by Rebecca Vargas

Created on: December 30, 2008   Last Updated: January 03, 2009

In movies, newspapers and greeting cards, the death of a loved one has always been shown to be a somber time full of reflection and grief. In real life, however, the death of a loved one can be a surprisingly hilarious time. This is because there is no other time so fraught with tension and emotional charge, and when things go wrong, as they often do - Murphy's law, look it up - the malfunction cuts though the thick atmosphere like a giggling guillotine.

When my mother died, I was only 22 years old. I had always been very attached to her and was more of a 22 year old coddled fetus than an adult. We did everything together: shopping, doctor visits, impromptu trips to Atlantic City; we lived together, we laughed together and we were a hell of a team, much like Dorothy and Sophia from the Golden Girls. Then one day, everything changed; she was gone and all hell broke loose. I didn't think I would be able to go on; the grief was so intense and everywhere I looked, I saw her. If I looked in the refrigerator, I would find myself tearfully clutching the bag of malty ball candy she was so fond of; if I saw her purse hanging on the chair, I would notice one of the many sordid novels that she enjoyed so much hanging out of the top and it would throw me into a fit of tears; and her impressive collection of colorful wigs scattered throughout the apartment just made things worse. Needless to say, planning her funeral was awful and calling everyone was absolute torture as I must have recounted the details of her passing at least forty times.

The day of the wake was tough. I woke up late and fell down the spiral staircase as I ran around looking for my black tights. I figured it would be the bad day I had always envisioned it to be. Once we got to the funeral parlor, my younger sister was standing outside and in hysterics. She had always been the type to laugh uncontrollably when she was scared or nervous and I understood this. As I puffed on my twenty-fifth cigarette that morning, I lingered outside a while before getting up the nerve to go inside. Once I stepped indoors, I was bombarded with friends and relatives hugging me and telling me to be strong. They filled the room with stories about how good my mother was as they poured tiny cups of coffee from a 'Box of Joe' cardboard coffee pot in the hall area. That was surely a health code violation, I thought, but I continued past the hallway and went up to the casket to see my mother for the last time. She looked eerie but

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