I get that I am a freak. Please stop making me say it.

Tonight I decided to treat myself to getting my eyebrows threaded and a pedicure. Really I have a to attend a wedding in a few days, and I don't want to look like Joan Crawford a la later years. I avoid threading as long as possible (because I was hate pain), but I was starting to look like my eyebrows had eyebrows. I even put numbing cream on my eyebrows to make it hurt less (which I don't think works, or I am just really a wimp). So when I went in tonight and shamefully said, "It's been a couple of months, please be gentle." She was as gentle as possible, but she kept going on and on about how my eyebrows were uneven and I needed to stop plucking the left one. Over and over I said, this is natural. Finally I said, "Sorry my eyebrows are freakish, but this is as good as it gets." Once she finished she asked me one last time to stop plucking the left one. I told her I would.

"Good news, your mother died of a heart attack."

I had a bad feeling when I answered the phone, and I should have listened to my inner voice. The caller was my mother's doctor called me and that is what the receptionist told me.

Just so we're clear, this is not good news. I get that you are excited this means your shady medical practices with my mom won't be called into question. But to call me happy is just gross.

Of course you need a crowbar to open the urns. Makes total sense to me.

I had all these thoughts for how the scattering would go. I found prayers from all over the world, I cut flowers, and I even brought a small cup of Pepsi and coffee (my mom and grandma's favorite drinks). I hoped for something that was respectful and maybe even classy. Stanley went with me to pick up the bodies. They handed Stanley the urns and me the permits to scatter ashes. And away we went.

Lesson #1 ask the funeral people how to open the damn box.

Jump to me, Carl and Stanley freezing at 930 at night on the end of a pier trying to pry open the urns. Those things were closed like a Japanese puzzle box. Pulling, pushing, and a Swiss army knife did not work. Finally Carl remembered he had a crowbar in his car we used that to open them up. Lesson #2 buy a crow bar to keep in my car.

At one point this lovely couple came over to the end of the pier, no doubt to have a romantic moment. They glanced over at us trying to pry the box apart (Carl handling the crowbar and Stanley and I prying the lid back). The operation became klassy.

An hour after we arrived we finally opened all the urns. Due to wind factors we had to kneel on the end of the pier to let them go. In the first go around Stanley dumped grandma, and I took one of the dogs. I tried not to freak about the thought of kneeling in bird poop, as I poured out the dog. I was not good at pouring and some of the ash ended up on the edge of the pier. Without thinking I tried to sweep the ash off the edge with my shoe. Now my shoe has dead dog on it. Lesson #3 bring a broom the next time ashes need to be dumped.

At this point I am freaking out at the ash on my shoe, and make Carl finish scattering dog ashes. As Stanley begins to lower my mom I remember the flowers and the drinks and pour them off the pier. The cup I brought poured out in a way that looked like I was peeing off the edge of the pier. Which is how the night should have ended.

Towards the end of the whole blessed affair Carl asked me if I wanted to say a prayer or poem. I told him no, I didn't need to. At that point I just wanted to clean my shoe (which I did with both water and hand sanitizer), a drink (which Stanley thoughtfully brought), and to warm up. The next day we went out to the pier in the light of day. I wondered how far the ashes traveled, and then I looked down at a chalk like mark at the end of the pier and said hi to the dog.

I don't know how I was supposed to feel after this. Websites said I would feel all sorts of different things. They showed pictures of people looking happy to scatter their loved ones. I am grateful that I wasn't covered in ash, and I hope they are okay with the choice I made. And above all, I wished I did not have to do it.

Friends help you move. Real friends help you move dead bodies.

I have been thinking of this quote all week as I think of two of my best friends, Carl and Stanley. Not only were they an amazing resource for me with all the craziness of funeral and reception planning, but they are the most helpful people I know. On the day my mom died my uncle told me that when my mom's ashes were ready to be picked up I could just pick up my grandmother's ashes too. Awe. Some.

From the beginning they have said that they will help me figure out how to scatter 4 sets of ashes (mom, grandma and two dogs). And let me tell you, yesterday I looked online for suggestions in making the scattering more respectful, and I came away more disturbed then ever. Through this whole process I have been overwhelmed, stressed, angry at unhelpful people, and absolutely blessed with all the good people in my life.

It's funny the things I have learned about myself through this process. One is that I am terrified that when I try to scatter their ashes I will then be covered in dead people/animals. And the second is that I am really freaked out about the thought of looking at my mom or grandma's ashes. When the time comes to scatter them I know I can count of Carl and Stanley to help me do whatever I need to. Even if that means making them dump them while I stand far far away.

Okay I really learned three things about myself. The third being I am very disrespectful of this entire process. When ever I talk about scattering the ashes I use the words "dump the bodies." I guess a career as a funeral director is not in my cards.

This week has been a whirwind of emotions, but I am always comforted by the support of my friends and family.

I feel fine enough I guess. Considering every thing's a mess.

And here comes the crap. I knew everything was running too smoothly for my family. And I knew better than to trust my aunt's offer to help when her M.O. is to avoid stress. So I have entered the fuck it (aka anger) part of grief and I find that it is not in the loss of my mother but in the actions of her siblings. Today my uncle called me to tell me that the truck I thought belonged to my mother is legally his, and he doesn't want to ask for money, he just wants the rest of what ever amount my mother owed him. Which is asking for money in my book. I told him I needed to talk to my dad, and then he basically implied my father (who has until this point paid for most of my mother's funeral arrangements) could pay him what he thinks is fair. To mis-quote Mr. Heston, "over my cold dead body." My father has paid enough and if my uncle wants money he can sell the damn truck.

Tonight I went to see the Bare Naked Ladies Perform and when they sang "Pinch Me" I thought my mom. It's funny that things that now make me think of her.

The art of loss...

About 14 days after my grandmother passed away my mother died. She died suddenly and at this time the cause is unknown. In a moment I went from stressed out at the thought of my mom living with me to numb at the thought of planning her funeral and packing away her life.

I have noticed a couple of things with this loss. One is that some people suck at offering condolences. My mother's doctor told me that my mother's spirit would come back to haunt me. My landlord told me to remove every picture from the walls for one year. The day her body was found the police chaplain told me not to feel guilt, because she was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. Not. Helpful.

The second thing I have noticed are the blessings that come from loss. I have gotten an outpouring of support from my family and friends, and this process has help me to learn how to ask and receive help. I will forever be grateful to those who have helped me. I am very blessed.

My mother and I were very different in many ways, but she loved me to the best of her ability and l loved her to the best of mine. I wish her life could have been easier and happier, but I find solace in knowing that she is in a better place. My mother will live on in all the acts of kindness she showed to those she loved. My mother was always so afraid of being insignificant, and this week has showed me, and hopefully her, how very much she was loved.

"In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer." -Albert Camus

On Wednesday evening my grandmother died. Some highlights of the last several days have been writing my grandmother's obituary. In her hospital room. While she was still alive. A few hours later I was once again in the hospital room trying not to look at her dead body (which I did see and now can't get out of my head), trying to comfort my family (while keeping my head out of the room so I wouldn't look again), and trying not to think about the future. When my mother held my hand in the hospital she commented that I was colder than my grandmother was. Today I felt chilled and wondered if I was still colder than dead.

At the funeral and the reception I felt numb. I sat near my mother because my job was to comfort her, but I seemed to forget how. I couldn't hug her with out feeling stiff, so I patted her leg quite ineffectively while she mourned her mother. At the luncheon to honor my grandmother I felt out of place, maybe because I have not yet mourned her. Towards the end of it I sat near my aunt as she explained to a group of women that my mother was going to move in with me. The table of women all turned to me and commented on how great that will be. One women said my mother must love the idea. "Yes." I said, "she loves it." That was the safest answer I could give.

In case this isn't stressful enough I have one week until my first licensure exam. And I woke up this morning with the beginnings of a sore throat. I am calling this week the trifecta o'crap.

My grandmother was an amazing cook, a giving woman, and I loved her tremendously. I am so grateful for the time we had and I am happy she is now at peace. Once I have taken my test I hope to be able to sit with my memories of her, and rejoice in the life she had.

Though it was 100 degrees where I live, the last few weeks have felt like the darkest nights of winter. As I was driving tonight I knew it was time to find my sun again.