“Sorry I was late, I didn’t want to come.” Should have been on a shirt when going to my Mothers funeral. Who the hell wants to be there? It's so hard, when someone you loves passes and the first thing you have to do is hurry and plan a funeral. It's like you're on a rollercoaster about to puke but you can't stop the ride. To me, when it comes down to it, I was "publicly accused" of being late, but I was not late. No one way waiting on me to start, no one was asking where I was. I was there, literally in the damn building, in the room even, when the officiant made a "joke" about my tardiness.
There’s much more context to this story, so let me break it down for you.
There’s been quite a bit of “passing” in my family over the past three or four years, but I’ll try to keep this as light as possible, we don't want that heavy shit here at this moment. So, let’s go down the timeline in order of “departures.” First, it was my beautiful grandmother, then my uncle, then my father—the day before my birthday, no less—and, four months later, my mom.
All of this happened in a matter of months. Traumatizing doesn’t even begin to cover it. But here we are, coping the only way I know how—"dark" humor.
At my father’s funeral, my mom was there, so she naturally took the reins of the whole thing. Yes, my sister and I were involved every step of the way, but we had her to guide us. She was the glue, the one who got us through. But a few months later, when it was my Mom passed, it was just my sister and me trying to pull it all together.
Let me just say, my sister and I get along—but we are very different people. We fought most of our childhood and even had our share of spats in adulthood. But when something serious happens, we always pull through together.
Now, here’s where things get complicated. My whole family knows about my... chronic tardiness to events. Listen, no matter how much I plan and time-crunch, I somehow always end up late. Christmas? Late. Thanksgiving? Late. Random family gatherings? You guessed it—late. I can’t even use the “I have kids” excuse because I know I’m not the only one juggling chaos.
That was just a thing with me. My family somewhat expected it. My sister, though? She had no chill about it. She’d text me passive-aggressively with “It’s 5:40” if the event is at 5:30. Like, bitch, I know!!! Do you think your text is going to magically speed me up? If anything, it just makes me more annoyed..and she knew it.
And yet, somehow, we'd always get past it. I'd show up and eventually, all is forgotten.
So let's get to funeral day. I remember I couldn't wait to get the fuck out of there. I wanted to go home, take off these uncomfy clothes, and get away from all these people. It's bad when you've become close with the funeral directors because you've had to lay to rest at least 4 family members with them in a short period of time. They were so sweet though. I remember the officiant (the guy you hire to speak at the funeral) was a man who you just made you feel at ease when you were around him. He was chill, ya know? And he had this voice that was soothing. It reminded me of those infomercials when you're little in the middle of the night and it was the "softs sounds" CD. (Hopefully you know what I'm talking about).
He made the funerals a little less..."stuffy" and more relaxed, which is the way I like shit. Anyway, the way I deal with trauma is that eventually overtime I block it out..the details. I remember being there, I remember the feelings, sights and smells, but some of the details get pretty fuzzy after a while. My kids, husband, sister and her family, plus myself all got to the funeral home, engaging with people we knew and loved, and other people we had no clue who they were. I stepped out for two seconds to use the restroom before we started. During that time my sister must have seen the chance. She looks around, sees I'm not visible and runs to the officiant to tell him about her cute "joke". This was her chance.
So, I hear the silence and walk up to the pews, people are settling in their seats and the officiant is on stage with microphone in hand. My ass is two seconds from hittin' the seat, and he says it. In front of all these damn people, "Well, here she is. We knew you'd be late." Then the chuckles.
Bitch. For real? I'm right fuckin' here. I wasn't parking, running in like a bat out of hell. What do you do in that moment? Get mad? Annoyed? Nope. You just gotta giggle that shit off. To be honest I wasn't sure if I was mad or not. Was this funny? Am I being to uptight? I still kind of go back and fourth on it. I should have worn a shirt that says "Sorry I was late, I didn't want to come," then maybe it would be funny to me. Who knows? Sir, can you just stand up there, do your thing and get me the fuck out of here. Let me put my Mother to rest without feeling like an absolute douchebag joke for everyone here.
But, I laughed it off, took the heat for a few seconds, and continued on. Does this really count as being late to my Mother's funeral? Maybe. It is my own damn fault cause I consistently don't make it on time? Probably. But shit, give me a break at least this one time. Here I am, four years later still thinking about that moment for some reason. It's weird how your brain sometimes will hold on to some memories but not others. My advice? Be early, to everything.