are just dim recollections.

Also, I love that about your aunt. That sounds like a party I would like!

Again, though, I am so sorry about your mom. I hope you're doing as okay as you can be <3333

[halfshellvenus]

Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about your mom. What a terrible blow. :(

[halfshellvenus]

What a beautiful picture of your Mom! It has that early 60s 'glamor' feeling to it.

I wondered if the beginnings of recounting the bountiful feast would lead to the event being a wake rather than a holiday or more typical celebration, so I wasn't surprised by the turn it took.

It was really lovely that the celebration focused on foods and such that were your mother's favorites. I think that really helps bring out the feelings and memories of the person being celebrated.

And I think that when you're grieving the loss of someone, one of the few things that helps is to know how much other people loved that person and now miss them. It's a validation that they were special, that their passing does not go unnoticed.

I'm so sorry you lost her so soon. :(

[flipflop_diva]

Thank you for your kind words <3

When I first read the prompt, I kept envisioning Thanksgiving feasts and that sort, but none of our Thanksgivings have been either so good or bad that they'd be all that interesting to write about, so then I started to think of other meals we'd had where there just is everything, and I remembered this, and I felt like I had to write about it.

And I definitely agree with what you're saying. I think some of the things that meant the most from that time were the people that just shared stories of our mom and let us know that they, too, missed her.

Thank you again for reading, especially after your hard week!