Selling Grandma's Stuff

 I never was one to pass judgement on the neighbors.

Until today.

When the folks across the street gave their recently-departed good reason to roll over in her grave.

Now tell me. .  . two months ago, as her loving family kept vigil in the living room and Grandma lay there oh-so-slowly passing into the life hereafter. . .  do you think that she envisioned a day when a sign on her lawn would read:  HOSPITAL BED.  LIKE NEW! $600

And do you think they timed her usage of said bed?  Do you think they studied their watches and said. . . Well, if she passes in the next half-hour it will be less than 24 hours of wear-and-tear.  I dare say this bed will be like. . .well like. . . BRANDY NEW!!!  (And don't you think they weren't second-guessing their overly-optimistic decision to purchase, rather than rent, the bed in the first place?)

Let's face it. . . wouldn't Grandma have shuddered at the thought all of her life's treasures out on the front lawn for others to snatch up?  Her chotchkies displayed for vultures to paw through?  Her clothing now a bargain for those nature had endowed large enough to wear?

Could she ever - even with the prescience which sometimes arrives at death's door - imagine her loved ones selling her wheelchair out from under her?  Her walker with tennis balls still attached?  Her "big-girl" geriatric port-a-potty when she was barely cold in her grave???

Now here's a little tip for you, neighbors . . . You may be trying to hide it from your customers, but the unfortunate life-event which prompted your HUGE SALE!  is painfully apparent to even the most casual observer (like moi!)

Yes, it is abundantly clear that one rather-large woman with an Imelda Marcos-sized appetite for purple pumps and a peculiar proclivity for purchasing polyester pantsuits suffered a physical decline in that house. . . that she deteriorated through the various cane-walker-and-wheelchair stages and was forced to suffer the ultimate indignity of having the bathroom brought to her until - at last - she peacefully passed away in that bed that is now suddenly LIKE NEW!

Now can I ask you.  . .  Just who you think is going to dance on her grave by purchasing a pair of those gaudy pumps??? 

Oh tacky, tacky neighbors!

Have you no respect for your dearly departed?

And wouldn't a sign which read, ESTATE SALE! be a little more palatable?  Or perhaps:  BUYER BEWARE!?!?

May Grandma rest in peace,

despite the bad taste of her loved ones. . .

Grim Reaper Signing In. . .

Now you've probably been wondering where A Mom on Spin has been these past few weeks.

And even if you haven't . .

I feel compelled to inform you that I've been a bit on the busy side with my job at church lately - what with all the preparations for Christmas and all . . .

And I was looking forward to taking some much-needed time off once our "busy season" was over and the baby Jesus was safely sheltered, birthed, heralded, visited, and resting comfortably in the manger.

But something got in the way of my planned relaxation and quality time with my daughters. For it turns out that I needed to cancel my vacation plans in order to attend to a few funerals.

Eight to be exact.

That's right.  We've had eight (count 'em - eight) funerals since Christmas Day (including - I might add - my very dear aunt who passed away on Christmas night. .  .) all of which, no doubt, needed my loving touch, compassionate planning, and never-ending-attention-to-detail in order to send a loved one off to the heavenly realm correctly.  (And besides. . . someone has to light the charcoal for the incensor-thingy the priest swings around. . . .)

And - yes - my funeral director friend from across the street is breathing a sigh of relief. . . knowing she can pay her bills after the Grim Reaper's sluggish pace of work before the holidays.  But I ask you - does the recent funeral frenzy justify this call I received from one of the funeral home's employees the other day when an 85-year-old nun visiting the rectory took ill and 911 had to be summoned???

Me:  Hello, this is Liz.  Can I help you?

Funeral Home Employee:  Hey Liz, it's Tim. . .at the funeral home.   What's going on over there?

Me:  What do you mean?

Funeral Home Employee:  I see ambulances and police cars from the window.

Me:  There's nothing for you here, Tim . . . Nothing for you. . .


Now HE, my friends, was a true "Ambulance Chaser" - was he not?

Here's wishing you all a safe, happy, and healthy New Year. . . 

p.s.  If you think I'm cold-hearted, or indifferent towards death. . .  I'm not.

I'm just funny.

And p.p.s. . . .If you think the funeral home employee was being cold-hearted or indifferent towards death, he wasn't.

He was just curious.

Hello God? Can We Talk . . . Again???

Hello God?

I am very sorry to be phoning on what I'm sure must be a big day for you.  I admit I don't know much a  Judaism, but - if Jewish guilt is anything like Catholic guilt  - folks must be flocking to you in droves on the Day of Atonement.

But never-the-less, I have an urgent little matter to discuss with you.

I fear that I may have single-handedly disrupted the circle of life.

As you know, I have been serving as The Grim Reaper's useful sidekick (Funerals R Me) for close to four years now.   And never before have we had a dry spell like this. A week without a funeral?  Perhaps.  Two weeks? Maybe once or twice. . .  But two whole months without a funeral???  Unheard of!

And somehow last night during my sleepless Goldilocks-bed-hopping escapade, it hit me!

I told people not to die!   Right here on this blog.  I told them not to die because I was going on vacation at the end of July.

And no one has died since!

You know how you often hear from the hospice folks that sometimes you have to give people permission to die???  Well God?  Can you tell them that they didn't really need to stretch their expiration dates that far?  I really didn't mean to upset the celestial apple cart. . . or disrupt the natural life/death flow. . . I just wanted a peaceful vacation. . .

The Grim Reaper

Not for nothing, but I've been a little overwhelmed with funerals at work lately.

But even if I have personally planned five funerals in the past week, it gives me no excuse to count my chickens before they've hatched.

You see, Friday morning we received the news that my all-time favorite retired hippie priest who resides in our rectory for half of the year (yes, I said hippie priest 'cause there's no other pithy way to describe a 68-year-old priest with a pony tail who spends the other half of the year in his home in Belize . . . ) well, anyway, we received word that he had collapsed in a Chicago train station waiting to board a train back home. And the words I heard were: He's in a coma and on a respirator, but they won't leave him that way for long.

Enter The Grim Reaper.

Knowing that - upon a previous hospitalization - the same priest had sent me to his room to retrieve legal documents from his personal strongbox, I marched into his room, unlocked that box, and rifled through his paperwork looking for an advance directive, power of attorney, or living will (all of which I found, by the way. . . )

And then I saw it.

The envelope labeled Burial Instructions.

Should I?

Well, I'm ashamed to say that The Grim Reaper opened that envelope and read its contents. (Although, in The Reaper's defense I need to make one point perfectly clear. . . nowhere on that envelope did it say Open in the Event of my Death. . . or Upon my Demise, Read this. . . . no, it simply read . . . Burial Instructions. . . )

But I ask you. . . at that particular moment in history did The Reaper need to know the hippie priest's wishes for the disposal of his human remains?

I'm not sure she did.

And how - from her comfy position in a little Catholic church in New Jersey - did The Reaper plan to convey the information about said remains to those attending to him in Chicago?

I don't know.

Was she going to phone the hospital morgue and say Whoa! Be careful! It says right here that he doesn't want his body carted about?

I think not.

The Grim Reaper should have just let God do his job.

But it turns out the The Reaper doesn't always think before she acts. . . and - speaking of carts - perhaps she even puts the cart before the horse sometimes . . . especially since the second call we received from Chicago (two hours after the first) was to tell us that he was being brought out of his medically-induced coma, had opened his eyes, and they were beginning to wean him off of the respirator because they didn't want to leave him on the respirator for long!

Whoops!



So Joe? Hurry up and get better so you can come home, 'cause you're gonna love this story when I tell you. . . and, as per your request, I've got the best place picked out for your wake. We're gonna have a great time!

Oh. . . and Father Densin? You really didn't need to hastily remove your own advance directives from that shelf in your office . . . you know. . . the one that donates your body to science??? Let's just hope I've learned how to exercise a little restraint by the time that document is called for. . .