littlemissfuneral

If you’re looking for me this Father’s Day, look no further than the funeral home. I’ll be working.

I was kind of bummed out about it at first. I mean, I’m not a father or anything, but my entire family was going to go out for breakfast with my dad. It’s hard for all of us to get together.

So today, my dad asked me if I wanted to go grab dinner with him. I was tired, hungry and broke, but decided to join him anyways. As we strolled into the restaurant I was taken aback by the fact that my dad didn’t order anything to eat. Well, it turns out that he had something a little earlier, which caused my heart to swell with happiness. My dad just wanted to spend some time with me.

As I sat devouring my food my eyes happened to study this man who is so important in my life. His hair is getting thinner, and he has a few more wrinkles by his eyes. In fact, he resembles my grandfather more and more each day, which is a scary thought because my grandfather was always, well, old.

And then I’m hit with this melancholy thought about how much time I really have left with my dad. (He’s not on his deathbed, but he’s no spring chicken.) My job is time-consuming and I’m moving out next year since I’m getting married and let’s face it, we’re all getting older. I think my despondent attitude can be contributed to the fact that we have a rather sad funeral happening at the moment. I mean, my dad is in perfect health, but my thoughts remain nonetheless.

As I sat today with these depressing tones ringing in my ears I was suddenly overcome with great joy. It was as if someone took a hand to my forehead. I have a father. I know many people my age who do not. He is a loving and caring man. He would do anything for me. Maybe we have another 40 years together. Maybe we have 40 minutes. I’ve been obsessing over missing a breakfast with him on the day that I was told to honor him on. But Father’s Day isn’t Sunday. Everyday is Father’s Day. I don’t need a calendar to tell me a date to appreciate someone. Life is too unpredictable for that. So once again I’ve been reminded of the important things. The important things are the little things. Give your dad a hug, a kiss, a minute of your time. And you don’t have to wait until Sunday to do it.

My best friend was a block away when the bombs went off in Boston.

It’s that whole scenario again. “This can’t happen to me.”  It’s the mentality we have.

There will always be people who cry for peace. There will always be people who shout for war. There will always be people who make an event political. I will always be the person to encourage people to find God.

Because no matter how much evil we see, good will always come out on top. As I sat glued to my TV screen yesterday I was amazed at the scenes of people running into the smoke to help others. My heart grew proud when I heard of the runners going to the nearest hospitals to give blood. Our nation needs more God.

I’m currently reading Aesop’s Fables and the parable “The Old Man and His Sons” stood out to me.

An Old Man had several Sons, who were always falling out with one another. He had often, but to no purpose, exhorted them to live together in harmony. One day he called them round him, and producing a bundle of sticks, bade them try each in turn to break it across. Each put forth all his strength, but the bundle resisted their efforts. Then, cutting the cord which bound the sticks together, he told his Sons to break them separately. This was done with the greatest ease. “See, my Sons,” exclaimed he, “the power of unity! Bound together by brotherly love, you may defy almost every mortal ill; divided, you will fall a prey to your enemies”

A house divided against itself cannot stand.

God is my Old Man. My fellow Americans are my Sons. God is always trying to bring us together. He teaches love. He teaches acceptance. We cannot fight him or each other because we will not last. Once we put our trust and faith in Him we can accomplish anything.

I see God in the actions of all of the medical staff of Boston. I see God in the Boston Police. I see God in the people who opened their homes to others who had nowhere to go.

My best friend is okay today. Praise the Lord. Because I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.

Boston, I’m praying for you.

Well, here I am. One year later. I guess looking back I don’t really have one main reason why I started little miss funeral. I guess there were a bunch of factors that contributed to it. But one thing is for sure; I still can’t believe how much feedback I have gotten. So thanks everyone, for this past year. Thanks for reading little miss funeral. Thanks for supporting her. After all, without all of you she wouldn’t even have a voice.

Oh, and to celebrate I bought little miss funeral a present; http://www.littlemissfuneral.com.

There are a ton of awesome cemeteries in and around Buffalo, NY. And I used to like to take photographs. So I have decided to go to these different cemeteries and take photographs and post them on here. Here are some from today.

This is Harris Hill Cemetery.

My mother and I were going through some old photos that my father found today. As we were laughing and reminiscing I came across these two beauts.

My cards were always on the table. If this little gal wasn’t destined to become a funeral director then I don’t know who was. I mean, if the family shot in the ‘cemetery’ doesn’t do it for you the disturbing smile on my face as I look at the ‘dead body’ in the coffin should.

Well, enjoy.

If you end up going to Mortuary School, you’re going to end up learning about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. She’s like the ‘Go-To’ gal when it comes to grief. I remember spending nights studying with my classmates trying to learn her Five Stages of Grief. DABDA. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  After awhile it started to sound like a Flintstones episode in our dorm rooms with us yelling, “DABDA, DABDA, DOOOO!” (Kidding, kidding…we tried not to yell…) And I mean, sure her theory works. In theory. But (in my opinion) her guidelines are a little outdated. Let me tell you what grief if like from the perspective of a twenty-two year old, new to the business, funeral director.

Grief is like cutting yourself shaving.

I’m serious.

Okay, let me explain.

About two months ago I was taking a nice bubble bath. As I put down my book I took a look at my legs in the tub. They needed a good haircut. So I grab the shaving cream and my razor. As I lathered up my legs my mind started to wander. It does that a lot. And maybe I wasn’t paying much attention. Or maybe my razor was too dull. But I cut myself. Bad.

When I say bad you may not just understand how bad. So let me paint you a picture so you know how I felt. On my right leg right above my ankle I basically skinned off two good inches of flesh. Seriously. You know when you’re cooking mashed potatoes and right before you put them into the boiling-hot pot you skin them? Well, potato = Lauren’s leg. I had to pull my skin out of my razor because it clogged it. THAT’S how bad.

My initial reaction to said cut? A blood piercing scream. You can imagine that a cut will hurt, but you never know just how deep the pain goes until you experience it firsthand. Someone can come up to me and go, “Lauren, I’ve cut myself shaving before, I know how you feel.” And maybe they have cut themselves and they do know. But the pain that I felt, it was all my own. Only I know how bad it really hurt me. So what did I do after I cut myself? I took a nearby washcloth and I wrapped it around my leg. Tried to take my mind off of the situation. Hey, a girl has to finish her bath after all.

When I did finish I got out and put two band-aids on the wound. That’s right, one just wouldn’t cut it for me. And I went about my day. And the cut affected me. Because no matter how much I tried to ignore it, the pain was still present. Every time I took a step forward I was reminded about my cut. The next day I took off the band-aids to clean it and to my surprise the cut looked just as fresh as ever. I mean, it was still bleeding! So I washed it, and put on two fresh band-aids.  As the week went on I had good days and bad days. I couldn’t wear certain shoes because they brought out the pain in my leg. If I hit my leg against anything I would again be reminded by pain rushing back to the section of my leg where I had no skin. And when (a couple of months later) the cut did heal I was reminded about it again because of the scar that it left behind.

Are you still with me? Or did you have to excuse yourself because my descriptions were too much for you? Let’s recap.

When you’re grieving, people may have gone through similar situations, but only you know how it made you feel. Pain and hurt are difficult to explain. What may feel like a large burden to one person may not be the same for another. Remember your grief is your own.

You may not think that your grief is that bad and you may try to just wrap a washcloth around it and go on with your normal routine. For some people, staying busy helps them. For others, they’ll need to stop and really focus on their grief at hand.

Sometimes, the ‘normal’ amount of time/help/crying just doesn’t cut it with grief. Don’t be afraid to put two band-aids on even though others only used one.

Your grief may still ‘be bleeding’ the next day. When things are fresh it may take some time to get over it. Don’t let this scare you.

You’ll have good days and bad days. There will be things that remind you of your grief. There will be situations that make the grief sting like it’s fresh. It’s all okay.

And lastly, there will be a scar. There is a void in your life where something or someone once was. But you can make the scar beautiful. It doesn’t have to be a painful reminder. It can be a reminder of all the good times and memories that are still in your heart.

So there you have it. Grief, explained by Lauren. I hope that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross can help you if you’re going through a difficult time. She was a pretty awesome lady after all. And if you find that you’re all DABDA’d out, maybe you’ll look at your razor, think of me and my story and smile.

Saturday started off really well. I had to do an entire funeral service by myself. I’ve done less than a handful of funeral services all by myself. I felt really proud afterwards as I got into my car to go home.

On my way home from work I called my mom. I always call her.

Her voice didn’t sound normal as she answered the phone. It sounded a little higher than normal. A little nervous. And then she told me that she thought there might be something wrong with Bandit.

Bandit is my thirteen year old beagle. He is my baby.

I immediately went into panic mode. “What do you mean you think there might be something wrong with Bandit?”

“Your father and I think he may have had a stroke. He can’t stand up and if he manages to he just falls down like he’s drunk. We’re taking him to the vet.”

I made pretty good timing. It should have taken me a half hour to get to the vet. I think I made it in less than twenty minutes. My entire car ride all I recall thinking is what am I going to do if we have to put Bandit down? Is it possible that yesterday was the last night I’d ever feel his warm body curled up by my feet in bed? What am I going to do when I come home from a difficult day at work and he’s not there?

Both of my parents were there already. Bandit was having trouble walking. It broke my heart. As we entered the room to wait for the vet I broke down in tears. As I looked over at my mom I noticed her eyes were red from crying as well.

After what seemed like forever the vet came into the room. She looked over Bandit as I tried to comprehend how I could be strong for my dog. How could I make myself seem calm so he wouldn’t sense any anxiety? I held him. I told him I loved him. He was a good boy.

Bandit has Geriatric Vestibular Disease. I guess it’s common in older dogs. It affects their balance. It makes Bandit look like he’s had one too many to drink, but all together it’s harmless.

I left the vet with my dog.

I think that Bandit’s Geriatric Vestibular Disease is a gift that God has given me. I have been so busy at work. So busy that I couldn’t even bring myself to find time to write. So busy helping other families travel through their grief that I kind of forgot that I have my own grief, too. I am just an average girl. I love people. I love my dog. And I can’t forget that I can experience these emotions associated with loss. I can’t get so wrapped up in helping others that I forget to help myself.

One day Bandit really will be gone. But right now, I’m thankful that I didn’t have to say goodbye. And I’m thankful that I was reminded that it’s okay for me to grieve too.