“As a pallbearer, you will have three duties,” said the man from the funeral home. As he proceeded to explain where the six of us would be moving my Uncle’s casket to and from over the next couple of hours I realized I could not comprehend what he was saying. The words coming from his mouth were clear but were being deflected by the thoughts and emotions swirling around in my mind. Long before he stopped talking I had decided my best bet would be to follow the lead of the other pallbearers and do what they did.

My Uncle Joe passed away suddenly on Saturday, August 17th. While most of the O’Haras live in Chicago (as did Joe), a few of us live here in Oklahoma. My sister, her three kids, and my Dad set out for Chicago in her van on August 19th. I hit the road on the 20th, and Susan flew up the following morning. The wake was the 21st, and the funeral proper was on the 22nd — my 40th birthday.

I’ve never been to a wake before. In an existential moment I remember thinking, “This would be a great family gathering if it weren’t for the fact that my dead Uncle is on the other side of this room.” For eight hours I watched people flood through the doors of the funeral home, stopping by to pay their final respects. My Uncle was like me in the way that he was a social creature; someone said it took him forever to walk from one end of the hospital to the other because so many people would stop to talk to him. The funeral home’s parking lot quickly filled and soon people were parking next door and across the street. Throughout the afternoon and evening I got to meet all the guys that had starred in all the stories Joe had told us while sitting around his dinner table. I did enjoy the concept and the informality of the wake; that being said, eight hours of being “on” on such an emotional day took its toll. “I felt like I have been swimming all day,” Susan later said in regards to the physical and mental exhaustion we all felt.

As the wake began to wind down, my Uncle Frank stopped by to ask first my Dad and later myself if we could serve as pallbearers on Thursday. I hadn’t expected that. Joe had so many friends and family that I assumed the position had been filled long ago. It was an honor being asked, one that came with its own physical and emotional toll.

The following morning I pulled my black suit out of my travel bag and began getting dressed. “Is this tie straight?” I asked Susan. She confirmed it was. “Help me pull this belt tighter,” I said. “I don’t want my pants falling down while I’m carrying the casket.” Susan helped me pull my belt so tight the metal buckle dug deep into my belly. I stood up and looked in the mirror. “Is this tie straight?” I asked. She assured me it was.

The gathering at the funeral home was relatively short and soon it was time for my first duty. The six of us found pairs of white gloves waiting for us, ones any magician or conductor would have been proud to own. “You’re going to carry the casket out the door and into the Hearse,” said the man from the funeral home. The double doors opened to reveal it was now pouring down rain. I found myself filled with inner strength and determination as I lifted my part of the casket up and we began to walk.

And as I lifted the front of the casket up into the Hearse while rain dripped on to my face, it hit me that this was how I would be spending my 40th birthday.

We drove ourselves from one spot to the next, and the car proved a convenient place to have complete emotional breakdowns between appearances. Thank God for dark tint.

When we arrived at Ascension it was again my job to help remove the casket from the car, carry it up a small flight of stairs, and place it on a little cart with wheels. The funeral home director reminded us that we could use two hands if we needed to, but I didn’t need to. I felt so strong that day. Nobody said a word as we hoisted the weight up the stairs and into Ascension.

I’ve only been to a couple of Catholic services in my life and all the jokes are true. There’s a lot of “stand up” and “sit down” and “sing this” and “do that” going on. Every time I focused on the proceedings I began to cry and so I found myself focusing on the other aspects of the chapel. I looked at the details of the stained glass windows and of the statues of Jesus and Mary. I studied the carpet. I tried counting the number of people in the church. I tried very hard to focus on not focusing.

Before long we had loaded ol’ Joe back into the Hearse for his final trip, across town and to the cemetery. Unlike Oklahoma where people pull over in a sign of respect for funeral processions, the fine citizens of Chicago honk, weave in and out of traffic, and think nothing of cutting off the entire procession to make a yellow light. It was really pouring outside now. My Aunt told me that Joe was in charge of watering at the hospital and he loved it when it rained. I also heard someone say that if it rains on someone’s funeral, the deceased goes to heaven. Sounds like something a bunch of wet people made up one time to console themselves. Deciding how someone spends their eternal afterlife based on the weather seems like a fairly crummy system.

Instead of going to the grave site, at the cemetery we moved Joe into a small building. The rain was the heaviest it had been all day. As we pulled up a man stood under a nearby tree, playing “Danny Boy” on the bagpipes. It was perhaps the most surreal and emotional part of the day. Several dozen of us squeezed into the room to hear a few final words about Joe. Our final duty as pallbearers was to remove those Mickey Mouse gloves and place them on the casket.

As the bagpipes played “Amazing Grace” we returned to our cars. Our final destination was the American Legion, a place where my Aunt Linda once told someone, “Do you know whose house you’re in?” (I’ll tell you that story some other time.)

You can’t tell in that picture, but the Legion had their flags at half mast in honor of Joe. Inside the dining hall, a month’s worth of food was laid out on long tables. After filling our plates, my little cousin Sammy came up behind me and delivered me a birthday cake. It was the nicest, sweetest gesture ever and meant the world to me. She also got me a card; inside the card her son, little Braddie, inserted a dime. I’m not sure what I am going to spend it on yet but I will come up with something.

The rest of the day was spent eating, napping, drinking, and telling stories. There were laughs and there were tears.

Thursday evening I drove Susan back out to O’Hare, where she caught a flight home. Yesterday, Friday, I got in my car and drove home. It was the longest, loneliest drive I have ever made to or from Chicago. I talked on the phone some and played on my phone some and listened to music some, but mostly I drove in silence with the windows down, thinking about the previous 48 hours.

Rest in peace, Uncle Joe. Give Moe, Larry and Curly and good eye-poking when you find them.