When my mother was dying, the first councilor in the branch presidency came to the hospital. She was not dead yet, but as we live in a Southern Utah snowbird community, he was aware she would not be buried here.
And so he sat me down to comfort me with his patriarchal wisdom:
“You know, if you have a truck or station wagon you can save yourself a lot of money and just drive her body up to Ogden.”
She was NOT EVEN DEAD YET.
Good Mormon Girl 101 answer: “Well, thank you for that advice (knowing full well my dad has a truck, as does this fucktard). I will take that into consideration.”
What Trapped By the Mormons Natalie should have answered: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Are you the DEVIL? Have you no common sense? Would you like us to prop her up in the seat so we can drive in the HOV lane without getting a ticket? Were you raised by WOLVES?”
Ahem. Yeah.
Just one more thing. If one more person said “She looks so peaceful” as they passed her casket during visitation I was going to pop.
“Yeah, doesn’t she? Guess why? She’s DEAD. D-E-A-D. They posed her face that way. I hear they glue the eyes down.”
Wasn’t that fun? Tomorrow Birdman gets to go meet with the Fucktard, who recommended we drive Mom up to Ogden in a personal vehicle, because they are evicting everybody from our park who is not 55. Besides being the local church leader, he is also the president of our particular homeowners association. For some reason, Birdman thinks it’s wise I don’t attend. I’m not sure why. He probably wouldn’t even understand the word Fucktard….
Writer in a Bubble 
People say the stupidest things sometimes, but suggesting you transport your mother’s body in a truck or station wagon “to save yourself a lot of money” was just disrespectful – of her, of you, of your whole family. Especially when she wasn’t even dead yet. Makes you wonder what people are thinking sometimes, or if they’re even thinking at all, doesn’t it?
The thing that I hated after my dad died was how people kept talking about us having “lost” him. Finally, I just started answering, “Oh, he’s not lost. We know right where he is.” A couple of times I might have even started describing exactly where in the cemetery his grave was. With my mom, it was the former neighbor who said something to the effect that it must be comforting, “knowing that she’s an angel now.” Kept my mouth shut that time, but what I wanted to answer was, “Not really, since I don’t fucking believe in angels. What’s comforting is that she is no longer bound to a mind that quit working [she had dementia] long before her body gave out.”
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