Don't You Get Cat Hair On My Casket!

Dotty is short, and very round. She wheezes. She walks with a cane. She is overweight, she has 'sugar', as some of the folks around here call diabetes, and she has very little confidence. She was raised by a woman who belittled her at every turn and razed any fledgling Dotty-confidence right to the ground and then stomped and salted that earth for good measure. Dotty will never think highly of herself, and she will rarely think well of herself. Her mother did a good job making sure of that.

Dotty worries. Dotty procrastinates as a way to deal with her worry. Dotty has a ready smile and a good heart. She sings in the choir. She can sign either alto or soprano as needed. After years of sitting in the alto section with us, she switched over to the soprano side when 2 people had dropped out. She used to perform in community theater musicals, but the most recent contribution she made to local theatrics was to work backstage. She has pretty much given all of that, and a lot else, up.

She got a cat several years ago, and even though she lived in her own apartment, she was terrified to tell her mother or her son she had a cat. She was in her 50's then. She is in her early 60's now and seems like a woman 15 years older.

From about the age of 10 onwards, Dotty's son was raised by her mother. Dotty's husband had left her when her son was quite young, a toddler. He had had to have surgery for a hare lip, and remained a very shy child, especially once he got into school and was teased for his scar. Since Dotty had to work full-time to support them, he went to his grandparent's house after school. Eventually Dotty's mother strong armed Dotty into believing she couldn't really do a good job raising him, having to work and all, and that the boy should just live with her. Dotty, having no confidence, acquiesced, of course.

Her son was idolized by his grandmother, and she gave all the nurturing love and attention she denied her daughter to her daughter's son. She was so good to him. He grew up into a gentle, sweet, funny man. He teaches music at the elementary school. He directs our choir. He has a warm baritone voice and a sly and wily sense of humor. He was very fortunate to get a teaching job in his home town and lives in his grandmother's house yet.

Two years ago, his grandmother had to be hospitalized after a small stroke. Alzheimer's Disease set in quickly and she never returned to their little house, staying in the hospital until a nursing home bed opened up. About a year ago, Dotty moved in with her son. He takes just as good care of her as he did his Grandma. He was raised right, trained for the role, in fact. He has a good and gentle heart.

Sometimes, Dotty is frankly a mess. She will come to church wearing a stretchy black cardigan, with silvery bright rhinestone buttons, that is also covered in cat hair. She likes the colors green and orange. She often dresses in shirts of horizontal stripes wrapping around her pudgy body. Her hair is cut short like a man's. It isn't flattering. But, her hair is also very thick and very straight, a gingery color, with hardly any grey. It sits like a thick cap above her chubby, round face. She will complain that her sugar is high as she eats her third doughnut. She doesn't take good care of herself, and why should she? She has known for years that she doesn't matter.

Grandma died this week. It was also Dotty's birthday this week. And guess what? They held the funeral on Dotty's birthday. (I wish I was making this up.) I had a small hissy fit with our pastor over it, but no one besides me seemed to think it was a bad thing to have Dotty's mother's funeral on Dotty's birthday. In fact, I was told, Dotty said it was okay. Of course Dotty would say that, I almost yelled. Why does no one but me see the tragedy in this? Why does no one but me understand that from now on, on every single birthday she has left, Dotty will remember it as the day of her mother's funeral?

The sanctuary of our church is upstairs. When you enter the foyer, stair cases wind up to the left and the right. Just ahead is a glass case full of historic items related to the church. It is a venerable old church, the first in the village, founded by the wealthy Dutchman who set up a plantation settlement in this one time wilderness, a settlement raided, razed and burned twice during the conflicts with the French in Quebec, what history books call 'The French-Indian War'. The existent church records date from after the Revolutionary War, because earlier records were destroyed in the fires of the raids. It is the church that, at one time, the first families of this village were proud to join. It was the 'status' church. Now it is probably the church with the smallest amount of members, a church that always hovers on the rim of financial ruin. It has beautiful stained glass windows though, and a sanctuary that holds love like light in its acoustically perfect space.

On either side of the glass case are 2 doors leading into our fellowship hall. On the morning of Dotty's birthday, it was in that very space that the funeral director had parked her mother's powder blue casket, on the far right hand side, for the calling hours. Dotty was the first one at the left side door, to meet and greet, and also the furthest away from her mother in her blue box. Dotty wore that same stretchy black cardigan with the rhinestone buttons over a black top and black pants. She had her pink cane held firmly in her left hand. She seemed to have gotten most of the cat hairs off of her sweater. I took her in my arms--she is barely 5 feet tall--and held her in a warm hug. I kissed her fat cheek and I told her that I loved her. (I do! Whenever I see Dotty, I see a little girl with a hopeful light in her eyes, and I want to put strong, protective arms around her.) She said, "I know, I know you do." She seemed unable to accept this direct gift of affection. It lay like a hot potato in her hand. What should she do with this? Finally she sighed and said, "We love you too."

I asked her how she was doing, and she said she was fine for the moment, but wasn't sure how she would be later, during the service. She thought she might fall apart. I told her not to worry, that she was surrounded by people who would gladly hold her up. She gave me that quizzical look again, and then I moved on to greet her son. I told him what I had told his mom, that I love them both, and his eyes overflowed with tears and he said they loved me too.

I did not go over to the powder blue box to look on the deceased.

During the memorial service, Dotty's son spoke clearly, eloquently and emotionally about his grandmother and all she had given him and taught him about life. He cried a lot as he spoke about this woman he loved and admired so much, and I could not help but look at the back of Dotty, her schlumpy rounded shoulders up there ahead of me, as she listened to her son praise his grandmother with the same words someone might use to describe their mother.

But Dotty is used to that. She knows she's nobody. And her family, and our church, reinforced that by allowing Dotty's mother's funeral to be held on Dotty's birthday.

Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai