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This photo was taken in 2005 (October, I think) from a vacation rental house in Bodega Bay. After Dad decided to stop cancer treatment, my sister and I took him on a trip to the ocean.  He was tired from chemo and radiation.  He knew his two oncologists wanted him to finish his treatment.  But he also knew there was little chance of success, and he was in a lot of pain from treatment. 

And so, my sister found a great house right across from the ocean.  We were joined by our cousin who became Dad's closest confidante during his last months.  We tried to relax, though Dad soon got restless and wanted to head home.  At least my sister, cousin, and I were able to spend some relaxing time next to the ocean.

This picture is of the setting sun from inside the house after we shared a meal together.

My father told his own doctor time and time again, "I want to ride off into the sunset alone." 

And so, there are two nights about to be entered here.  The night of a day, and the night of a life.  Both of them were extraordinary.

I attended my aunt's funeral today. I went alone to the wake service yesterday. My uncle passed away several years ago, and he and my aunt had three children. Yesterday, I sat with two of my three cousins. Today, Mom, Big Sis, my Sweetie, and I drove to the Bay Area for another service and the burial. It was a good service, and we shared lunch with my family and family friends afterwards. It was slightly chilly this morning, and we arrived at the funeral home early. My sister and I walked a few blocks to look for a flower shop. The burial was at the same cemetery that my father is at, and we wanted to take some flowers to him (and the rest of the aunts and uncles). Seems you can find most anything you want within a three-block area in San Francisco.

I have a bunch of thoughts running around my brain, but none are forming full trains right now. I am hoping that I can speak more to my cousins this week, to really get an idea of how they are doing. To talk about some things you can't talk about in the middle of memorial services, for fear of sending each other into fits of tears. Not that I had anything specific to say or ask. But it's been less than a year since my father's death, and I remember the feeling of holding a mental dam in place while we got through all the funeral details. Of course, we cried. Of course, we laughed as we remembered good things about Dad. But the gut-heaving, clothes-soaking, crazy cry is not something you want to share with the polite old-time friend who just came to pay respects and give you a pat on the back. In fact, it’s not something I can easily share with anyone. I cried a ton with Big Sis. I cried a ton with my Sweetie. But the worst of the worst? The cry where I screamed a little, fell to the ground, curled up in a little ball, and wailed? I did that alone. Because, really, what can you do or say to anyone in that situation? There wasn’t anything anyone could do. I knew that my loved ones loved me. I knew I needed a good fat cry. It was natural, and it was ok. But it probably looked frightening.

I think most people, even the people closest to us, are slightly uncomfortable in such a situation. Perhaps it is because of our innate need to *fix* things. Or to help people we care about. And even if we know that all that person needs is a good cry, there is still a tingle of discomfort to be the one to witness it. Because you want to say something soothing. Or helpful. And you want to help relieve the other person’s pain. Or you just want the upwelling of emotion to cease. It’s human nature. Even though I’ve been through my own grief, I don’t know that I’m any better at witnessing someone else’s. But if my family can stand my potentially awkward support, I want them to know they can have it. And I appreciate support from the people around me, even if I don’t ask for more, or say more than Thank You.

And with that, I’ll take my thoughts back in for another day or two. Happy Tuesday (almost).

Did you ever see the film "Mother"?  If you have, did you love that classic food scene as much as I did? Isn't that the most typical Mom behavior?  Must....feed....children.  Doesn't matter how old the child - Moms have this instinctive need to feed you.  From the big block of cheese to the "protective covering" of freezer burn on the ice cream, that scene in Mother is one of my favorites!  It cracks me up because it is so true. 

It reminds me of similar scenes I've lived with one of my best friend's mothers.  Mama T always tried to feed me. And feed people she could! But there was one time where my friend and I had gone out to eat with friends and when we got back to the house, Mama T was aflutter with excitement at the thought of feeding us.  She delightedly showed us the steaks she had taken out of the freezer to fix for us. We tried to tell her we were not hungry. But she talked up her steaks. We insisted we were not hungry. But she talked up her steaks. We finally had to admit that we had already eaten out and were honestly too full to eat a gigantic steak each. I think she fed both of them to my good friend after I left! 

Mama T was always looking out for me, making sure I was comfortable in her home, making me welcome, and checking in on me. And not just me - though her daughter and I have been friends since we were five years old.  New friends and old friends alike, once you were in her home, you would be mothered.  She always wanted to see and believe the best in people, and by seeing the good in people, she treated you with kindness and respect and care. 

I am very lucky that I have good friends whose parents are so open and supportive of their extended families.  Mama T just happened to be the one who was in my life the longest.  She passed away a week ago, and I feel like a little part of my childhood left with her.  I could go back to my old hometown, and see her, and feel like I still belonged there (my parents moved away several years ago).  I could look forward to being pampered and scolded all day with her love and her no-nonsense common sense. For all that, I know her family will miss her very much.  But I hope they are comforted, as I am, with some hilarious memories and the warm-blanket feeling you get when you remember someone who truly cared for you. Moms are very very good at that.