When Death Comes to Call, The Family Gathers—And a Rainbow Appears

The Rainbow

The family. 

The phone rings. The awful message relayed. The dropping of whatever is going on or planned—forgotten. Campsite dismantled. Camper stored. Sad grandchildren, too little to understand that this thing, this death, has stopped what they have anticipated as summer approached. 

No swimming in the lake or at the beach.  No hot dogs or sugary cereal. Bomb pops. All things Grandma never offers except for these yearly junkets. No painting rocks to glow in the dark for the fairy campground.

No hikes with Pa. Or making birdhouses with an ax because Pa forgot a hammer. 

Oh, to be a little kid, and only have that disappointment on your heart. 

My sister-in-law died a couple of weeks ago. Only 55, Lori had suffered pulmonary issues for many years. Her early death was not unexpected, other than it was not expected at this time. She and my brother have a daughter, only 17, who requires special attention. 

Lori

When a phone call such as this arrives, I see it as a call to duty. My husband and I are veterans of various freeways around the country. I-80, I-44, I-55, I-35, I-95, I-25, I-5. For years we've driven to Minnesota, Green Bay, Denver, and California to visit family. Not to mention the Airstream adventures around the country and Canada. But, now, a well familiar and immediate Texas to Wisconsin route. Two twelve-hour days of solid driving.

Halfway there, as I tried to fall asleep in our hotel in Rolla, Missouri, I lightly touched my almost asleep husband and said, 'You need to understand. I have no flipping clue what I'm doing when I get there." 

"I've got your back," he said.

When I arrived, it was easy to see where to begin. With the assistance of several of Lori's friends, my youngest brother, Jordan, had already set up a funeral time, burial plots, and assorted awful stuff. I settled in to assemble photographs for a video and poster boards. My brother lives in a rural area where everyone driving by honks their horn. Also, he doesn't have internet. Only a hot spot that is slow as shit. I will never admit to the language that came out of my mouth getting the photos gathered and sent to the funeral home, and to the drug store for printing. 

From there, it was helping to plan a small party at the local golf course for after the service and burial, picking out bible verses, arranging airport pickups, and so much stuff I don't even remember anymore. 

I find it most interesting to observe how people come together.  A small town community that arrives, food in hand, with hugs and love for those now having no clue how to proceed other than perhaps to keep one foot in front of the other, if they remember. Invites and shopping trips for my niece to have fun and begin a long process of life without her mother. 

We prepared for my oldest brother and his partner to arrive from Denver and two of my sons and a daughter-in-law arriving from Texas. I had my husband take my brother to the driving range to pound some of the pain off his loss on compliant golf balls. We bought food for lunches and a large family dinner when all arrived. 

It amazes me, when families gather for things like funerals or clearing out your parent's home, where almost everyone has something to contribute. In this setting, my daughter-in-law took hold of my niece and the two of them worked on the photo boards. My sons mowed my brother's massive lawn—me explaining to my brother they were seasoned carers of lawns and knew how to drive the tractor and get the most out of a weedwhacker. "So, let them do this for you."

My brothers and me. Jordan, Julie, Jon, and Jim. One older. Two younger. 

The two Jordans -- a son and a brother. 

My son, Jacob, manning the grill. 

The garage people during a rainstorm. Assortment of a husband, brothers, and a brother-in-law.

The cousins playing games.

There were those who could run errands. Help with meal prep. Set the table. Make a bonfire. Buy more tequila. Iron dress shirts. Do dishes. Tell jokes. Install a new TV. 

Every night, I stayed up late with my heartbroken brother. 1am, 2am, 3am-twice. Two nights the phone rang about 11:30pm. My youngest son, the chef in NYC unable to attend as he had just opened a new restaurant. His work done for the day. He'd be on speaker for an hour or more offering us laughter and fun. A reprieve.

We made it through the funeral. 

My brother and niece.

After service, burial and a luncheon, we gathered back at Jordan and Lori's house. We hung outside around the picnic table. At one point it began raining and several of us moved chairs to the garage. As the rain stopped, the most beautiful rainbow appeared.

The pot of gold, right in front of us. 

That night, under the Strawberry full moon, we gathered around the fire.

Story telling going on. 

The last two days of a total eleven, it was just my husband and me left with my brother and niece. When you live in a small town, you have many friends. A massive outpouring of mourners at the funeral. So many lovely flowers and trees planted and gifts brought. We spent most of one day recording  everything and searched for addresses. Then my brother declared it was time for a venue change. We loaded into the car—the four of us. We drove down to Port Washington and took a walk along the breakwall by Lake Michigan.  Had lunch. Watched a fishing charter come into the marina and the captain as he cleaned the large catch. 

Fresher air.

The next day over sixty Thank You notes were written. 

And then we went out for comfort food. Mexican food. No kidding. Pork green chili in Sheboygan, no less. Authentic and satisfying. 

The family gathered. And now I am home. We are not as good at driving those interstates anymore. Takes us longer to recover. That and the emotional part. Not sure if that has hit yet as when I'm in crisis mode, all else goes away. All those days, me, a creature of habit when it comes to writing my morning pages, recording my sleep and diet and exercise, never touched my journal or daily readings. Perhaps I didn't want to connect with myself. Remote control a safer place. 

At home I'm trying to get in touch. Trying to discover how I might be feeling about all this rather than being on automatic pilot. But I only want to sit, and listen to my library book. Organization for upcoming activities is not happening. Not because I don't want to do it. Because I don't quite know how to do it—today. Or yesterday. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

My brother and his daughter now enter a new normal. One where their wife and mother is no longer living her life hooked to an oxygen machine. One where they will discover all that she contributed from the confinement of her chair, after 25 years of teaching elementary school and being the life of the party. 

My brother kept her oxygen machine running after her absence. Maybe it is still on. The sound of it bringing comfort. Grief is such a lonely thing. Different for everyone. 

I sincerely hope that the next time the family gathers, it will be for a joyful reason, to make up for the sucky ones. As to what I had planned during those eleven days we were gone other than the camping trips? Beats the hell out of me. 

Rest in peace, Lori.