Just Hear Me Out

OK. Somebody has to say it. I've been waiting for some brave soul to step up to the podium and make the announcement. Silence. OK. Here we go; stop going to funeral visitations.

We'll take it step by step.
1) If you are going because you feel you have to, stop  If it is a relative of a coworker, client, patient or customer; this means you. If it is someone whose family has probably never heard of you, often with good reason, don't go. If it is well publicized, especially tragic or scandalous, don't pretend. You're morbidly curious; perfectly understandable...... Stay home.

2) You think someone will be hurt if you don't go. Grieving families are usually so overwhelmed, they will not miss you. If you absolutely have to show up, sign your name in the guestbook, do a quick pass of the room and move on. If asked, you can truthfully say you were there.

3) If the parking lot is full and people are walking over from nearby businesses; keep right on going.

4) If you possibly can, go to the funeral. This is the place where sheer numbers count. How many people attended the service and more significantly, how many cars in the funeral procession.

5) If you're going just to see the body, you have more issues than we can get into. Find a therapist..... a really good therapist.

6) Years ago, funerals were multi-day affairs. People were spread out and it could take a few days to get  together. Now, a visitation is usually somewhere between four and six hours. Ideally, this should be time that those who knew and cared about the deceased and his or her survivors can share their grief. The last thing they need or want is having to put on a brave face and make small talk with strangers.

7) All of the attention is focused on the first few days. To be really thoughtful, send a card or a note to a few weeks later. In this case, even if you didn't know the deceased, you can let someone know that you care. The hardest part of grieving is that it's long and difficult and the rest of the world moves on. Grief can be very isolating. Often, we think about calling or writing, we're just not sure what to say. That's OK. It doesn't have to be profound  because in that moment, you have done what most of the others have not. And it does matter, much more than standing in line at a funeral home when time is short and demands on the family are many. In the end, we all want to feel like we've expressed our feelings to those who have suffered a loss. Maybe being one of a couple of  hundred people in a line  is not the best way.

8) If you absolutely know for a fact that there will be very few mourners: a small family, someone who has outlived their friends, etc ....go. One of the saddest things in the world is a handful of people, a couple of flower arrangements and a casket in a big empty room. You will know instinctively when this is the case and you will try to think of any excuse not to go. Go. You'll be glad you did.

The 8th Deadly Sin

I am a smoker. I'm not proud of it, but I'm damned tired of being ashamed of it. Last time I checked, it was a product sold legally in all 50 states, even the ones that want to outlaw its use in...... well, everywhere. (A side note to California: Maybe this is why you're so broke; you want to make everyone there so healthy that they live to be 150).Smoking or nonsmoking used to be a dining preference, now it is a label. First an attempt to isolate smokers from the rest of the world, now it's close to becoming a product of black markets and purchases across state lines in an attempt to circumvent the ridiculous amount of"sin" tax that varies state to state. First it was the removal of a cartoon figure from advertising; the evil Joe Camel who could  entice toddlers and preschoolers to crave tobacco. Then it was removal from sponsorship of sporting events. Winston Cup? Sorry, might get those NASCAR folks all revved up (pun intended). Go ahead and let them have beer sponsors though, that's a good message; alcohol and speed are, after all, a natural combination.

Here's the thing. We know cigarettes are harmful and potentially lethal. Fine. Separate us from the obviously  much more intelligent nons. You don't want us huddled outside together in a tiny toxic crowd, lest some pure- lunged fellow human be exposed to our toxic cloud. Give us an option. Stick us in a broom closet. Make us use certain entrances and exits. All of you second amendment folks, you want to be able to walk around with enough firepower to wipe out a busload of people. What about my rights?

Pain

My physical pain, my psychological pain, these are eased by the many pharmaceutical products I have been prescribed. They dull the pain but not the senses, contrary to popular belief. Chronic pain cannot be explained to those who have never experienced it. It changes so many aspects of life: what you can do and when. If it is severe, it creates psychological manifestations that are equally distressing. The depression, the frustration and the loneliness are isolating. We seek the company of those who understand on message boards and in support groups. We try to present a picture of normalcy to the rest of the world. If that fails, we retreat. Like turtles we pull the vulnerable parts inside a shell of armor and hide.

The most severe damage can occur to the psyche or is I call it, the soul. The constant performing, trying to invoke the power of mind over matter is very draining and impossible to sustain. As limitations increase, the pressure inside builds. I struggle to control the beast. The beast is the totality of pain and the resulting inability to do what I want and need to do. A blind rage simmers under the surface. It struggles to break free, to release some of its power. I struggle to contain it, to find ways to ease its pressure without damaging those around me. It's poison has no boundaries, no words too harsh, no actions unjustifiable. It is a monster and now, it is me.

My Imaginary Hometown

I always wanted to live in Mayberry, where the worst problem could be solved by Sheriff Andy Taylor in the span of 30 minutes, minus commercials.  Where the town drunk was so harmless he locked himself up in a cell.  There was a barber shop where everyone gathered, a cafe and one patrol car.  Where Deputy Fife carried a single bullet and never used it.  Where a person could take their broken items to be repaired by a man who could fix anything.  Where Aunt Bea made breakfast and dinner and occasionally a fool of herself.  My ideal fantasy world, safe and secure.  Everybody knew your name and your business.  The show is still in reruns some 50 years later.  I like to believe it wasn't all fiction.  I like to believe that somewhere there  is or was a place like that.  If I could control my dreams, I would spend them in Mayberry.  I would have several hours of peace and quiet.  I would be a part of a small safe world.  I would forget the fear and the bad news that constantly assaults my conscious mind.  Perhaps that sounds  childish. It probably is.When you are young, you can't wait to grow up.  We think when we're older we'll make our own decisions, make our own rules. Instead, we find that the structure that confines us is even more rigid.  We have responsibilities.  We have knowledge of tragedies and suffering beyond our little world.  We mourn.  We grieve the losses along the way.  And we go on.  We have no choice.

    I don't watch the Andy Griffith show very often now.  Sometimes it is a calm distraction from the frenetic pace of life.  Sometimes, it's just a place that doesn't exist, a phantom, a ghost town.  A place where I can no longer exist, even in my imagination.  I am a grown up now.