She Ain't Heavy. She's My Mother

It is not uncommon to hear the phrase, “I buried my dad last week” or “I laid my mother to rest this week.”

Well, in my case the phraseology is not exaggerated. 

In March of 2012 I buried my father. Or to be fair, I dug a shallow hole, and buried his cremains.

As I write this story the end of April is upon us, and I am (literally) preparing to bury my mother. Or to be accurate, my mother’s cremains.

I stopped by the funeral home yesterday, and picked up all that remained of her.

Odd, that the total sum of the human body is capable of being reduced to the square space available in a 1’x8”x6” laminate box.

And as I lifted what passed for an urn, I remembered the (slightly altered) words of a once popular song.

 “She ain’t heavy. She’s my mother!”

My mother had been bed-bound the last several months of her life, and just prior to “achieving” a state of total helplessness, I recall having helped her from her wheelchair into her bed. In spite of her modest 130 lbs. frame, it was all I could do to not drop her on the floor. Dead weight. (No pun intended).

Odd, at this stage she really is, well, dead, but her weight is so diminished that I can hold her in one hand. 

As I strode out of the funeral home, carrying the last mortal remains of my mother, I set a course for my nearby 2015 silver Altima. Reaching the passenger door, I threw it open, and lovingly placed the urn on the front seat. I could not resist.

“Mama, you haven’t ridden in my new car. How ‘bout I just set you here by me.”

At City Hall I was informed that, “Well, no, you cannot inter your mother’s cremains today. We will be sending a survey person to the gravesite in the next couple days.”

As a result of the mandatory wait, and since my mother had been cooped up for several months, I decided to offer her “the grand tour;” (well, at least the “petite tour.”)

“Mama, how would you like to drive by your old house?”

And although, my mother was perfectly incapable of speaking at this point, I aimed my trusty silver “steed” towards 670 Formosa Avenue, Bartow. As we passed my childhood home, I exclaimed,

“Well, mama. There it is. Brings back lots of memories, huh?”

(And indeed, it did).

My mother hadn’t been home in six months; not ‘since her sisters’ October 2015 visit; although she had hoped to summon up a final burst of energy which would allow her to do lunch there one more time.

Well, this kind of “going home” was, without fear of contradiction, not what she had in mind. However, I simply could not contemplate storing her in my house ‘til the appointed day. Thus, having parked my car in her driveway, I unlocked the side door, walked a few steps to her bedroom, and set the urn on the floor next to her nightstand.

On April 29, 2016 my mother will take her place next to the mortal remains of my dear father. During the two years my mom resided in the skilled nursing facility, she was prone to tell anyone who would listen that,

“I’m ready to go.”

(and/or)

“A body shouldn’t have to live like this.”

(and/or)

“I’m be happy when I can join my dear husband in heaven.”

As I walked out of the funeral home yesterday I alluded to the literalness of having buried my father, and shortly doing the same for my mother. And I finished my train of thought with,

“And perhaps one of my children will return the favor one day.”

The (slightly altered) words of that song echo in my consciousness,

“She ain’t heavy. She’s my mother.”

I can think of no higher privilege.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 35. Copyright pending

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