Last.Damn.Call

Did you know people die? They eventually leave this place and leave us behind. And what I didn’t know until I got sober is that it does not need to be turned into a spectacle, a shit-show, worthy of an academy award for the nonsense that ensues.

We experienced the death of a loved one yesterday. As did, most of my husband’s side of the family. It was a peaceful passing proceeded by a prayer and a circle of oved ones at the bedside. This is what normal people do, I suppose. I don’t come from normal people, so I appreciate all those people with common sense passing me the Cliffs Notes on death and dying when the opportunity arises.

The Birdsongs (my side of the family) apparently never received this memo of upmost importance. Wailing, crying, screaming, drunken brawls and often handcuffs…those are a few of the things I grew up associating with death. When my mother was about to take her last breath, I had to bail her husband (which was also my dad and her longtime spouse) out of 201 Poplar for public intoxication. (People near Northern Mississippi and Memphis) know this place well and will recognize the name “201” fairly quickly. For those of you who don’t know it, let me just say that it was no place for 18-year-old, tiny, kinda cute Lindsey to be walking into in order to bail her father out. Memphis lock up is no joke and not pretty, not on the inside nor the outside.

Fast forward to the first Thanksgiving we would celebrate without my mother. She had passed in January of 1999 (following the 201 incident). So, my siblings and I were trying to put together an edible Thanksgiving dinner, and it was almost time to eat when the phone rang. I was 18 years old at the time. My older sister, Carmen, answered it, said almost nothing but ‘ok’ and hung up. She turned to me and said, “Well, I guess Dad and Kim won’t be making it. Dad got a DUI and is in jail.” Kim was his girlfriend/wife/moron/woman who moved in pretty much the day my mom died. I have zero loss of no-no words to use for that nightmare of a person.

I have no clue how many arrests followed that for my dear old dad. I know there were several, but at a young age, I learned to not count on him for just about anything. Especially important things like not getting fucking arrested while the mother of his children was literally on her death bed. Then he died, too. No elaborate story there. My sister and I drank to excess to pretend we didn’t have unanswered questions or that we didn’t despise him. Maybe she didn’t share my exact feelings. She definitely had her disappointments in our dad, but she didn’t seem to have a hatred like I did.

So, his death was pretty uneventful. Oh, except the fact that his trashy ass wife with no money or means to help do pretty much anything was upset that I didn’t want to purchase her a locket of his ashes to wear around her neck. My sister was sadly deep into her addiction at this time. So, I had little help aside from my husband’s family. I was 27 at the time. I legit pulled a Lebowski and asked the funeral director if they could just place his ashes in a coffee can to avoid purchasing an urn. I believe we settled on some crappy box that was cheap(er) but still legal to keep human remains in. I let my sister take that janky box, and who knows where it is now. Because then, guess what happened, she died, too.

The passing of my sister would bring a whole other level of crazy to the Birdsong tradition of the death shit-show. As much as I love my sister, she was an alcoholic just like our parents. I was, too, but I didn’t know it at the time. Or I was still at the “functioning” phase of alcoholism. I forever hate the word functioning alcoholic. Hate it. Maybe because it defined me to my core…until it didn’t because I was no longer functioning. But whatever, that is beside the point to the death circus the Birdsong family puts on every few years.

I will surpass the attempts to get my sister sober and to stay that way. I, too, ended up in treatment and so, I get it. But it became a whole thing…I was the bad sister (per one of my sister’s many dumbass husbands) because I couldn’t continue stopping my life to save her and take her to rehab. My bad. You married her, maybe you should grow a pair and address the situation. But that’s just my opinion. And once she’d sober up, start looking and talking like herself, she’d ask her stupid husband to buy her booze. And you know what he told me in response, “I just can’t say no, she’s my wife.” You absolute nightmare of a man. YOU placed the last nail in the coffin. She may have held it steady for you, but you wacked it with the hammer, closing that thing shut forever. Thanks, asshat. Sorry, it needed to be said.

My sister’s last days were maybe the hardest for me, and not because I knew she was dying. That would be understandable. No, it was because I knew what madness was about to ensue. Drunks and white trash idiots just make funerals unbearable. They just do. I am sorry, but someone needs to say it. Like Groundhog Day, someone is in jail that needs bailed out to attend the fucking funeral. You have got to be kidding me. This time the winner was…ding, ding, ding! My nephew, Carmen’s son, Gary. Gary, I love you, but you have the arrest record to prove you are a moron. Stop doing shit to get arrested, Love Aunt Lindsey.

So, another person bailed out to attend another funeral for someone who died a preventable alcohol related death. Is anyone else getting tired of this shit? Because I am exhausted with it. Allow me to backtrack for a moment. My sister died during Covid, so that added a level of stupidity to the Birdsong mentality and the people that associated with her. Visitors were minimal, so when I go to visit her, I wish I could say it was a peaceful, memorable time. But of course, where the shit show goes, groupies follow. It was definitely memorable. My sister (unbeknownst to me because she had stopped talking to me-remember, I am the bad guy in the family) had not only her husband at her bedside, but she also had the man she had been having an affair with at her bedside. Yes, you read that correctly. Jesus. And when I looked confused about what was happening…the dumbass husband says to me, “It’s ok. We have both seen her naked, so it’s fine we are both here.” If I were ever going to commit murder in a public place with tons of witnesses, it was that moment, then and there. I just left. It’s all I could do. Walk away. Fuming. And hurt. And pissed. And all the things.

The funeral was exactly what I envisioned. Ridiculous. Nephew bailed out of jail with some half-naked girl at his side. A drunken brother-in-law with his new sidekick which happened to be my sister’s lover or whatever corny name you want to give it. There was a karaoke machine involved. Ok, I cannot just leave that hanging out there with no explanation. My sister apparently loved going to karaoke (most drunks do). And I can live with that. But having some stupid ass D.J. from some skank bar sing “Dance Monkey” at your sister’s wake is too much. Even for this family. If you have never heard the song, please take a moment and listen to it. It is repulsive. For a funeral. How I had not suffered a stroke or heart attack by this point in the whole fiasco is a mystery in itself. A medical miracle. I could write about this for another hour probably, but I feel I have gotten my point across.

Death can be sad. It can hurt like hell. It can steal from you what you so desperately want to keep. And you are supposed to feel all the feelings. What you don’t do is make it a spectacle. That is so immature. So ridiculous. So someone died and you needed to drink to the point of a blackout and get arrested? Wait to gooooo! Slow clap for making it all about you.

Yesterday, I witnessed a family filled with love. Fully present in the moment. At a dying loved ones bedside. Holding hands. Talking quietly. Being respectful. Saying a peaceful goodbye. Zero shit-show. I am thankful my children were there, too. They needed to see that it is okay to grieve and be sad and cry and show emotion. Saying goodbye is never easy, but learning to do so in a calm, prayerful manner makes it way less painful. I am thankful for learning so much in recovery. And this lesson was one my family will hopefully carry with us through the rest of our lives.

Check out my debut book-click the link below:

LAST.DAMN.CALL.: M. Cox, Lindsey: 9798299331349: Amazon.com: Books