The luckiest Girl in the world

I’m not one to get terribly upset by the death of a celebrity, but for some reason, the death of Lisa Marie Presley, blanketed me in a feeling of melancholy.

I didn’t know her, I wasn’t a follower of her music, but as a kid, I though she was the luckiest girl in the world. My parents were fans of Elvis and my dad took my mom to see him at the International Hotel in August 1969, a year before I was born. At that concert, my dad tipped the maitre’d really well and got a table near the stage. When Elvis was kissing the ladies, he urged my mom to go get a kiss from the King. Unfortunately, she was too shy for a smooch. Ugh.

I probably would have been just as nervous to go get a kiss. Elvis was a handsome devil who was larger than life. In 1976, I named my first pets, a couple of hamsters, Elvis and Priscilla. Unlike the real Elvis, hamster Elvis tragically ate his offspring, which the real Elvis would never do. I lost interest in hamster Elvis after that.

Real Elvis died the day before my birthday on August 16, 1977. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news—planted, probably three inches away, in front of the boob tube surrounded by a sea of shag carpeting. He died young, not a member of the tragic 27 club, but at 42, which seems like a spring chicken to me now.

Lisa Marie was 54 when she died, just two years older than me, which makes me think that maybe she wasn’t the luckiest girl in the world. Her beloved son, Benjamin, took his own life in 2020 and she was grieving that loss, which she wrote about here.

The statement she made in that essay that resonated with me the most was this, “Grief is something you will have to carry with you for the rest of your life, in spite of what certain people or our culture wants us to believe. You do not "get over it," you do not "move on," period.”

The truth of that statement hit me this week at the funeral of my friend’s mom. The second I sat down in that church, tears streamed and pooled into my mask. I couldn’t stop crying and this is soooooooooooo not me. Sure I felt empathy for my friend and her loss, but I didn’t know her mom, so the waterworks weren’t really for Ruth Eastland. Although she sounded like a hell of a gal and the service was beautiful.

This crying jag was all about the death of my own mom, who never got a funeral due to Covid after her death in October of 2020. As I sat in that pew, guilt and grief and anger bubbled up inside me in a jumble of confusion. My eyesockets were the only escape for the sadness, so I dabbed at them furiously with wadded up tissues, as my grief counselor’s voice echoed in my head, “feel your feelings.” So, I did. I sat there and I felt them. I cried, I wiped my tears, I blew my nose. At one point, I had to leave the room as I was about to have a coughing fit, which during a pandemic might cause some panic. My first instinct with all my crying was to be ashamed and go hide in the bathroom until the service was over, but I didn’t. I returned with fresh tissue to cry some more.

Grief is normal. It’s the price we pay for love. And to love and to know love is lucky.

Monday Mourning on a Wednesday

Way back in 2008 when I was researching death professions, I started a blog called “The Death Writer.” On that blog, I used to ask people the same questions that I’m answering in this post. My aim was to allow people to talk about their loved one and the grief they experienced, which might normalize this conversation in some small way.

I am coming up on the one year anniversary of my mom’s death and I still feel the weight of grief. The fact that my mom died of the Covid virus, which is still raging due to the Delta variant, complicates matters. I am not going to lie or sugar coat the fact that I feel a lot of anger towards the people who deny how deadly it is. I guess they have to experience it on a personal level before it gets real. With that said…

Who was the person?

My mom, Ora McCully.

How old were you at the time?

50

How old was the person?

88

Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

My mom was exposed to Covid 19 when my stepdad was brought home from physical rehab. He had been there for a month and wasn’t getting better. They assured my mom he tested negative, but after a bit of digging, I found that they tested him on the day he was released and the lab report said, “sample spilled in transit, please resubmit.” He died eight days after coming home. Five days after his death, she tested positive for Covid and was admitted to the hospital. I wrote about this experience for CNN. Because she was so healthy, I totally thought she was going to be okay. It wasn’t until she had to be intubated on her birthday that the possibility of death really sunk in. My mom didn’t want to be intubated and the doctor couldn’t do it without her consent. He asked that I come to the hospital to convince her. And I did.

I wrote about my regret about making that decision for an anthology called “The Phone: An Unruly Collection of Second Chances.” This book was inspired by an art installation called “phone of the wind,” which you can read about here. I believe it will be released in December of this year. I will keep you posted.

Did you and the person ever talk about death?

Yes. I had written a book called “Death Becomes Us,” which she had read. She attended one of my Death Over Dinners and I encouraged her to get her affairs in order. At the time of her death, she did have an Advance Directive and a handwritten will, which is legal in Texas, but her spouse died before her, and he didn’t have a will. They were both each other’s beneficiaries, which was incredibly complex to navigate. Please, do your loved ones a favor and draft a will, an advance directive, appoint someone as your medical and/or financial power of attorney. Trust me on this one. It is never too early to think about and plan for the end. It is truly a gift you can give your loved ones.

Had you experienced any other deaths in your life before this person died?

Yes. My grandmother, Lola, when I was fourteen. My mother-in-law, Lovina Skjolsvik and my dad, Bob Johson. My neighbor, Burch Stevens, also died in 2020 and I found his body.

Were people supportive of you in your grief or did they shy away from you when you were grieving?

Because I wrote about my mom on Facebook to update friends and family on her condition, many people reached out to me after she died. People sent cards, sent flowers and dropped off food. But, as is typical and I am just as guilty of it as the next person, after the initial flood of sympathy and concern, people stop talking about her. Why do people, including myself, do this? Because they don’t want to make you feel sad. SPOILER ALERT I am already sad, so you bringing up my mom isn’t going to make me even sadder. If anything, it reminds me that she lives on in the thoughts and memories of others. I may start to cry, but I’ve learned through grief counseling that that is okay. The more we love, the more we are going to grieve. I am going on a year and my grief is still there. While it’s not as raw as the day she died, not a day goes by that I don’t think about my mom or want to call her and tell her what’s going on in my life or ask her a question.

Was the person buried or cremated?

My mom was cremated. Next week, my mom and stepdad will finally be placed in a cemetery. Due to the surge of Covid cases in Texas, the in person memorial service has been postponed.

Did you learn anything about the grieving process you’d like to share?

Because we can’t gather due to Covid and my siblings don’t want to risk their health by traveling to Texas right now, I have learned how important gathering with friends and family is in the grief process. People need people. We also need ceremonies and rituals. We did have a Zoom memorial that I livestreamed on Facebook, which was nice, but I would have preferred to have had one in person. I may not be the huggiest person in the world, but I needed lots of hugs. Still do.

Were there any songs played at the memorial that were important to the person?

Yes. My sister-in-law, Nancy, made a lovely slideshow of my mom. The video plays to the song, “You and Me Against the World” which was a song that she used to play a lot when I was a kid. She said it was our song. It makes me bawl like a baby everytime I hear it. Another song that brings me to tears is “Remember Me” from the animated film Coco. My mom loved music, so there are a ton of songs out there that remind me of her. When I was a teenager, I used to be embarrassed when she would sing in the car with my friends. Now, I would give anything to hear her belt out a show tune.

Good Grief?

In 2008, I went to Goucher College to give myself permission to write. Because I’m a people pleaser, who ironically tries to avoid most people, I wrote my thesis based on an accidental call to a funeral home to please my mentor. (Hi Diana!) At 40, I didn’t have a lot of experience with death, but after exploring death professions for two years, I realized that it wasn’t death so much that I feared, it was grief. Stuffing unpleasant/uncomfortable feelings was my go-to coping mechanism, but I knew instinctively that the mighty giant of grief awaited around the corner and there was no way I would be able to stuff that shit. (Sorry, Diana, but sometimes “shit” is the best word.)

“If you’ve loved a lot, you’re going to grieve a lot.” Kati Bachman

It wasn’t just my own grief that I feared, it was also your grief. As I mentioned above, I avoid people. I’m an introvert (INFP if you’re into Myers Briggs) with social anxiety. You are more likely to find me at your (pre-Covid) soiree hiding in a corner playing with your dog than standing at the punchbowl making small talk with a bunch of strangers. (And that’s if I actually attend your party.) So, prior to writing about death, if we were coworkers and I found out that your mom died, I would avoid you.

One, because I didn’t know what to say to you to fix your grief. I have since discovered that there are no words to “fix” someone’s grief but avoiding people who are grieving has the unfortunate side effect of making that person feel like they are contagious or that what they are going through is wrong. Grief is not wrong. It’s natural. And I don’t know if you know this or not, but SPOILER ALERT: we are all going to die. People we love will die. Even people we don’t like will die. And right now, a lot of people are dying.

Two, because I didn’t want to make you feel worse by bringing up the death of the person that you loved. Which is ridiculous the more I think about it. You/I already feel bad. If I avoid talking about the pink elephant that I know is there, and you know is there, I imply that you need to get over this thing by yourself. And quickly. Like before next week so we can all get back to talking about Baby Yoda, the true meaning of covfefe (I think it’s Covid fatigue. Webster’s, call me!) or this ridiculously awful year.

My debut novel, Forever 51, came out this week and I have experienced everything from elation to existential dread. Wonderful things have been happening with the book, but I am also sad and weepy and it sucks. (Diana, I did refrain from using another expletive in that sentence.) I want to call my mom, but since that isn’t possible, talking/writing about my grief will have to do.

For now.