Cora's Funeral.

I’m sort of a geek, I like to check the stats for my websites because I find it interesting. Google Analytics tells me where visitors to my site came from. If they came from a search engine, Google tells me the phrase they searched to get here.

I paused a bit when I saw this one “Cora’s funeral.”

Could be they mean another Cora. And, if it’s my Cora, I’m not upset, just gave me pause. People really feel like they know us, and they might be curious about this part of her story.

Her funeral isn’t something I’ve talked about much. It was hard. Of course. And, it’s not something I don’t want to talk about, just really hasn’t come up in my blogging. I didn’t blog the week of her funeral.

After Cora died, Ben slept the entire next day, and I stayed up in a stupor and was greeted by a wave of family and friends. When he did wake up, we threw ourselves into the funeral. We’d spent all those months working for her. It felt natural to keep going. To give her the best sendoff ever.

We decided to cremate her. In my family, we’ve never cremated loved ones. But, something about losing a child, it felt right. We wanted to keep her with us always. The weather shifted somewhere between when I went into the hospital and when she died and was quite cold. I didn’t want to put her in the cold ground. So, after that decision was made, things just sort of fell together.

When the coroner asked us where to send her, that was the easiest part of the whole process. She went to the funeral home I’ve spoken about so much. I called them at some point, and that’s when they told me not to worry about paying for anything, it was all on them.

My mom warned me that going to the funeral home to make her arrangements would be hard. It’s beyond words. Sitting at that big, nice mahogany or cherry table, talking about my daughter’s funeral was beyond the most difficult meeting of my life. I remember some of it, but not all of it. I remember thinking I might pass out.
We decided on a viewing a few days later followed by a celebration of life the next day. For the next two days, we distracted ourselves endlessly making new projects. I found a Christmas tree, pink so she’d have her first Christmas tree after all. We found new clothes. I made a video of her short little life. It played over and over and over at her funeral and viewing.

I wanted to share her with the world from the start. We decided that we should make pink bows to pass out so everyone would have a bit of pink for little Cora. Sometime in the middle of all this, I tweeted for the first time a few days after her death. Eventually, I told people about the funeral and asked people around the country to wear pink for Cora.

During the entire visitation I was convinced I was either going to pass out or really lose it. I thought my brain my drift off, and I’d be a drooling patient in a mental hospital. I felt it slip away a few times. It’s a feeling I can’t describe. That losing it. People came. I remember some of them. I couldn’t speak much. I kept feeling sort of bad for not visiting. But, I was there, and I had here there with all of her things to tell her story. I was bracing for the next day, her remembrance.

Ben and I decided to do things our way. No priest or religious attendant. Just us. I gave my daughter’s eulogy and conducted her funeral. I might get nervous at future speeches. But, nothing will ever even begin to compare to the courage that took.

I knew it would be hard, so I made my family sneak me into the funeral home and find me a private room. I didn’t want to speak to anyone in advance. I took her picture and a book I read to her most nights when I was pregnant. I sat there and stared at them, and I remembered. I remembered Cora. I remembered holding her. I remembered that love. That life-altering love. I connected with her again.

Finally, when the time was right, I walked straight up to where she was. We didn’t want her in a casket so she was in a Moses basket, and I shared with everyone that love, straight from my heart. Ben spoke, my mom and sister said some things, and then I read that book to her again.

I heard people sobbing so loudly. Afterwards, so many people sad it was the saddest thing they’d ever been to, but I hope it wasn’t all sad.

Everyone left, except for Ben of course, and then he held her, and I held her, and then we both held her together and clung to each other.

I think the hardest part of it all was gently placing her back in that basket, giving her a kiss, turning my back on her, and walking out of the funeral home without her.