a glimpse inside apron strings

September 1990

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…”

Disrespectful — that’s how it must have looked to anyone catching a glimpse of the school bus rolling up and down the cemetery lanes that crisp September afternoon.

“If one of those bottles should happen to fall…”

Anxious laughter echoed from inside as we chanted the familiar words of a childhood camp song, seemingly unaware of our surroundings.

“Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall!”

But we meant no disrespect. It was just that we had become all too familiar with the pain, anxiety, astonishment and sorrow of burying a loved one who succumbed to cancer. We were all too familiar with the rituals…from diagnosis, to surgery, to treatments, to recurrence and, ultimately, to death. This was just our way of dealing with the pain.

I was cramped in my seat across from one cousin and behind another. My three sisters and six more cousins were scattered about, most of us under the age of 40. There were only two survivors from our parents’ generation on the bus and the reality that we were fast becoming the “oldest generation” weighed heavily on our minds.

We had all been through this before. First it was Mom’s brother — Uncle Bob. Next was Mom, then Uncle Nicky, and finally Aunt Mary Jane. All four siblings dying from the same disease: cancer. Three of them had breast cancer. Was it just a coincidence? Something in their neighborhood growing up? We didn’t know. I’m not sure any of us really cared. We were just tired of the emotional and physical pain that cancer inflicts on a family. Those of us inside the bus knew far too well what it was like to lose a parent to cancer.

My dad was a school bus driver; unable to get the day off he attended my aunt’s burial service in the bus. Dad was at the wheel and Aunt Fran was there too, having lost her husband, Nicky, two years earlier. This was the fourth time in eight years that we had gathered together to bury a family member, none of them older than 60.

Aunt Mary Jane was buried in St. Raymond’s Cemetery in the Bronx with the rest of her family. After the services we all climbed aboard to visit the graves of the rest of our departed relatives. The bus rambled up and down the rows of tombstones while we squinted to find the familiar names of the loved ones who had gone before us. Dad called out each name as we arrived at their resting places —“Everyone off for Nicky…next stop: Bobby”— as we clambered in and out of the bus at every stop.

As we realized that it looked more like a class trip than a solemn visit to hallowed grounds, the absurdity of the situation seemed to overtake us. In the midst of our collective grief, someone began singing “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” and one by one the rest of us chimed in. When all else fails, and sadness and grief threaten to swallow you whole, what else can you do? Sing!

While counting down the fallen bottles, we went through the all-too-familiar burial ritual once more, this time masking our sorrow with song. It was a much-needed release, and a fitting end to nearly a decade of pain and sorrow. But like the bottles on the wall, it wouldn’t be long before another one would fall.

 

© 2007 Diane Tropea Greene.