Purgatorio

I am sitting alone in a Jiffy Lube and Christmas music is piping in the waiting room. I never believed in Hell until this evening. So, here I am waiting for an oil change without ear phones for my iTouch. I even made a feeble attempt to convince the cashier to change the music on the radio:

JM: Would you mind switching to another station?

Lucifer (the Jiffy Lube cashier): Yes, I would.

JM: But, there's no one else here and it's so loud.

Lucifer: Why? You don't like Christmas music?

JM: Didn't we just celebrate Halloween last week?

Lucifer: Oh, come on. It will make you smile. You look like you need to smile more.

JM: I'll pay you $10 to unplug the radio.

Lucifer: Oh wait, here's a good one coming on. You like this song, don't you?

JM: Nope, no I don't. Not a fan of Bing Crosby.

. . .

The reason I am here for the oil change is because I have to drive 3 1/2 hours to Virginia Beach to 1) deliver Cindy's car to her mother and 2) to attend some 40-day church service for Cindy. I have been on edge about this event since the moment I heard about it. Unlike the funeral service, for which I planned every minuscule detail (along with Karin, Liz, Katie, and Mrs. Milko), I have had no part in the planning of this 40-day thing. I don't even know the purpose of it.

Throughout the time Cindy was in the hospital, I remained respectful of her faith even though I am not a religious person. I brought priests to her room to pray for her. I called on Catholic friends to have their churches say prayers for her. I sat for 2 hours talking to a missionary about what I needed to do to save Cindy (apparently all I needed to do was to save myself first and then it's super easy). And poor Tanya may remember the morning I woke up in a frenzy determined to locate the water from Lourdes I had buried in my house somewhere. That morning I drove frantically to the house and ripped it apart to find the tiniest vial of Lourdes water. I had the hospital priest sprinkle that water on Cindy at least 3 different times while she was in the ICU. I used to be a skeptic. But, during those horrendous two weeks, I had more faith in water than in science.

I have no idea what to expect tomorrow. I feel like the 5-year kid who doesn't want to detach from their parent's leg on their first day of school. It is going to take physical force to propel me forward. How many times do I have to say goodbye? Everyone tells me it's going to get easier, but I am sick of hearing it. It's not even Thanksgiving and I have to listen to those children singing the chorus to "Feliz Navidad?"