A loss from my perspective...

Warning: If you have not experienced the death of a close family member and you are uncomfortable with talk of bodies and funeral homes, you might not want to read this. Writing it has been healing for me.

Tomorrow morning will mark four weeks since I got the December 10th, 6 a.m. (Texas time) call, which in itself says, 'Something is terribly wrong.'
It's my mother. "Jennifer. Lisa died last night." "What?" As I'm waking up, and as I often do when having a nightmare, trying to wake myself up, she keeps talking. I wake from sleep, but not from the nightmare. "Heart attack." "What?" She tells me the events of the day and I say, "We'll be there soon." I don't want to pack. I don't want to take the car in for a long overdue oil change. I don't want to drive. I just want to be there. Really, I just want to go back to sleep and wake up from the nightmare. Or just wake up. I call my brother. I don't understand most of what he says through sobs, but I do hear, "Remember what we talked about last summer? The last six weeks have been real good."and "thankful" and "I can never be what she was to him." I say, "You can be his Daddy." We decide we will prepare for the trip today and leave first thing in the morning. I go on Facebook and post the news. I check several times throughout the day. Lots of friends comment with love and sympathy. I check my newsfeed. I can't help thinking, "How can they just go on with life? Don't they know mine has stopped in its tracks? Can't they just stop for a minute, too?" I throw a bunch of mismatched clothes into a suitcase for me and two little boys. I think, "Lisa will like this sweater...Oh." and then I remember why I'm packing. The boys need haircuts, but there is no time. The boys need funeral clothes. He does the shopping and necessary oil changes. We sleep, sort of. We wake up. It's Sunday morning. We have a sweet family worship time and finally get on the road. We have decided to take two cars in case I decide to stay longer. Two will come back home and go back to work after the funeral. Funeral? What?  We drive. I'm pretty sure the road gets a little longer with every trip we take home. We stop in Mississippi to have dinner with friends. Heart Friends. We get back on the road for a few more hours. We only make it to Tuscaloosa, but we are glad to be off the road. Exhausted. We sleep better this night. We wake up, eat the complimentary hotel breakfast, and get back on the road. It's Monday, autopsy day. They don't do them on the weekend. A few hours into the trip, the van is making a strange noise. We stop at Walmart and add a little transmission fluid. Back on the road. I just want to be there. At about 5 p.m., we pull into the Georgia sand driveway. The wraparound porch is full of people. I get out of the car, crying. My 14 year old nephew meets me halfway with a hug and says, "Don't cry. She wouldn't want you crying." He's talking about his mother. What? I say, "She'd be crying with me." That doesn't even make sense. None of it makes sense. I walk up onto the porch. I don't know half of these people. I search the faces for the one I know I will not see. My head knows. My heart hopes. My brother walks out of the house. We hug. I cry. They have already cried all their tears for the day. I'm just getting started. I look over and see her daddy sitting on the swing. I lean down and hug him. He hugs me really hard and doesn't let go for a long time. I don't know what it feels like to lose a child. The last time I saw him was at his wife's funeral 13 years before. She was 54. Funerals are big reunions. Lisa is 48, was 48. What? They are passing around a piece of paper. At the top are the words Ischemic Heart Disease. I go in the house. There are the twins, her sisters. I still don't know who's who. They were 19 the last time I saw them, 13 years ago, at their mother's funeral. One of them has a darling little girl. Their brother is there, too. We all hug. We eat. There is so much food. In the South, when someone dies, people bring food. Comfort food. Lots of it. And cake. Lots of cake. So many people in this little house. Slowly, they leave and it's just us. The family. My mother offers for some to go sleep at her house, but they all want to stay here. I knew they would. I have no idea where they will sleep. They won't sleep, really. I take my little family to my mother's and we sleep, sort of. We wake up. It's Tuesday. The body is ready for viewing. I think I'll be okay. Some want to go. Some don't. This is just the initial viewing to see if the family is satisfied with the way she looks. My parents, the Twins, Little Darling and her daddy, two close family friends, and me. We walk in. I'm okay. Others are in front of me blocking my view for a bit. I see her. It's really her. This is really happening. I fall apart. I have to walk away. Little Darling brings me some tissues. I compose myself and go again. I fall apart again. Little Darling brings more tissues. I finally am able to look at her. Sister says she needs more makeup and her hair is all wrong. They bring a brush and makeup. She fixes her up. Lisa always liked for Sister to do her hair and makeup. We agree she needs nail polish. They bring nail polish. This is a little difficult but she polishes her nails. Now, that looks more like her, but only a little. She's not smiling. She was always smiling. She's wearing the bracelet Sister mailed to her on Wednesday. She never saw it. Sister asks, "Do you think she's in Heaven?" I say, "I believe she's with the Lord. I don't know if Heaven is ready yet. Jesus said he would go and prepare a place and come back and take us there and He hasn't come back yet." We talk about the book, Heaven is For Real, and we all agree to read it. We go back to the house for a little while. Another sister has arrived with her three kids and her daddy's "friend" he's been seeing for several years. They say they'll never marry. Too many differences. This makes me smile. I didn't know I could smile. The visitation will be at 6 tonight.
More later.