An Atheistic Perspective of a Grandfather's Catholic Wake

A narrative nonfictional story

            I was alone in Virginia one night when my cell phone alarmed me. I answered and on the other end was my mother—the only person my fatherlike grandfather Richard Dulac said I could trust. She notified me about my grandfather being in a Catholic hospital in my home state of Connecticut after having an aneurysm in his intestine, and she expressed how he was lucky to have survived.

            I could not fathom it, how abrupt —hitherto my grandfather appeared healthy! The odds he faced for survival were essentially fifty-fifty. My mother hinted that I may want to visit him in the hospital. I declined due to my optimism for his life.

            Would I have wanted to see a vigorous man transformed to a feeble state of existence? I don't think so, but I know my grandfather would not want me to remember him that way.

            The next morning, I received another call from my mother explaining how my grandfather's kidneys had been severely damaged from the doctor's clamp pressing on them during his operation. My mother Darlene, her two sisters Cathlene and Sharlene, and her brother Richard faced an ethical decision between having my grandfather on life support or allowing him die.

            I asked my mother about my grandfather's state of mind. She described how he was not self aware—slipping in and out of consciousness and having anxiety. Complicating matters more, he was going to have a heart attack that would cause more suffering and likely kill him. If he survived against all odds, his kidneys would not function.

             His daughters and son decided to halt his life support to avoid unnecessary suffering. Loving my grandfather as much as I did, I agreed with their decision—even though my opinion was irrelevant in the situation. I expressed my approval for their choice to my mother regardless—in support of the hard decision made. My mother cried to me on the phone after they pronounced his death, reliving my distress from the thought of my grandfather suffering.

            My mother explained to me how the Catholic priest in the hospital read to him whatever scripture they read to dying people and asked him, “Do you accepted Christ?” She described how he nodded his head accepting what the priest said. I was partially prepared for my grandfather dying, but I had forgotten about the religious aspect which gave me anxiety, because I do not believe in gods.

            I was concerned with hurting family members who are unaware that I am a strong atheist. I abhor lying, so pretending to be Catholic for members of my family is not a good solution. Anxious with my family taking offense, I had to make an ethical decision: either be disingenuous by acting Catholic to elate family members or be who I am. I dwelled on how to act until I went to the wake. I decided, my family must accept me for who I am—if not, they don't genuinely love me and will show their true feelings.

            I was in Virginia when I got the terrible news that my grandfather was dead. I was alone, without friends, and without family. I stayed in Virginia for a week and flew to my home state Connecticut. My mother picked me up from Bradley International Airport in Hartford.

            Then, I went to my grandfather's house to spend the night. My aunt Sharlene read my cousin Britton's speech for my grandfather's burial to me and my mother. I thought the speech was very powerful. The constituent I did not like in his speech was his inclusion of a god, I assumed the Christian god. After my aunt left, I fell asleep in my grandfather's bed—reminded of how similar I was to him.

            I woke up in the morning and my mother had made the terrible coffee my grandfather loved—Maxwell House. We are both used to grinding good coffee beans and using French presses for our coffee. When he was living, we tried to convert him to drinking good coffee, but he was stubborn with his Maxwell House brand. We made eggs for breakfast and got ready for the wake. After I ate, I got into my favorite Italian black suit with gray pin stripes and wore a red tie.

            We arrived at Bailey's Funeral Home and waited for my mother's siblings Richard, Sharlene, and Cathlene. Upon their arrival, I greeted my two cousins Lucas and Britton. We noticed that my cousin Britton and I had matching suits—Italian with black and gray pin stripes.

            I went into the funeral home and I noticed right away that it was an open casket funeral—typical of Catholic funerals. I looked in the direction of my grandfather's body and felt dizzy. My cousins that were around me reacted similarly.

            Then I noticed my family had put together an exhibit of my grandfather's life. While examining, I saw many pictures of us growing up with my beloved grandfather. There were also pictures of him in his youth when he was in the navy during WWII. Contrasted with the religious ritual of the funeral, I did not see religious pictures. He did not go to church until a few years before his death. I thought he was an agnostic or an atheist, so I was surprised he went to church..

            I recalled being  infrequently safeguarded by my grandfather when I  would refuse to go to church as a child. My refusal was denied by my mother. He would sometimes persuade my mother to  stop forcing me to go to church—my savior from odd social rituals I never grasped.

            After looking at the exhibit of my grandfather's life, it was time to pay respect by praying at his corpse. Each of my cousins with their mothers and some who had fathers, went up to my grandfather's body to kneel down and pray. All of them cried and prayed silently at his body. I would never refuse to go with my mother for her to pray, nor would that be acceptable, but what should I do while I go to the open coffin?

            I unhesitatingly walked with my mother towards the coffin containing my dead grandfather while struggling to look at him—I could not draw my eyes to anything else. As we approached the coffin, it was as if time slowed down. We finally reached his body, my mother knelt down to pray, emotions overwhelmed me, and I fell on my knees in front of the coffin crying.

            My mother to my left, prayed silently and I stared at my grandfather's corpse, crying. The sight of the body made me feel queazy. From my observation of prayer, I translated it into thinking about that person to show the respect my grandfather earned. I thought about how much I had and will miss him. I could not help thinking it was odd performing this ritual with his corpse on display. I tried to make sense of this social ritual, and I noticed I was facing what really had happened—my grandfather was dead.

            After what felt like an hour, we got up and walked towards the line my family formed to be greeted by the many people who cared about my grandfather. I was placed next to my cousin Randi, who is an extreme Catholic, and my Uncle Paul, who is a moderate Protestant Congregationalist whom I used to go to church with as a child with my mother.

            After the family was finished praying before my grandfather's body, we sat down while a priest accompanied by monks guided us with prayers alien to me. My uncle, who did not know I was an atheist, thought I had forgotten how to say their prayers and whispered them to me. I did not take part in praying to avoid feeling like something I'm not. I was concerned others would notice and I looked around. All of the attention was on the priest, which gave me comfort.

            When the priest was finished speaking gibberish, he had everyone come to greet and comfort us. In hordes, people came to shake hands or hug us and tell us they were sorry for our loss. Somehow this was very comforting, slightly lessening the deep sorrow from my grandfather's death.

            The seemingly endless line of comfort came to an end, and I started talking to my cousin Kevin—an albino and legally blind man with a great attitude towards life. I asked how he was doing and he mentioned he was doing fine except for the pain he had in his hip. I parted from Kevin after talking about his passion in music.

            I looked around for my favorite cousin Britton, who feels like a little brother to me. I found him and told him, “let's talk to Aunt Tressa.” Aunt Tressa is our great aunt and a sister of my grandfather. My aunt started talking in great detail about the story of Moses parting the seas as if it really happened, with emotion, and with an intense religiosity in her eyes. My cousin and I probably looked baffled at what she was saying.

Then she said to us, “I need to get you two Bibles!”

I told her, “we already have Bibles.”

She then said, “You can't forget about your Catholicism,” which led me to think she might have seen us not praying or sensed unbelief. She is known in the family as very religious—my grandfather used to jest about it, saying, accompanied with laughter, “Tressa will bring the wrath of God on you” and other playful jokes.

            After the wake, we went to my great grandmother's house that had white aluminum siding. My grandfather took care of the house after her death. Prior to her death he took care of her and lived in an RV on the property—always traveling—often taking his many children and grandchildren with him.

            While he was taking care of the house, he transfigured the backyard into a paradise. He placed an archway between the golden apple tree and the house—he allowed wild frost grapes to grow rampant above the passageway.

            Behind the archway, my grandfather placed benches throughout the tranquil yard to enjoy his aesthetic masterpiece. He maintained the trees in the backyard so they would not overgrow, but could still provide shade. Beyond the scattered trees was a fence omitting my former high school. It was the perfect place to have our cookouts with my grandfather and the family.

            I started socializing with my family and ran into my great uncle Joe—my grandfather's venerable brother—a WWII veteran. He lives on the same street my grandfather and I did. Growing old with age, my great uncle is a broken man—his wife's death being the catalyst.

            During our conversation, he discussed the cause of my grandfather's death. He was playing poker with my grandfather with some others when my grandfather expressed concern about his stomach not feeling well. After realizing something was wrong, he helped take him to the hospital with his sister Tressa.

            Everyone gradually left, and it was just my mother, my cousin Britton, and I. The additional experience of feeling alienated from my family's religious tradition was relieved. Even though my family gives me the feeling of alienation, I still receive comfort from them. My family was focused on dealing with the tragedy of my grandfather's death, so they did not notice or worry about my non-belief in their god and dismissal of Catholic traditions. This was fortunate, because I know people turn to religion during tragedies, and our differences could have caused more pain.

Reviews

[UnsettledStyle]

I like that the language and dictum vary with a natural and practiced ease. In my own writing I find it is all too easy to have a story like this with every other sentence beginning with the word "I". Which, this story feels more than anything like a journal entry, something not really written to be artistic or flashy, just to get the point across.

Which I guess draws me to the biggest blind spot I found here. Death is probably the easiest thing in the world to create symbolism for, and there was a distinct lack of it here. With a more trancedant description of death and alienation, this work would be much more taut.