When my mom passed away, it fell on myself and my two sisters to arrange the funeral. Dad did the funding: paid for the casket, put the deposit down for the funeral home, wrote a check to the Elks lodge for the after-service, but he stepped away from everything else. My sisters and I were left to do the emotional stuff. And we had NO idea how to do any of it.
Mom died on the winter solstice, December 21st. She hated the cold, so I joke that she bailed on this earth before she had to endure another winter season. After seven years of progressive dementia, she finally found some peace. I remember feeling relieved when the nightmare ended. But even though we knew it was coming to some extent, when it hit, it hit hard. We were forced to ‘spring into action,’ making arrangements and putting our grief on hold.
*I’ll never comprehend this aspect of death. The hour someone takes their last breath, the survivors are required to call the coroner, and it flips the switch. All of a sudden, you’re contacting a funeral director, seeing when the funeral home has available dates, making calls to insurance companies, dialing up the cemetery to arrange for the plot to be dug out, calling the church to arrange a service. There is no time to process; there is no time to grieve.
After Mom died, one of the many tasks that needed to be completed, on top of contacting relatives, securing nearby hotels, picking an outfit for Mom to wear, choosing scripture readings and music for the church, writing eulogies, designing a prayer card, and arranging babysitters for the long wake hours, was creating photo collages of Mom to place around the funeral parlor.
My mom was like most moms - she was typically the one taking the pictures, not being in front of the camera. I found this a striking theme as I poured through my Dad’s old photo albums. Page after page, you’d see photos of us kids (their 4 children) or Dad alone in front of a scenic landscape. The older ones might have the occasional photo of Mom holding a baby in her arms and posing, but really, there were not many photos of her during our elementary, middle or high school years.
Mom was too busy taking photos of her children - of our accomplishments. Looking for pictures of Mom, I weeded through snapshots of my brother taking a free-throw at our St. Mary’s gymnasium, me holding a swimming trophy, my older sister’s communion, my younger sister’s first day at YMCA camp. Hundreds of photos ranging from when we were little to when we held our own children as babies.
Most of the photos we did find of Mom were the ones WE took; the photos we made her get in: playing with her grandkids on Easter, blowing out candles on her birthday, in the middle school auditorium watching one of my daughter's in a school play.
Mom didn’t like to be photographed. (Do any of us, really?) She never liked the way she looked in pictures, and therefore rarely volunteered to be in them; she much preferred to be behind the scenes.
Pouring through photographs a few days before my Mom’s wake, I felt a sorrow separate from her death. I felt sadness that she saw herself as not “selfie-worthy.”
Mom was always putting herself down:
“I’ll take the picture; my hair is a mess.”
“Let me take it, I’m still in my pajamas.”
“Why don’t YOU get in with the kids and I’ll take the picture - you look so cute today.”
There was always an excuse for her to not be photographed, and when my sisters and I had to make posters for her wake, this was apparent.
Today, so many years later, I think of Mom whenever I’m with my family and we’re taking photos during vacation or a holiday. I find myself acting exactly as Mom did - wanting to be the one taking the pictures, not IN them. I, like her, don’t like the way I look in photos. I often feel unpretty or that the picture will be unflattering or show my weight.
In these instances, I remember my sisters and I sitting around the living room with photos spread out at our feet, looking for pictures of Mom with great difficulty.
In the ones we did find I saw her glowing smile, kindness in her eyes, softness of her spirit. I never saw the pajamas or the weight or the messy hair.
And so, I acknowledge my apprehension, and force myself to be photographed. I awkwardly stand there with a goofy grin while my son snaps a picture or my husband gets one of me with my three kids. I even take selfies! I may not like it, but I do it - for those who will be left behind.
