It was after 5:00 one evening and my mother was holed up in what we called the “big bathroom” (because in that house at that time, there were two bathrooms . . . the big one with the full-size tub and a double vanity and the little one with a half size tub and a single sink on stilts) when she called for me, asking me to “buzz” my dad and tell him he needed to come home and get ready to leave.  Evidently, they were going somewhere that required her to bathe and him to quit work earlier than usual.  I might have been eight or nine, meaning my little brother was five or six, but I was old enough to know how to operate the intercom that ran over the phone lines between our house that faced Church Street and the funeral home on Main.  The only thing separating the two was a parking lot, so it wasn’t like it would take him 30 minutes to get home once he left work.  He could have been clear across town and it wouldn’t have taken that long.  As instructed, I went to their bedroom, picked up the receiver and hit the intercom button.  There was a loud annoying buzz that played on repeat until my father finally answered.  I relayed the message which was followed by a sigh from his end of the line.  He told me to tell her he’d be home shortly.

Thirty minutes passed and I was summoned to the other side of the bathroom door again.  And again, she insisted that I buzz my father and remind him that he needed to come home and get ready.  So I did.  The sigh was louder and the reply quicker in coming, unlike my father, who continued to work.

The third time she wasn’t as nice in her request and he was even more frustrated in his reply.  But he did wrap up what he was doing (eventually) and walked across the parking lot, in through the front door . . . and straight to the bathroom.  I’m fairly certain he planned on informing my mother that her insistent summons had not been necessary.

Instead, he came out carrying a dead snake.

Granted, it was a baby snake, one that had magically appeared from underneath the toilet while my mother was bathing.  Evidently, the seal wasn’t sealed, the snake climbed up the outside of the pipe, and squeezed under the toilet onto the black and gray and white linoleum floor that I loved so dearly for reasons we won’t get into.  Not wanting to frighten my brother or me, she had devised a plan to get my dad into the house earlier than usual without having to tell us why.  Unfortunately, she didn’t take my father’s personality into account, or his inability to read minds.  And my father, having absolutely no idea there was any type of emergency, saw no reason to be in a hurry.

When she finally decided she was on her own, she had taken her house shoe—one of those floppy, scuff type things—and beaten the poor snake to death with it.  And when my father arrived I’m pretty sure he got a good talkin’ to over his lack of responsiveness.

But here’s the deal.  It really wasn’t his fault.  If he had known she needed help . . . any kind of help . . . he would have come home immediately.  But he didn’t and that was on her, not him.  I could understand why she didn’t want to scare us, but if she had ever indicated there was a real need for his return, that snake might have lived to see another day . . . and she might not have had to buy another pair of house shoes.

There are times we all need help, one of the greatest being when we’re trying to cope with loss of any kind.  And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with asking for that help.  We shouldn’t get upset with the people around us for not seeing something we may be desperately trying to hide, while we’re desperately trying to hide it.  And we shouldn’t get upset if we hint around (i.e., you need to come home and get ready to leave) and they don’t pick up on our cries for help because we successfully disguised them to look like anything but.

If you don’t have a family member or a friend who is understanding and available, or you just don’t feel comfortable sharing your struggles with them, there are groups you can meet with and counselors with whom you can speak.  The point is, you don’t have to fight the battle alone.  But you do have to let someone know there’s a battle being waged.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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