Content Warning: The following post deals with concepts like death, funeral traditions, and grief.

Whenever I get in the car to run an errand, I usually flip through my list of “favorite” contacts, select Yaiyai’s name, and get ready to ramble about whatever it is I’m doing. Usually it’s some version of “getting groceries,” “going to the gym,” and occasionally, “going to see a friend,” although since moving back to California, I’ve done a lot less of the third one.

Yaiyai passed away last week, and so now, when I get in the car, I have to check that impulse to call her. There are other people on my list of favorites, mostly my sister and a few friends who’ve moved away, but the first screens my calls, and the second group doesn’t always appreciate a random phone call in the middle of the day. So I call no one, and I drive in silence.

Today was my Yaiyai’s funeral, and I thought it might be nice to talk about it to at least clear the mystery for anyone who hasn’t been to a Greek Orthodox funeral. And oh boy, if you’ve never been to a Greek Orthodox funeral, then you’re missing out. Or you’re a much happier person than me. There are other events held at Greek Orthodox churches, like weddings and baptisms, but in the last decade of my life all I’ve been to are funerals, so that’s what I can talk about.

Many Greek Orthodox funerals, like my mom’s, begin with a pre-funeral event called the Trisagion, which is a small memorial service held for the deceased. This is an event that is more open to the public, so you can invite the deceased’s less-cool coworkers, friends of friends, that guy that lurks on your Facebook, etc. The priest says a short prayer and the tone is generally more casual than the actual funeral. After my mom’s Trisagion, I remember going with my remaining family to a local Mexican restaurant and drinking an entire pitcher of sangria. That’s not an official part of the Trisagion but I do encourage you to try something similar the next time you attend a memorial.

The next day, after the Trisagion, is the funeral. Yaiyai did not want a Trisagion, and I don’t remember attending one for my Papou or my uncle, so for most of these events, we just attended the funeral. On the day of the funeral, you awkwardly mill around the opening of the church because, generally, you’re not sure where to sit or what you’re supposed to be doing (it’s not like a wedding with a rehearsal, but maybe there should be). In my experience, you then walk into the church, make a donation, light a candle (candles are a big deal), and then pay your respects to the icons. Yaiyai used to try to make me kiss it when I attended church, and I fought her on this because I refused to kiss an object that had the combined saliva of everyone who ever walked through those doors. I’m not getting mono for this.

This was my first time serving as a pallbearer, and I think I did okay, despite the fact that the rest of my family is full of giant monsters who dwarf my comparatively tiny 5’6″. I am of average height, and yet those people make me look like Danny DeVito. Depending on the size of the casket, there could be anywhere from four to eight pallbearers, and I was one of six people chosen to wear the white carnation and gloves and escort the casket into the church.

While it wasn’t fun squeezing myself and the coffin through the front doors, I was grateful for the opportunity to escort Yaiyai to her service. Given the sadness she experienced in life during her service, I mostly felt relief that her suffering was over. She had no more pain and was finally free from the anxiety that had plagued her non-stop for the last fifteen years.

It struck me as I sat in that church wearing the same black dress I had worn to my mom’s funeral almost ten years earlier, how much my Yaiyai had to endure. The shock of my mom’s diagnosis and the resulting tragedy that was the year of her declining condition had broken her, and yet after my mom passed away, Yaiyai had no choice but to continue moving on. That’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone, let alone someone as generous and loving as my grandma. So even though it may seem strange, I’m grateful she’s no longer in any pain, whether it be physical or emotional. She deserves to rest.

Greek Orthodox funeral services are no joke. You’ll be standing up and sitting down while the priests go through a series of prayers, many of which are in a language you don’t speak. Despite what my resume says, my Greek never really got past the “beginner” phase, but the phrase “kyrie eleison” has forever embedded itself in my mind. I will say this for Greek Orthodox services – even if the prayers are simple, the overwhelming pageantry of the rhythmic chanting, the chime of the thurible as plumes of incense perfume the air, and the sight of the elaborate, glittering mosaics is enough to wrench the emotions out of anyone. It feels like a lot, and yet, at the same time, it’s almost appropriate in its excess. How else to celebrate the culmination of a long life than with smoking frankincense and melodic chants in a beautiful, otherworldly space? I’ve never felt underwhelmed by a Greek Orthodox service.

After the service, my fellow pallbearers and I squeezed our way through the church doors back to load the casket in the hearse. The casket was even heavier as I struggled to lift it into the back of the car, and I found myself wondering if I would ever be at that church for happy reasons again. Was that the last time I would ever smell that incense? I was baptized in the Greek Orthodox church, but I live as a secular humanist, and I don’t know if I’ll ever marry someone, let alone if this chosen religion would allow us to marry in the church.

The funeral procession led us to Colma, a Bay Area city comprised mostly of cemeteries, thus earning it the motto “It’s Great to Be Alive in Colma!” My yaiyai wasn’t buried so much as filed away in what she would cheekily refer to as her “condominium” (although I believe the correct term is “crypt“). She had purchased a space for herself and my papou in a mausoleum at the Greek Orthodox cemetery. I’m not sure why she liked the idea of a mausoleum so much, but I’m glad it made her happy.

We said a few words and shed a few tears before saying goodbye to Yaiyai. We held a “Celebration of Life” for her at a local Greek restaurant I hate. My family used to go there more frequently when I was a child, but then we realized we preferred our food to taste good and stopped going. This place also catered for my mom’s funeral as well as for all of the other Greek funerals I’ve attended. I look forward to never going there again. However, the rest of my family seemed to love the wet salad and casserole-like pizza, and the staff was very kind, so I do appreciate them making a difficult day easier for my family. The staff even set up a few tables for us, so I was easily able to display the chocolate cake I’d brought.

On the first anniversary of my mom passing away, I used the term “Celestial Birthday” to describe the date. It softened an otherwise tragic, uncomfortable reminder of losing her and transformed what was otherwise a sad day into a cause for celebration. It made it easier to think about her and to remember her, and so now we refer to all of those anniversaries as Celestial Birthdays. I may have learned the term from the CW show “Beauty and the Beast,” but even the thorniest of hedges have their flowers, and now my family has a new tradition where we get to eat cake on sad days.

When my mom passed away, Yaiyai insisted on a 40-day memorial service she referred to as a “Koliva.” The Greek blogger Eleni Saltas has a wonderful post explaining the purpose of this event and the food that is served at this memorial. Koliva is a bit of a unique food that’s like a sweet, boiled granola comprised of wheat berries, mixed nuts, dried fruit, and spices. It’s not a dish you can just “throw together,” and while it didn’t taste bad, I don’t remember it tasting good, either. I’ve heard different reasons for the importance of the “40th day,” as some believe the soul of the departed concludes their wandering of Earth on the 40th day, but I don’t know why my Yaiyai felt it was important, and I wish I had asked her. She hadn’t requested a 40th-day memorial for herself, but I wonder if she would have liked it.

I currently have no intention of spending two days making koliva because the thought of expending so much effort on food my family won’t eat gives me a migraine, but I don’t want the day to go by unmarked. I’ve counted out the days in my planner until Yaiyai’s 40th day and plan to commemorate her on that day by doing something she would have liked.

If our bodies are temples, then Yaiyai treated hers like an outlet mall dumpster for all the fast food and chain restaurant meals she put in it. She was a woman with a big heart and an even bigger appetite, but not for quality so much as convenience and quantity. The same goes for her choices of entertainment, which included the smutty works of Colleen Hoover, Vi Keeland, and Penelope Ward and the soap opera theatrics of TV’s “Heartland.” Oh, and she really liked the “After” series, which is so terrible that when she first revealed her love of it to me, I was offended. Seriously, Yaiyai, what the hell? Did you learn anything from the years I spent ranting to you about movies?

Anyway, Yaiyai, I love you. Despite your terrible taste in food and entertainment, or maybe because of it, I love you. I love you for all the times you took care of me and cared when no one else did. I love you for how generous you were to everyone. I love you for the gentleness and kindness you showed to all creatures.

It kills me that I can’t call you. I am going to miss you forever.

I hope you’re having a good time with my mom in the afterlife, and I hope she’s yelling at you for your bad taste in movies. If I drink $1 margaritas from Applebees and watch terrible movies on your 40th day, consider it in your honor, and let it be a testament to how much you have influenced me.

If you’re reading this and want to honor my Yaiyai, consider throwing a few bucks to “Guide Dogs for the Blind.” It was the organization my mom was volunteering for before she got sick, and from then on, the sight of guide dogs would make my Yaiyai think of her.