For some reason, I have a need to record at least some of the events of the last two weeks:
At about 6:40 am on Saturday, August 22, I received a call from the nurse at Atlanticare Hospital to tell me I should come because Pat seemed "tired." I was already up and dressed, in preparation for my 7 am walk, and I immediately left for the hospital. I knew already he had died and when I walked into his room, the doctor and nurse were there, and confirmed it. I called my daughters in California--the older one visiting the younger. My cell phone doesn't call overseas, so I asked to use the regular phone and reversed the charges to call older son in Tokyo. Called the younger in Singapore, but the nanny said he and DIl were out for dinner. It seems mobile phones won't accept collect calls, so I had a dilemma. Finally, a lovely young nurse with the exquisite name of "Apple Solomon"--she's Filipino, so I don't know where that name came from--lent me her calling card. My final call was to George Wimberg, funeral director, fellow St. James graduate, and long-time friend. (I often say you can't die in Ventnor without George.)
SIL Mike and grandson, Joel, along with the two precious little boys, came down to be with me on Saturday. Older daughter got home the next day and we went to see George to pick out the coffin, settle particulars, and perform all the chores that seem so odd and, at the same time, so ordinary, necessary, and right.
Yes, yes, theoretically, our funeral customs are needless, bizarre, and ruinously expensive, but you know what? I didn't want him incinerated, sifted into an urn, then packed away like out-of-season clothes. I wanted an old-fashioned funeral and burial and a place where I can visit and plant flowers. I'm familiar with Laurel Memorial Cemetery where Pat's parents and sisters are buried, as well as my twin's family, and that's where I wanted him.
Our sons arrived from Asia and younger daughter from Ventura, and we picked out a plot in the relatively new "couples" section. That concept strikes me as droll and hysterically funny, but it pleases me to think he'll be there and so will I. There are gay couples (judging from the loving wording on the stone), as well as family groups, and it's a nice, tree-bordered spot, albeit a little too near a public road. In addition, there's often horrendous jet noise from NAFAC across the way, but then I guess the people buried there don't mind.
More later...