LISTENING TO: KEXP 90.3, where the music (still!) matters. Especially since I just won an Xbox from them. YAY!

READING: Porno, by Irvine Welsh. It’s a follow-up to Trainspotting. No, it’s not a dirty book. (Breathe, Mom.) That being said, the cover art is a deflated blow-up doll…

HEY -- LOOKIE! New stuff -- I've linked to my net home-away-from-home, 3WA. I also have a new tagboard! It's down by the sign-up lists and stuff. Lookie!

Gather ‘round, kids. Today we’re going to talk about death.

It could be that it’s just that time of year and I’m feeling the effects of repeat viewings of cheesy horror films. It could be that I had a funeral to go to last week (RIP great-uncle Willie), but really, it’s because of Punk Walrus.

Punkie asked 3WA about the first time we saw an actual dead person. (“My First Stiff”?) As unnerving as it was at the time, the story behind my first dearly departed is pretty amusing in retrospect, so here it is.

I was in college when I saw my first real-live dead person (pardon the pun).

It was my Nanna. My Nanna died at home, as she wished, surrounded by her family. Having already said my ‘goodbyes’ (and reassured there was nothing else to be said – she knew how much I loved her, and vice versa), I sat in the living room with my dog in my lap while my aunts, parents and a few family friends sat around the hospital bed in the dining room. After the hospice nurse came and before the funeral home had arrived, I did my best to studiously avoid looking at my Nanna.

On the one hand, I’d never seen a dead person before and felt little interest in doing so just then. On the other hand, I’d never seen a dead person before, so there was a drop or two of true ‘morbid curiosity’ thrown into the mix. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Just then, I really wasn’t very interested in finding out.

Thus, the big question -- to view, or not to view. My parents (bless ‘em) knew of my apprehension and reassured me they’d be behind whichever decision I made.

A day or two later, we went down to the funeral home to make final arrangements for the services. I sat in the waiting room while the rest of the family and a few select friends went to the viewing room. About 5 minutes later, my Mom came out.

“You know, sweetie, she looks considerably better than she did at home. No pressure, but this might be a little more pleasant ‘final picture’ to take away. It’s still your decision, but I thought you should know.”

I stayed in the waiting room for a few more minutes, trying to make up my mind. Finally, I got my courage up and slowly headed for the viewing room. A close family friend, Tina, was just outside the door.

A few words about T. I absolutely adore Tina. I’ve known her since I was about 10. She’s one of my biggest fans (how can you not love that?) and is one of my all time favorite people. She’s also a woman of few, but wise, words.

“Decide to go in?” she asked.

“Well… I guess so.”

“Want me to go in with you?”

“… Please.”

I took her arm and walked slowly towards the closed door of the viewing room.

I hesitated. “Do I knock?”

“Well, I don’t think she’s going to get up and answer.”

God bless her. After regaining my composure (hysterical laughter during a viewing is, no doubt, poor form), I was able to walk in with a smile and a much lighter heart.

So there Nanna was.

She definitely wasn’t sleeping – there was something sunken and almost waxwork about the face that said this person had definitely joined the choir invisible… the part that made her Nanna was no longer there. All that was really there was the… container she’d been in. A well loved container, but the container nonetheless. The important part, the real Nanna, was gone. But, since I knew that part was pain-free and happier, I could handle that.

And Mom was right – she did look better than the last time I’d seen her.

Thankfully, when I think of Nanna – and all those I love who’ve passed away – the image that comes to mind isn’t the one of them in their coffin, or even the last time I saw them alive.

I tend to remember them all smiling and laughing. And for that, I’m grateful.