Death Is Not The End

My mother's mother died this past weekend. She was seventy-something, a lifelong drinker, a horrible woman. I'm going to be a pallbearer at her funeral tomorrow, and I was asked if I wanted to say a few "not-mean" words at the church service.

Having already performed this duty at two different funerals, I declined. My brother will read some form of the pleasant eulogy I composed for the occasion:

Jean Moran, was not your typical grandmother. My childhood memories of her do not include home-made apple pies, a cozy kitchen, and treats. No, I grew up around my grandparents' hillside pool, spending holidays with my wide range of Moran cousins at the end of the exclusive cul-de-sac in Moraga. The journey there from my hometown of Rio Vista was always a strange trip for me growing up, a metaphoric and literal jaunt from my little river town to landscaped suburb beyond Lafayette.

Indirectly, Grandma Jean taught me how to be tough. How to survive, by any means necessary. She had an edge to her, and could be abrasive, but she was caring, overall. I'll miss her, but her last days were filled with pain, so I think she's finally at peace now. Would she want the rest of us to be at peace? You knew Jean, you tell me. All I can say is: I love you, Grandma, wherever you are.

Here's the optional content:

Jean Moran was widely despised and I'm sickened to remember that I am related to her. She boycotted my parents' wedding, made my mother's childhood a living hell, and reigned as the drunken matriarch to a spineless, equally drunken Irish fool. I am glad she's dead, and I'm not sorry that I never visited her. Good night, and good luck.

Does that seem cruel? I'm sure it does. I'm sure I don't care much, either way. I hate funerals and don't want one when I'm gone... even if I ultimately leave fonder memories that my grandmother did, there will undoubtedly be those out there who loathed me in life, hate the fact that I'm dead and they can't get to me, and I just don't want to subject my wife to those people. I'm fortunate in many ways, and I love my life and my wife, but I'm still angry.

The funeral will be a disgusting charade, with a parade of people looking morose and pretending that Jean Moran wasn't a hideous person, someone who oversaw her children's abuse at the hands of their father, who saw to it that only a handful of defiant relatives attended my mother and father's wedding (my mom was pregnant with me at the time, her parents didn't approve of my dad, who is a genuine and decent person, etc.), and who only accepted my mom back into her life after I was born. I'm the oldest of her grandkids, and I stopped talking to those people long ago. 

But I'm going. I'll pretend, like the rest of them. But I'm not saying a goddam thing.