Death and the Diaper Incident

Memorials and adult diapers.

(Photo courtesy the author)

When my grandmother died, we didn’t have a funeral. She wasn’t religious, and anyway, by then most of her friends were already gone.

Instead, we gathered for a memorial at a non-denominational church across the road from my parents’ house. It was a house they’d chosen four years earlier for its in-law apartment — and in spite of its ’70s-era indoor pool.

My grandfather, ten years into his Alzheimer’s, was not upset at the service. He asked several times for his “wifflet,” a nickname he’d given his wife in her last year, but when we told him she’d died, he just said, “Oh!”

My mom’s older brother, a talented painter and lifelong oddball, disappeared halfway through the service, which was a freeform smorgasbord of memories and prayers. When he returned, he was naked save for an adult diaper he’d apparently nabbed from my grandfather’s supply.

My uncle entered the memorial circle with a surprisingly graceful pirouette. Then, hairy potbelly hanging out and a beatific…