No matter how much I prepared. No matter how much I tried flashing the images in my head beforehand, hoping to make the initial blow easier.
I was never prepared for the initial shock of seeing either of my parents in a casket in a funeral home. Baskets of flowers on each end. The off-white walls. The soft glow of indirect lights. That odd feeling. Soft music playing.
The first time I saw my Mother, I looked only for a few seconds and walked away. Although I had been at her side moments after she died, I still wasn't ready for the last time I would see her physical body.
I had other experiences. My Grandparents, cousins, friends of the family. But never, never, my own parent.
The second time was softer, but not any less painful. I looked at my Father for only a few seconds and had to walk away. Take a few moments to let the scene absorb into my mind and try to fully understand. Work my way past the numbness. Let the image be processed and filed into my mental vault where I knew it would stay and never leave. To this day, I can still feel the initial shock of seeing my Mother in her casket when I pull up that segment of my life and re-watch it. I will never forget either of them, laid out in final repose in the clothes that we selected.
I was never prepared either time. The odd smell of embalming fluid. The paleness of their skin. How odd they felt. I have nothing to compare that feeling to. Their hands no longer warm. They felt hard, not soft like they were only a week before. Their faces cool to the touch. Their eyes closed behind their glasses.
I also recall thinking "That doesn't look like my Father." I thought the same thing with my Mother. I had to study them to make sure I was actually seeing them. Stepping back to view their profile. Forcing myself into accepting that this was my parent.
Never prepared. Never... Never... Never... No matter how hard I tried.
CSM
I was never prepared for the initial shock of seeing either of my parents in a casket in a funeral home. Baskets of flowers on each end. The off-white walls. The soft glow of indirect lights. That odd feeling. Soft music playing.
The first time I saw my Mother, I looked only for a few seconds and walked away. Although I had been at her side moments after she died, I still wasn't ready for the last time I would see her physical body.
I had other experiences. My Grandparents, cousins, friends of the family. But never, never, my own parent.
The second time was softer, but not any less painful. I looked at my Father for only a few seconds and had to walk away. Take a few moments to let the scene absorb into my mind and try to fully understand. Work my way past the numbness. Let the image be processed and filed into my mental vault where I knew it would stay and never leave. To this day, I can still feel the initial shock of seeing my Mother in her casket when I pull up that segment of my life and re-watch it. I will never forget either of them, laid out in final repose in the clothes that we selected.
I was never prepared either time. The odd smell of embalming fluid. The paleness of their skin. How odd they felt. I have nothing to compare that feeling to. Their hands no longer warm. They felt hard, not soft like they were only a week before. Their faces cool to the touch. Their eyes closed behind their glasses.
I also recall thinking "That doesn't look like my Father." I thought the same thing with my Mother. I had to study them to make sure I was actually seeing them. Stepping back to view their profile. Forcing myself into accepting that this was my parent.
Never prepared. Never... Never... Never... No matter how hard I tried.
CSM
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