Deer Park Cremation Part 2

Joe, my boyfriend, and I had decided that it would be easier on Zachary, my son, if he didn’t have to go into the ultra formal and grave room to discuss the details of what to do with Mom’s remains. Since he was young, he also needed someone to stay with him, and that meant Joe couldn’t be with me.

So there I was. Me and the man. He sat down at the huge oak desk across from me, looked down at the paperwork, took a quick breath in, then looked up with an apologetic smile.

“We’re so sorry for your loss. We at Deer Park Funeral Home are here to make the transition as peaceful as possible and to help you honor your loved one as you wish.”

I was impressed. It sounded lovely, and a lot better than how things went down when the Hospice lady just straight up asked for my credit card number because Mom was dead now and she needed to be moved. I guess I had sort of expected similar treatment here. This was a pleasant departure, so to speak.

I began to feel a bit better, not quite so numb. A tiny little perk of something like warmth.

Then came the questions.

How old was your mother at her time of death? Did she have any siblings? By whom is she survived? What was her father’s name?

Each one of these seemingly harmless questions was an onslaught of the brokenness that was our family. I wasn’t sure how old mom was. I didn’t have her license to get her birth year and we certainly hadn’t been having a lot of mother- daughter discussions about what it was like to be her age, or birthday parties to celebrate milestones or anything. We were just glad when there was no call from the hospital. I did later realize that she had been 53 upon the time of her death.
My mom had siblings, yes. Her baby brother had died in an alcohol-related car accident when she was fourteen. Her other brothers suffered from alcoholism badly, and one had died. The other died a few years later. None of them saw 60. Her sister was married to a man that I hoped never to see again for what he had done in our lives, and she stayed married to him.

So, even though she was survived by some of them and us, I didn’t have a lot I wanted to say about that. I was pretty sure I knew my Granny’s full name, but I sure did not now my momma’s daddy’s name. I knew everyone called him “Red,” partially because he had red hair. I’m sure he also had a red face, as he had died from a heart attack when my mom was only ten. Although there is no proof, I’m sure alcohol played a role.

My mind tried to recover from the buckshot questions that had fired holes through it. I was still reeling when the funeral home man must’ve had smpathy given my near- catatonic state and useless answers, “Um, they called him Red. Uh.” He put his pen down and mercifully stopped the questioning.

He shifted into low gear and began to explain the process of cremation. Learning about the tangible finality that my mom could now have was nothing short of a blessing.