Professional Mourner
By Susan Scott Morales
The woman dressed in black cape and nurse’s cap, reminiscent of Florence Nightingale, held her post next to the podium, next to Lydia’s body. In turn an uncle, friend, cousin stood behind the microphone and spoke to the standing-room-only crowd. When Uncle Alvin lowered his head, gathering his strength to speak, the nurse put one hand on his shoulder and with the other patted his back. Her face showed concern that seemed genuine, but somehow out of place. The “nurse” administered comfort through her hands, her presence both awkward and at the same time lovely. I wondered how it felt to the speakers, who received the nurse’s attention without acknowledging it.
And I wondered what Lydia would have thought of the outpouring of emotion and the number of people packed into the hall. It’s hard to imagine she’d accept that the display was genuine. She might have said, “That’s my family. They know how to put on a good show.” I wanted to believe she would appreciate the tears shed by members of the “audience,” the sentiment of a friend who said he always loved visiting his “sister” at her work place – funny she never mentioned him to me. For all Lydia’s flaws, I loved her. Others must have, too, like her children and a cousin she’d recently reconnected with. But with the others – her mother, aunts and uncles – she told me many times she was the black sheep: unmarried, struggling to overcome an eating disorder, chronic depression and anxiety, and financial troubles. Unable to say no to men, she was often left with an ex-boyfriend’s credit card charges, her son’s unpaid loans she co-signed.
I happened to sit next to her stepmother, who claimed Lydia was like a real daughter to her. To myself I wondered who in the family would have to deal with all Lydia’s unfinished business. And would they be able to see beyond that to the person I knew? Lydia confessed easily to me that she’d messed up. That’s why she was in my office every week for ten years. She’d come in, eyes bright but downcast and say, “I lied to you last week. I couldn’t tell you I screwed up again, but I’m ready to deal with it now.”
Lydia would always come around, each time she slipped. Because of an inner strength to acknowledge her mistakes and because of her intense desire to better herself, her life got more stable. No, it wasn’t perfect, but she was on the track of recognizing her worth, of being strong enough to say no, even to her grown son, refusing him a key to her apartment, so he wouldn’t feel too comfortable and would get a place of his own. She celebrated her new choices in friends, positive lively students, and her upcoming graduation – the culmination of twenty years of balancing school, work and children.
When the final speaker at the podium finished, I waited for an invitation to all the others crowded in the visitation room. But there wasn’t one. Not that I could have spoken and betrayed the confidence of my relationship with Lydia. But someone else outside her family must have been able to speak of her evolution as a woman, as a human being, as a soul. But the reverend took over the agenda and continued with the Lord’s Prayer and a formal blessing.
I looked around for the nurse. Did she leave as soon as her job was over? As I filed out behind the other mourners I saw an older woman, an aunt she said, who looked just like Lydia. I patted her shoulder and said I was sorry for her loss.
When I stepped out into the cold, windy and wet night, tears stung my cheeks. My throat tight and parched, it was hard to swallow.