The Yellow Door Life

This blog was written in March of 2022 after my grandmother’s funeral. I originally published this post on Medium, back before I had the website. I kept having memories of writing this blog, but couldn’t remember where it was. I finally found it tonight. 

Then. 

Yesterday, they buried my grandmother. 

Her name was Dolores.

I come from a long line of Dolores’. I would have been the 4th, but my mom was never one to name something after herself, so instead they let my dad’s mom pick my name: Emily. 

Dolores always felt like a really proper name to me, which doesn’t fit my personality, so I became Emily, and now only one Dolores remains. 

I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. Due to my current health issues, which you will hear plenty about, I am not cleared to fly right now. So on St. Patrick’s Day I drove my mom to the airport and stayed behind. 

I’m quite fond of the cemetery where she is now laid to rest. In the midst of Marin County, CA, it sits in a quiet area off the beaten path. It smells rich with flowers and the morning fog makes it equally inviting and eery. I remember it well from when we buried my step-grandfather. 

Since I couldn’t be physically present, I asked my mom to have someone FaceTime me so I could at least watch the service. We live in a world where watching a funeral over FaceTime is normal. It is both a blessing and a curse. 

Funerals, just like weddings, always start late. Why we ask? Honestly, there is no answer. We rush our whole lives to get everywhere, only for the most defining moments to always be running behind by 10-15 minutes. 

Anyways, the service started late, and by the time my aunt FaceTimed me, I was in the midst of cooking my (also late) lunch. My grandmother is laying in a casket on my iPhone screen and I’m in the middle of making spaghetti. 

A woman is standing in front of her casket whom I have never met, and I must have missed the story of how she knew my grandmother, but there she stood saying kind words and reading Psalm 23. Everytime I hear Psalm 23, I think of the scene in Titanic where the ship is about to plunge into the Atlantic. It is a beautiful verse, but let’s be real, when it gets read, the end is nigh. 

She moved onto John 15:13, a much more comforting passage in scripture, which reminds us that we are not alone in life, nor are we alone in death. 

The day after my grandmother had died, I took my mom out for lunch and as we talked about the second Dolores, my mom stopped and started to tear up, “I am just so happy because all I can think about is that my mom has gotten to meet Jesus.” If only we could all look at death that way. 

As this woman spoke, and I literally watched a pot of water come to a boil, I was back in my grandmother and step-grandfather’s old house. My mom and I took countless trips to their house in Mill Valley when I was a child and some of my fondest memories took place there. The kitchen had a ton of windows allowing soft, morning light to stream in every day. Much of my grandmother’s china was blue and yellow with patterns of flowers, birds, and lemons. I can smell their house even now. 

I did a lot of growing up in that kitchen, playing Mexican train, eating sourdough bread with preserves my uncle handmade from an apricot tree in his front yard, and watching adults interact over wine and family recipes. 

The living room had blue carpet and a cream-colored leather couch. Oh the naps I took on that thing. That couch was a figurehead of my childhood. Where would it end up now? 

The shelves were lined with framed pictures of our family. I always used to count how many there were of me every time I would visit. I’m only slightly competitive, clearly. 

I sat on that couch opening my first cell phone on Christmas of 2004. My uncle made fun of me as I tried out every single ringtone. 

My favorite park was down the street. The bus stop outside was the gateway to exploring San Francisco. The garden smelled like nothing else in this world. 

This house was my second home. 

They painted everything white before they sold it. Clean and crisp, the perfect color to cover up tradition. 

The house was gone, and they were gone, and it was time to add the pasta to the water. 

After finishing her reading from John, the lady moved aside and asked that anyone who wanted to say a few words come forward. I wasn’t sure who was planning to speak, but was curious if my mom or one of her three siblings would come forward. My aunt’s husband was first. He is always solid and available to say something thoughtful. He talked about how much she enjoyed her family and how important it was for her to have them gathered around, especially on the holidays. He spoke of her love for her grandchildren. And then that lady, she, whose name I don’t know, asked, “And wasn’t there a wedding recently?”

Dagger to the heart mystery, funeral lady.  

My uncle stumbled slightly and said, “Oh, well, there have been a few over the years…” but I knew which one she was referring to. My wedding. 

A wedding to a man who I had just decided to divorce the day before she died. 

A man who I flew out to meet her 3 years ago in case she wasn’t able to come to the wedding. 

A wedding in which she worked hard to prepare for the trip and traveled with congestive heart failure, during a pandemic, to attend. 

A wedding which was the last time I saw my grandmother alive.

Oh yeah-that wedding.

My aunt and mom both said out loud, “It was Emily’s wedding.” And I lost it. 

I unleashed the tears and rage that I have been holding back since she died. The anger at him. The feelings of failure as I stare down the cliche road of divorce. The joy of her having been able to attend one of her grandchildren’s weddings, but also worry that she was sitting somewhere, disappointed in how it turned out. I cried and blew my nose, and then I did it some more. My dogs stared at me wondering why I could be so sad when there was meat and pasta cooking on the stove. 

The similarities between weddings and funerals are a bit too much for me. 

After my uncle, came his father, a family friend, her step-son, and another friend. All men.

None of her children spoke. 

I was the only one who spoke at my dad’s funeral. 

All these people spoke of how my grandmother practiced love, made us all laugh, showed everyone her southern hospitality, and went out with dignity. I’m glad my grandmother got her last hurrah at my wedding, even if the marriage didn’t last. 

After the last person said his piece, it was time to say goodbye. 

Everyone lined up to place roses on top of her casket before it saw daylight for the last time.

My mom’s roses were a wood bouquet left over from my wedding. This is what I had wanted buried with her. A piece of her last hurrah. 

After everyone placed their roses, a final blessing was said and attendees were asked to wish Dolores peace. I heard my mom quietly whisper “Peace be with you mom.” It sounded so much like a small child and my heart broke for her. 

This signaled the end of the service and that her casket would now be lowered into the ground. What came next was a sound that I’m assuming will resurface in a future nightmare. A dull, achy squeal of metal grinding on metal. 

I watched the casket disappear from view and my family walking back towards their cars to go home and have the reception. 

I hung up.

I texted my aunt and thanked her for calling. She called me and asked if I was alright. Was I? Would I be? 

Yesterday, they buried my grandmother, and I sat at my dining room table thousands of miles away eating spaghetti alone.

Now.

Listening to: As I Am

Current Temperature: 60°

Average Price of Gas in CO: $3.92/Gal 

Today, my mom called and asked if they should use my married or maiden name in my grandmother’s obituary. 

As of March 19th, 2022, I stand before you as a person trying to find some perspective. 

I’m somewhere between last names, being married and not, being home and finding a new one, and being in denial and finding acceptance. 

I have wanted to tell my story for a long time. I came out of the womb ready to be a writer, but it wasn’t until today that I finally put my fingertips to the keyboard.

So here we go. The story of Emily N—– soon to be Emily Bihm, again. 

Considering the circumstances, I’m not sure that my life is going to play out like the fairytale I have always hoped it would be, but here goes nothing. 

Once upon a time…

This is the first blog I ever wrote. Ironically, the memory of writing about cooking spaghetti during the funeral is what kept coming back to me over this weekend as I reflected on my grandmother’s life. Such an odd memory to have, but some things just stick with us more than others I suppose. She loved Italian food. My step-grandfather was Italian, so ironically, I think it actually makes sense. I hope they get a laugh out of this where they are now. 

Rest in peace y’all. We miss you. ❤