When the day came that my mother died, she left behind seven dogs, a cat, and one very lost husband. He was so distraught after her death that he signed his decision-making rights over her remains to the county. So the funeral home called the next of kin, my brother, who denied claiming her. Then they called me.
When my phone rang, I answered it. The caller ID said Oroville Funeral Home. I knew it had to be about my mom. She had already spent almost a week in the morgue.
Later, her husband phoned. He made a desperate plea for me to understand him. He said the funeral home fooled him, and he didn't know what he signed when he signed his rights away to make decisions over her remains. Yet, when I asked him to return to the funeral home a day later with his military ID, proving my mother's right to be buried at the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery, he was a different person, according to the funeral director, whose name also happens to be Jennifer, a"Mr. Cool."
Jennifer let me in on the backstory. Paul, my mom's third husband, made several appointments with her to arrange plans for my mother's funeral while she was still in hospice care. Jennifer said that he failed to appear at every appointment he made. Then, after my mother died and her body was in the morgue, she said that they began to catch Paul in several lies.
"We're not actually married," he said to Jennifer at one point. Then he changed his story and said they'd only been married about six months. This led to an investigation. The funeral director no longer believed my mom was married to Paul. Her driver's license and social security were still in her former married name by her second husband, so this offered no restitution.
Jennifer asked me, "Had they ever been married? Did his name belong on the death certificate?" I did some online research. When I uncovered their marriage in Carson, Nevada, on Ancestry.com, it said they'd been married for 28 years.
"Twenty-eight years!" exclaimed Jennifer, "Why did he lie about their marriage? That's a long time to be married!"
When the funeral home called me that first time, they were fed up with Paul and encouraged him to sign his rights away. By that point, they told me they were primarily concerned with having my mother's remains dealt with the dignity and respect she deserved--and paid for by the next of kin.
Her ashes reside in my home now, if only temporarily. I made a little memorial for her on my patio at her request--from the beyond. My mom knew while she was alive that I'm a psychic medium. And when she crossed over, she didn't hesitate to reach out.
"Jenny, get a lantern memorial for me and hang it on your patio," My mom came through so clearly.
I gave my mom a second opportunity to tell me where she would like her remains laid to rest.
"How about an ocean burial like my mother-in-law?" I asked her.
"No, I don't think I'd like that," she replied.
After a while, I received a subtle impression from my aunt, my mom's sister, to take some of my mom's ashes and place them in the lantern memorial on my patio.
Just before my mom's scheduled cremation, I called the funeral home and asked if it was possible to hold some of her ashes aside for me. They said they could take a teaspoon and put it in a separate baggie. So, I requested three separate baggies of ashes—one for the lantern.
Once her teaspoon of ashes was placed in the lantern, I prayed over them. The energy shifted as I stood on the patio. I could feel a divine presence and knew my mom had officially been laid to rest.
Of the two remaining teaspoon baggies of ashes, I plan to sprinkle one near the graves of her mother and aunt, where I sense is her ordained burial place. Thinking of her there gives me a sense of serenity, comfort, and peace.
I wasn't sure what to do with the third baggie. I thought about spreading her ashes over the Lassen National Forest in an area designated for this, but then I heard my mom say, "Jenny, take my ashes to Mount Shasta."
Mount Shasta holds a special spiritual significance for me. I got the impression that this is my mom's acknowledgment of that and my special ability to hear, taste, touch, smell, see, and sense spiritual energy—something she didn't acknowledge much while she was still alive.
The bulk of her ashes, the ones in the rectangle urn handed over to me by the funeral home, are scheduled to go to the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery, where she originally intended to be buried. Although the burial is free under Paul's VA benefits, at first, this didn't feel right for her final resting place. It gave me a lonely and isolated feeling.
Looking back, the week before my mother's death, she called me on the phone. "Jenny, I don't know who this man is! I'm not married to him! I divorced him a long time ago!"
I knew then she was most likely experiencing terminal agitation--a state hospice patients often experience days before taking their last breath. When I worked with a hospice nurse about it as my husband was dying, she said, "Terminal agitation can make a quiet church lady who never cussed a day in her life turn into a foul-mouthed sailor."
Though I knew my mom probably wouldn't have otherwise acted out this way toward her husband, I was proud of her for fighting back for a change—even if it was in some small measure.
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