leave your body at the door

I had to leave town unexpectedly last Tuesday.  My grandma, my mother’s mother, was very ill. According to everyone who saw her, she was not going to last much longer. So, my mom, my sister and I flew up to Michigan to say good-bye.

Well, in typical mid-western passive-aggressive fashion, she got better right after we arrived.  I’m not complaining.  I hope she lives forever. But, it did make for a stressful flight up there.

I love you grandma.

Adding to that stress was my grandfather. Normally, someone who has been dead for over 30 years shouldn’t be cause for much concern. But, this is my family we are talking about.

See, my grandfather was cremated. Half of his ashes were scattered around the property of the house that grandpa and grandma built together. The other half was put in a brass urn that stands eight inches tall and about five inches across.  His urn was displayed on the fireplace hearth of my mom’s house. When she moved, he went to my sister’s and rested on her hearth.  When my sister moved, he was passed on to me, because at that time, I had the fireplace.

Grandma, being a Seventh Day Adventist, does not believe in cremation and wishes to be buried. As some sort of compromise, the urn containing grandpa’s ashes is to be buried with her.

You see where this is going, don’t you?

Yes. I had to fly to Michigan with grandpa in my carry-on.

Surprisingly enough, I’ve never flown with human remains in my luggage before, so I didn’t know what to expect. I did have the presence of mind while booking my plane ticket to ask what would be required to get grandpa on the plane. After a short pause, I was told that all I would need is his death certificate and/or cremation certificate.  By some miracle, my mom had both of these pieces of paper and scanned them then emailed them to me.

I get to the airport, put my purse and shoes in a bin at the security station and lay my carry-on bag on the belt to be x-rayed.  With my boarding pass in one hand and grandpa’s paperwork in the other, I walk through the scanner.  On the other side, I display my best non-threatening smile (minimal teeth, maximum dimples) and get ready to explain that the large brass cube in my bag will not explode.

The TSA agent took one look at my bag on the monitor, yawned, and sent it on its way without a word.

My first thought was, “Are you kidding me? My grandmother’s slightly soggy diaper was treated like a pound of C4 explosive by the TSA, but a heavy, metal box doesn’t get a second glance?” Maybe it’s common to travel with dead relatives these days.

My second thought was, “This is going to make a really boring blog post.” I wrote the post anyway.  Sorry.

Well, I’d rather have a boring blog post than get my family on CNN.  Again.

Grandpa was a cop. He could have shown those TSA whippersnappers a thing or twenty.

One housekeeping note: My WordPress blog reader suddenly doesn’t want to display any of the WP blogs that I subscribe to. Yesterday evening, I went through and checked to get email updates whenever any of you post from now on, however, I have no way to know if you posted while I was out last week. I want to try to catch up on my blog reading, but I don’t know if it will be possible.  If you posted anything particularly brilliant and/or hilarious in the past six days please include a link in the comments and I’ll be sure to check it out.  Thank you.

 

What, me worry?

Within 24 hours of saying “I do”, my husband added a whole new dimension of anxiety to my life.  It started with him almost being shot and/or arrested by a Louisiana cop on the way to our honeymoon (tip: if you get pulled over for speeding in LA, be sure you’re not carrying a concealed weapon). After the honeymoon, he developed a “trick shoulder”, managing to dislocate it about six times in 3 years.  Luckily only one of those times was without health insurance. 

Then, there was the traffic accident right before Thanksgiving.  That phone conversation started with him telling me innocently enough that he would be late coming home from work and ended with me asking which hospital they were taking him to.  He’s still picking glass out of his head from that one (tip: wear your seat belt). 

He quit one job for a better one, and instead of keeping his stock from the old job or rolling over any profit from selling it into an interest bearing account, he just cashes it out.  We owed the IRS over $5,000 in taxes that year. 

We buy a house and all is grand until the day I come home to find he was fired from his job.  His boss may have been a prick, but he was still the boss.

Then, I get a call at work from a nice lady informing me that my husband had set himself on fire while refueling a hot lawn mower and at this moment he was in an ambulance on his way to some hospital I’d never heard of (tip: stop, drop and roll works, people). 

But, then there was the time we got our first dog, and he held her in his lap and stroked her to try to stop her shaking even though she was beyond filthy.  Or the time he drove all the way to Kansas City to help is sister move.  Then all the times when pipes burst or seals leaked or cars wouldn’t run and he was there with wrench or hammer or fuse ready to make it better.  And then the day almost thirteen years ago when he took a chance and asked me to marry him without the aid of any prior discussion to gage what my answer might be. 

There hasn’t been a trip to the hospital, lost job or wrecked car that has made me regret my decision.  For each of these stressful incidents, I can count hundreds of times when I never had to worry about staying out too late with the girls, how short I cut my hair, what I was wearing, who I was talking to or asking permission for anything.  I also never had to worry about where my husband was, who he was talking to, if he was coming home, if he still thought I was pretty or if he would rather spend time with me than anyone else.  No insurance company or even the IRS can put a price on that kind of security.