Reliving the Impossible

I wasn't there.

On March 2, 1976, my fraternal grandmother, Vivian Faye Chetister Metzker, was laid to rest at Willow Cemetery in Oregon, Ohio. She was only 62 years old and died unexpectedly from a blood clot. She was on blood thinners, but she had ceased to use them, temporarily, when she went into the hospital for hip replacement surgery the week prior. From all accounts, the surgery went well. She was up and moving around. Then on Friday morning, February 27, she started to share that she was having trouble breathing and feeling weak. She returned to bed and died shortly thereafter.

I was 12 years old and in sixth grade. My brother Jeff was 15 and in ninth grade. My sister Michelle was 10 and in fourth grade. Our parents were separated at the time. My dad was not living with us. We learned of her death on Friday after school. We were devastated. Her funeral home showing was all afternoon and evening on Sunday, February 29. (It was a leap year.) I remember many things from that day—standing before the open casket for the first time, all the flowers (including bouquets from the mayor, City Council, School Board and police department), the funeral wreath for the “grandchildren,” so many people that we expanded into another room, my Uncle Larry touching her hand, Grandma Eckman sitting on one of the couches and telling anyone who talked to her that “You never expect your children to go before you,” wondering why my grandmother’s best friend stayed so long and behaved as if she was one of the family, my mother being there but not coming with us, and my dad’s girlfriend showing up.

Jeff remembers thinking she was moving and telling everyone, which resulted in a firm talking to. Michelle remembers that no one thought about having snacks for the family and for a short period of time, Dad took us to the garage of the funeral home, where the funeral director, Mr. Meinert, gave us each a can of generic pop.

That is the end of my memory. My grandmother was buried on Tuesday, March 2, 1976. I was at a weeklong camp with the rest of my grade at Starr Elementary. I am sure this was not an easy decision for my parents to make or for me. The previous year another elementary school in the district booked their sixth graders for a week at camp. The event was so successful that my school decided to do it, too. While neither remembers, my parents undoubtedly made the decision on the basis of what else would I do for the entire week. My siblings went to school on Monday. On Tuesday they went to the funeral, and then they were back in school for the rest of the week. Had I followed this same schedule, I would have spent my week sitting in the principal’s office alone. So I went to camp.

I don’t remember that I talked much about my grandmother’s recent death while at camp, but I carried it with me and some guilt that I wasn’t with my family. I remember that on Tuesday morning, I felt some sadness. But the week was very busy, and I enjoyed myself.

As for what happened with regard to my grandmother, I have interviewed five people—both of my parents, my brother and sister, and my aunt. The most comprehensive answer was, “It’s a blur. I just remember being so sad.” But I could piece some of their memories, scant as they were, together. My sister remembered not wanting to leave the funeral home for the cemetery. My brother remembered that the funeral procession had a police escort and was the longest one in my hometown’s history. My mom remembered that she did not attend. My dad remembered that after the funeral, they went to a roast beef restaurant. The little card they had noted that our former pastor officiated.

Then I got to writing this section of the book. And it took some time to recreate the scene based on the limited memories of my family, my own experiences of other funerals, and what I could draw out of my heart. I also had to write from my great-grandmother’s perspective. She lost her daughter; I lost a grandmother. I didn’t expect this to be easy. But I also didn’t expect that I would only be able to write in 20-minute sections, because my eyes would fill with tears and my heart begin to hurt. But I wrote, and it is my sincerest hope that if I haven’t re-created the funeral exactly, I have done a respectful and admirable job in loving memory of my grandmother—Vivian Faye Chetister Metzker.