The Moth Radio Hour: Speaking of Death
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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows from New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more. The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.

To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon.

From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janess. In this show, stories of death, but the kind of stories that will lift you up and may start a conversation around the inevitable. In many cultures, death is not spoken of, which makes it scarier. So in this episode, we're talking about it with three stories that may make life's endings a little easier. ♪

In the last days of my mother's life, when we finally knew she was dying, there was a red-haired Irish nurse who came into our hospital room to start the morphine drip. My mother was Irish, so this coincidence was comforting. And I remember the nurse saying in a smooth, almost angelic voice, we cannot go back, we can only move forward. They were words to live and die by.

So here we go, we start with Bruce McCullough. He told this at a Moth main stage in Los Angeles where we partnered with the Broad Stage. Here's Bruce live at the Moth. Hello. For my wife and my kids and I, we've always really loved Halloween. And I think it's because we can put so much energy into our costumes. You know, I usually dress in tandem with something, with my son Roscoe. I was Robin to his Batman costume.

We went out as Hall and Oates. He was the handsome one, obviously. My wife went out as a Picasso painting, and then the year 1960. Go figure, she's creative that way, and it's one of her outlets. She doesn't have them off. And my daughter, Heidi, has gone out as a series of the Disney princesses. But lately, she's grown tired of the Disney brand, which I really appreciate. So we really love Halloween around our house, except for last year.

We have a family pet, Lulu, a white standard poodle. But if you're trying to imagine her, we don't cut her all poodly, we just let her go. And she's a great dog. You just go, "Lulu," and she'll run around. You can hear her little collar jingle. Well, in August, Lulu got sick. She had this little nosebleed that started kind of, you know, sporadically, but started to gain momentum. And so much so that we decided to take her to the vet.

He couldn't find anything, still $70. And he looked at us and he said, oh, it's probably just nothing. But in a way that in my head I heard, it's probably just everything. And I wasn't paranoid, I was true. I was right. Because that nosebleed would not stop.

It just kept going and going. We'd lie her on our bed on a towel and she'd always lie on the other part of our bed. And we'd walk her to the park and her nose would bleed and using the drips we could find our way back home like Hansel and Gretel. And then one day she got up to go to the park, her little collar jingled and she fell down. She couldn't walk. Now anyone here who's ever had to wrap a pet in a towel or a blanket

and rush it to Animal Emergency, I will spare you the gory details. Needless to say that a couple pieces of bad news and an operation that didn't go as planned, our little girl was just hanging in. It was the next day, we were picking up our kids from karate class. We got the call from the animal hospital saying, "Your girl's in trouble. If you want to see her again, you better get here soon."

So we had to figure out how to get our kids from karate class and get all the way across town going full blast without letting them know how freaked out we were. We said, "Oh, those people at the animal hospital, they just need some money by the time the bank closes." Which was kind of true. And when we got there, I didn't know what I was doing. I just said, "Okay, she's probably asleep. We're gonna go in. You kids, you just stay here."

So we went inside and they took us into a room I'd never been in before and there was our girl lying on a metal table. She had a tube from her paw and one in her mouth and we said, "Hello, Lulu." And she heard our voices and her tail kind of flinched. It didn't wag, it just flinched. She had the impulse but not the strength. And our voices comforted her because she was blind now

And we looked at our dog and my wife and I, and we knew it was all over but the ending. And that's why they called us to come and put her down. So we ordered the stuff, $70. And we stroked her ear, we whispered to her, we thanked her for all the love and all the cuddling, for starting our family. We always say she started our family because we got her a week before Heidi. And then we held her until we didn't have to anymore.

hardly a date night for me and my wife, but it was a shared activity, I guess you could say. Putting down my dog was the hardest thing I have ever done. My dad dying was a nuisance compared to this. We went back to the car and got to the kids and just as we got there my wife said, "You tell them." I said, "Okay. Guys, Lulu's gone to heaven." My son said, "Bullsh*t. He knows I don't believe in heaven and I'm a terrible actor at the best of times."

And we just stood there, all of us, crying and heaving and snot coming out our nose. No one knew how to lead this family. We didn't know what to do. So we just went to McDonald's. I guess that's why they're there. We drove straight through a drive-thru. Happy meals that really weren't. My wife, wearing sunglasses with tears going down her cheeks, ate a Big Mac and babbled, "I guess the calories don't count if your dog just died, right?"

You know, it's weird when you lose a parent, you're asked to, or you're told you can grieve for a year. But if you lose a pet, you're lucky if you get the day off work. And it was particularly hard, especially for my young daughter Heidi. She was doing badly in school for the first time. She got really dark and her teacher found her a book to help her deal with the grief. Coincidentally and unbelievably called "Saying Goodbye to Lulu."

What are the odds? I guess there's a lot of them out there. There was a story about a young girl who had a little puppy that died and she ended up burying it in the backyard, wrapped in her sweater for some reason. And my wife and I, we read it. It was a cruel, dark read, but we got through it. And it brought up the obvious for Heidi that she never got a chance to say goodbye to Lulu. My fault. Of course, I kept her in the car.

And then the next few weeks, as Halloween grew near, nobody was talking about their costumes. Clearly, Halloween was off. And I came home though, one day about a week before Halloween, and it's as if the mood in the house had shifted, as if someone had opened up a window and let in some happiness. And they announced that suddenly Halloween was back on. And they all knew what they were going to wear.

My wife was going to go out as Frida Kahlo. My son was going to go out as either a ninja or an owl. He hadn't decided yet. My daughter was going to go out as a zombie that ate Disney princesses, which I thought was another strong move. And they all knew what I should go out as. You're going to go out as Lulu, as my dead dog. And why? So people get a chance to say goodbye to Lulu. And I thought, no, I'm not doing it.

Make my wife do it, she's the actress. You know, as a parent, you get used to being used as a prop. My Dora, Doris t-shirt became a Dora t-shirt a long time ago. But, dad is dead dog. And I said, okay, I'll do it. Because when you're a parent, you know you just have to do it and hope for the best. Oh, and the other development is we were suddenly having a Halloween party. So everyone we knew could come and say goodbye to Lulu.

The day of the party I got ready for the worst gig of my adult life. I put on my costume and it was exactly what you'd think it was. An off-white tracksuit with some cotton on it. A white toque, as we call them in Canada, with some felt ears attached. My daughter did my makeup and the last grim detail was I wore the actual collar that Lulu wore in life with her little dog tags that you could jingle.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I thought, "Well, at least I don't have any lines." As the party started, the doorbell rang and the first two people arrived. My daughter Heidi wobbled into the kitchen, moved around and puked. She puked a projectile vomit all over the island and on the floor. What goes around comes around isn't just about karma, folks. It's also about the stomach flu.

Some kids in class had had it the previous week and I thought we'd dodged a bullet, but apparently not, because there was a pile of puke on the floor. I jumped into action and I told my wife to clean it up. In a respectful, uplifting way, though. And I took Heidi into the TV room, where we conveniently still had the dog gate, like little bars, so people could visit us in happy jail. And we wouldn't get them sick and we could observe the party. And we sat in there and we...

drank ginger ale and cuddled. And I thought, "This is all I ever really wanted a family for, was to cuddle and watch Little Bear." My daughter was so happy, she started talking and telling me about her life. And she started telling me what she wanted to be when she grew up. And I wanted to butt in, but I couldn't because I was in character. And while the party raged outside, Frida was moving around easily.

My son was entertaining people with his ninja moves, even though he was dressed as an owl. We sat and sighed and cuddled. Then everybody came and said goodbye to me, well, Lulu and me, and then they left. And then it was just down to the four of us, my son, my wife, my daughter, and I, and she looked at me and she said, "Well, we're all here now." She looked at me and rubbed my ears, jiggled my collar, and said, "Goodbye, Lulu."

My heart both broke and leapt at the same time, because she'd finally gotten to say it. That night, middle of the night, I ran to the mirror and I caught a glimpse of myself, some dog makeup still on, and I know I'd gone dressed as my dead dog, but I came back as a guy who had done his best, and this time it worked out.

That was Bruce McCullough. Bruce is a comedian, writer, and director best known as a member of the sketch troupe The Kids in the Hall. He's directed shows like SNL, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Schitt's Creek, and Trailer Park Boys. These days, Bruce is directing and producing the third season of the CBC sketch series Tall Boys. To see some photos of Bruce, his children, and their dog Lulu, head to our website, themoth.org.

Remember, moth stories are told by everyday folks around the world. And people just like you can call us to leave a short version of the story they want to develop. Here's a pitch we loved from Lester Pilkington, a funeral director in Fort Myers, Florida.

I was on a funeral, I'm in the funeral home, and the grandchildren, teenagers, asked if they could put something in the casket with Grandpa. They said, certainly. They opened up the bottom portion of the casket, and they placed it in a paper bag, closed the casket, and away we went. We got to church. We get to the top of the steps.

And from inside the casket, we heard, love me tender, love me true. Well, with this, I am looking for a place to hide because my sense of humor is such that I'm going to pee on my pants. Priest comes out, raises his hand to bless the casket. I'm inside, love me tender. And I am hiding behind one of the pillars of the church. I was cracking up. Anyhow, that's my story.

If you have a story you'd love to share, consider calling us. Record your pitch right on our site, themoth.org, or call 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. The best pitches are developed for moth shows all around the world, and you might even hear yourself on the radio one day. ♪

After our break, a woman who is always hidden from death sits face to face with the dying. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.

This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness. Not to be a downer, but one thing that unites us all is that our time in life is finite. We all die. No matter your religion, creed, choices in life, we all have a final exit at some point.

Laurie Severson, our next storyteller, applied to a moth workshop more than five years ago. But instead of taking the workshop, I asked if she'd like to consider a story for the moth main stage. She's a death walker. Yes, a death walker. It's the old medieval term for what we now know as a death doula. And this is her Genesis story.

Live from East Lansing, Michigan, where we partnered with the Wharton Center for Performing Arts, here's Lori Severson. I was 47 years old, and I knew in my heart that it was now or never. So I went over to the kitchen junk drawer and pulled the yellow pages out. I flipped the book to the list of hospice organizations, and I started right at the top making phone calls. Aurora Hospice, Brookdale, Compassionate Care,

My stomach was in a ball of knots. And what I really wanted was for no one to answer the phone. And on those first three calls, no one did. But I pushed myself to make that next phone call. And that phone call was to Heartland Hospice. After the first ring, a woman answered the phone. And she said, "Heartland Hospice, this is Peggy. How can I help you?" I said, "Hi, Peggy.

"My name is Lori. I'm really nervous. I don't know if I really want to do this, but I think I'd like to volunteer in hospice." Well, a month after that phone call, I had completed my training and I was volunteering as a hospice companion. I pushed myself to make those phone calls because at 16 years old, I couldn't get over the death of my grandmother.

And I carried that guilt around with me for such a long time. So here I was, 30 years later, now volunteering as a hospice companion. And I wasn't sure what to do. My family consisted of me, my brother, my mom, my dad, and Mamie, my grandmother. Mamie moved in with my parents before I was born, so I didn't know any other kind of family.

She was my rock and my BFF. Then in 1975, when I was 15, Mamie was diagnosed with cancer. We shared a bedroom together and one night I woke to Mamie moaning and groaning in pain. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I remember like it was yesterday. I laid in bed and I pulled the blankets over my head. I was as stiff as a board and I tried not to breathe.

so Mamie wouldn't know that I was awake. She stumbled out of bed to wake my parents. While my dad got up, he was in the bathroom getting dressed. Mom and Mamie sat in the living room. And I thought, this is my best friend. What I really wanted to do was go in there and give her a big hug and tell her that I loved her. But I didn't. You know what I did? I snuck into the kitchen where I hid underneath the table like a three-year-old playing hide-and-seek. But

I wasn't three. I was 16 years old, and I was old enough to know better. Well, before anybody even knew that I was there, I slithered right back into bed. Mamie died the next day. I wasn't there. I never told her that I loved her, and I never gave her that hug. So here I was 30 years later volunteering as a hospice companion.

As a companion, you spend time with patients. You listen, maybe you read to them, play cards. After six months with Heartland, there was still that anchor around my heart because I wasn't there for Mamie when she died. And I wondered if there was something else that I could do to not only help other people, but to heal me. So that's when I became patient.

a death walker. As a companion, you help hospice patients on their death journey all the time. But as a death walker, you're even closer to death. You're sitting with patients that are actively dying. They may have only days or hours left. At that point, some people see things. Other people, they can't speak. For others, their breathing has fits and starts.

And for some others, their heart gets so weak that it can't pump enough blood to keep the color in their face. Believe me, I was way outside of my comfort zone. Alfred was the first person that Peggy assigned to me as a death walker. He was a frail man in his 80s. He was actively dying, and he had no one else. He was the first patient that I sat with by myself.

without any backup from Heartland Hospice in the room with me. He was living in a nursing home, and when I got there, I walked down the hallway toward his room, and I heard whining. I walked a little further. That whining and the distress sounds, they were coming from Alfred's room. I got to his door. It was mostly closed, but it was open just a crack.

And then I froze at Alfred's door the same way I froze in bed with Mamie. And I didn't go in. I was scared to death. I just stood there wondering what to do. And then I realized that the reason Peggy asked me to be with Alfred was because he had no one else. So I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I pushed the door open and I walked in.

There was a metal chair in the corner of the room, so I dragged it across the linoleum floor closer to Alfred's bed. I bent over and I rubbed his arm and I said, "Hi, Alfred. My name is Lori, and I'm going to sit with you for a while tonight. Oh, and Alfred, there's one thing I need to tell you. I'm really new at this whole hospice thing, and I really don't know what to do, but don't worry, everything's going to be okay."

Well, guess what? I lied to Alfred because in my head I kept thinking, "Holy sh*t, what am I doing here? This is crazy!" But you know what? Alfred made it through the night and so did I. Peggy called me later the next day to tell me that Alfred had passed away. You know, I was sad but then I was relieved. Not relieved for me, but relieved for Alfred.

Well, after Alfred, Peggy called me two or three times a week looking for assistance for people to sit with. I couldn't say no, but I was still really nervous. But I felt that I did help Alfred in some small way, so maybe there were others that I could help. Jeff was 53, and he was dying of pancreatic cancer. I had been volunteering with Heartland for 18 months at the time that I met Jeff,

And still, no one had died on my watch. I know it sounds crazy, but in this mixed-up head of mine, I really wanted to be there when someone died. Because, you know, in my mind, that was a way I could make it up to Mamie. I wasn't there for her, but maybe I could be there for someone else. Well, right from the start, I knew that Jeff would be different. We had an immediate connection. And the other thing different about Jeff was...

He wasn't ready to die. He was afraid. He was a journalist and he was working on a big story. He was really hoping that he could finish that story before his decline. So I made a deal with him. "Jeff, if you're able to write the story, I'll do the research for you." That was our pact. You know, that day, oh my gosh, we talked for hours. We talked about the story, family and friends, his illness, death.

And then we talked about serendipity. And he asked me if I knew what that meant. I said, oh, sure. I saw that movie with John Cusick. You know, you wish for something and poof, it automatically appears. Well, he kind of chuckled. He didn't laugh at me, but he chuckled. And he said, for him, serendipity was coming across something meaningful and important when you least expected it. And he said, that was me.

and thanked me for everything that I had done for him. But you know, the reality was Jeff did more for me than I could ever have done for him. Because it was Jeff that made me realize, maybe I didn't need to be there at the exact time someone died. Maybe my purpose was just to be there, to connect with people, and to help them feel that their life was important, even in those last days.

So Jeff and I decided that we'd get together four days later to work on that story. But three days later, Peggy called. Jeff had passed away. I was devastated because Jeff still had so much more to his story. Lillian was 92 years old, and she had a full head of perfectly coiffed hair, even laying in her deathbed. Her daughter lived out of state, and she was doing everything she possibly could to get to Lillian.

But in the meantime, I would be one of her death walkers. At the time that I met Lillian, I had been volunteering for three years. And every time I met a patient, I was anxious and nervous. But with Lillian, it was different. I walked into her room, and the shades were pulled up to let in the bright sunshine. Her voice was quiet and raspy, but still so full of life.

At the end of the first day that I was with Lillian, she looked at me and said, "Can you please leave the window open before you leave? That way when I die, I'll be able to get to the other side." There was no sadness in her voice. It was just contentment. And boy, I made sure that I left the window open before I left. I came back the next day and Lillian had declined. The blackout shades were pulled down on the window.

The wool blanket that was at the foot of her bed was pulled up and tucked tight around her. The conversation ceased, and her breathing was very heavy. I sat on the tattered orange chair next to her bed, and I put my hand underneath that wool blanket, and I held her hand. And I said, Lillian, everything's going to be okay. Your daughter's almost here. Then I leaned in a little closer, and I whispered to her, Lillian...

The window was open. "When you get to the other side, can you please tell my grandmother Mamie that I love her? She's going to be looking for you." A couple of minutes later, there was one last gasp of breath, and Lillian was gone. I sat there a few minutes longer, quietly, just holding her hand, because I wanted to make sure that Lillian had enough time to get to the window. A couple of weeks later, I got a note in the mail from Lillian's daughter.

thanking me for being with Lillian when she couldn't be there. But, you know, that note was so much more than a thank you. What it really said was, while I couldn't be there for Mamie, I was there for Lillian and everybody else. I hope Mamie would be proud. Thank you. Lori Severson has been a death walker for over 14 years now. I talked with her a bit about her work and this culture of silence around death.

In your story, you hid from death, but many people hide from death. Why do you think we look away from death in this culture? I don't think we're as open with it as other cultures are.

I remember when I was younger, my parents wouldn't let me go to a funeral. And it was something that we didn't talk about. And when someone would get sick and if they were terminal or they were ready to move on, they would go to a hospital. They certainly wouldn't be there with their family members in the home or anything like that.

I look at my granddaughters and the oldest is 10 years old. She's already been to her great-grandparents' funeral, three of them, a friend's funeral. She knows what it means to die.

when my mother passed away, so she had to be maybe seven or eight at the time. And she asked me if I would go up to the coffin with her so she could see my mom. And she went up there and she touched my mom's hand and she just wanted to know what it was like. So yes, I think my grandchildren in particular will look at death very differently. They won't have the same regret that I did for 30 some years.

I remember you telling me some of the things you've seen at the very end that were similar for people who were actively dying, no matter their age or their religion. Yeah, it was my experience in the hospice that really confirmed to me that there is something more.

I don't exactly know how many people I've sat with. It's been 14 years, I think 120 people. I have had men and women. I've had many different religions. But there's a common theme to what they see and what they feel.

And one of them is having your bags packed. Where's my luggage? And we were told in training for hospice, if somebody asks like, where's the luggage or I'm ready to go on my trip, just go along with it. Because in their mind, that's the journey that they're going to be taking, traveling to the other side. And for my mom, it wasn't luggage, but she had her purse hanging on the doorknob.

And she said, well, my purse over there. I said, well, would you like it? Do you want me to get it for you? No, no, that's okay. I just want to know where it is because I'm going to be going out soon. But as I said, I remember a woman who was brought up in the Hindu tradition, the Jewish tradition. And the stories are very, very similar, which gave me peace when it was my mom's time.

To see photos of Lori Severson, go to themoth.org. And a note that hospice organizations are always looking for volunteer companions. So you may just want to open the phone book yourself, like Lori did, and make a call. After the break, a mother in New Hampshire takes her young sons to a family funeral and reunion in the Bronx when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the public radio exchange, PRX.org. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness. In tarot, the death card is actually the sign of a rebirth. It's a transformation, the end of something and the beginning of something new. After wildfire comes new growth.

After someone dies, we sit shiva, have sky burials, viking burials, jazz funerals. There's Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. In almost all cases and communities, death involves ritual and a community gathering. Many times funerals are celebrations of life and lineage.

Every year, we have a moth main stage in Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn. I live very close to it, actually. It's almost 500 acres of gorgeous statues, catacombs, graves, and life.

Flowers, trees, green, green grass. In fact, they call Greenwood a park that the dead have made for the living. And it was in Greenwood Cemetery where we partnered with the Greenwood Historic Fund on stage as the sunset and the fireflies danced that Geri-Ann Bogus told our final story in this hour, all about reconnecting to her Jamaican roots. Here's Geri-Ann Bogus live at the Moth.

When I left my island 30 odd years ago, I carried with me the most important things I had, the stories of my great aunts. They gave me strength and courage even today as I tell this story. I remember the day I got the call from my cousin that my great aunt, Mumsy, had died. I wasn't surprised by the call at all because two days ago, before the call,

a whole flock of crows had landed on our front lawn. Those harbingers of death told me something was happening, and it was the passing of my great aunt. I believed in all those signs coming from an island where the veil between the living world and the dead world was so very thin. And if you grew up with my grandfather, you'd believe in it too.

for he scared us half to death with stories of the rolling calf, those mythical beasts that breathed fire and roamed the countrysides, especially cemeteries like this, gathering souls for the underworld. That was one of the things I really wanted my own kids to have, this deep respect for the mythical, mysterious world. I took them to the cemetery one night to see New Hampshire's famed ghost,

the Blue Lady. And the Blue Lady only comes out when the moon is full. And I did just what my grandfather did. I scared them half to death. There was another reason that I really was happy to get the call, because it meant that I could come to New York to see my family that I hadn't seen in years. But most of all, it was an opportunity for me to engage my sons in the Jamaican culture.

Because if you know anything about the Jamaican culture, everything, I mean everything, happens at a funeral. Growing up in New Hampshire, I had always thought my sons, that they were the best of both worlds, black and white. They were my little cups of chocolate milk. Until that six-year-old neighbor next door burst that little bubble that we lived in.

See, I remember that day when my son came in. I'll remember it clearly for the rest of my life. Mommy, mommy, am I an N-word? Am I dirty? My whole world crashed that day because I had lived in this bubble of sweetness, this saccharine space. And now I felt anger, resentment, and most of all, fear. I had taught my kids fear.

that being the best of both worlds, they belonged. After all, they were Americans. And unlike me, who was from somewhere else, I always thought that they would never feel otherness, that separation from being here. So that excuse to go to New York was welcomed. My kids were in the back of the car, really complaining, because they were dressed in their brand-new funeral suits, itchy striped vests,

shoes, shiny shoes. And we got to the Bronx just in time to sit in the back of the church in the pews. I had forgotten what a funeral was like, how wedding-like a funeral was. The flamboyant church hats, the Sunday go-to church wingtip shoes, the fedora hats rimmed with red ribbon said to chase ghosts away, the color red.

And I was home, just looking around. When the song from the organ blasted in the air, signaling the start of the mass, my kids jumped. And I looked around at them, and there they were, looking at everything, taking everything in. They saw the altar boys in their red and white outfits walking down the aisle, almost enveloped in the smoke from the incense burner.

They saw the priest come down in his vestment, almost floating away as he sprinkled the golden embroidered casket with the holy water. That was making a real clunky, clunky, clunky sound as it was carried down the aisle by the pallbearers in their stiff black suits.

I felt great expectation for this church service because my Aunt Mumzi, she had ordered an elaborate Catholic Mass and we had to dress our best for this. So can you imagine my surprise when the parish priest started speaking and this real quiet, almost inaudible voice crept into the congregation.

Almost instantly, you could hear the mumbling, the kissing of teeth, rising up in the audience. Man, Imborini! Jesus! Oh, Moose, you're going to get vexed. What's going on? Somebody tell him to put some life into it, no? And killing us to death! Laughter bursted from my lips spontaneously. Not just from the sheer irony of what was being said,

but from the joy of hearing my Jamaican patois, that sing-song cadence that I had missed from living in New Hampshire. My sons turned to me and they said, "Mom, didn't you tell us to be quiet? Why are you laughing? I thought you were supposed to be respectful." Almost instantly when lunch service started, my aunt Ruby, the last of the line, Aunt Mumsy's sister,

She got up and staggered to the front of the church. Her daughter Denise followed closely behind. The mumbling in the church rose to almost a crescendo. "Wait, wait, what's the matter? Jesus, she dead? Our mom's come far." The chaos started. Denise was now crouched under the little table in the vestibule, screaming, "Mama dead, mama dead."

as if scrunching onto the table would protect her from the grim reaper himself. My cousin Claudette, she had run to the front of the church. She sees a nurse to assess the situation. My other cousin Carl, he was on the phone, and you could hear the aggression in his voice. I know you all are going to take your time coming here. You know, this is the Bronx. But if anything happened to my auntie today, you're all dead. And worse than that,

my born-again evangelical cousin. She was circling Aunt Mumsi's prone body, screaming, "The blood, the blood, the blood! Satan, come out of here! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! I cast him out in the name of Jesus!" I had wanted to get up myself and join in the fray, thinking that I would go and comfort my cousin who was still under the table.

or shake some sense into my screeching cousin. But my kids were grabbing onto my sleeves, and they said, Mommy, Mommy, what's going on? Is there a rolling calf here? Did that come for Aunt Ruby? Was she bad? Be careful what you teach your kids. It might just come back to haunt you.

So the medic finally came and they told us that Aunt Ruby was okay. She hadn't regained consciousness yet, but her heart was beating fine and she had a steady breath. And you could hear the whole church exhale in relief. Now, in the Jamaican tradition, after the funeral, after the burial, there's usually a celebration. It's called the Nine Nights Celebration.

You see, we believe that after nine nights, after all the tears, they had to be laughter or else the spirit of the dearly departed would stay around to comfort you or to cause havoc. So there had to be a celebration. So the celebration was at Mumsy's house. You could hear the calypso music blaring across the neighborhood even miles before you got there.

And as my boys and I walked to the backyard with kids running everywhere, you could smell and almost taste the aromas of the Jamaican food. There was a pot of mannish water, a goat soup that is said to turn boys into men boiling on the stove. And it mixed the aroma of the jerk chicken, the curry goat, the bami, the rice and peas. Mmm.

I was immediately transformed to my childhood, those flavors. And just like back home, the men were bringing out the dominoes and the white rum, got to have white rum, and the older ladies were sharing the food, and the older men were gathering everybody around the barbecue where they were holding court, each trying to outdo the other with the telling of the day's event.

Some of them even said that Aunt Mumsy must have been really jealous of her sister because her younger sister got all the attention that day. And this was Mumsy's day, her last day on earth. As I gathered my son around me and we sat on the ground to listen to the stories, I was so comforted because this is exactly what I wanted for my kids. This engrossment, the story, the songs.

And I felt comforted because I had given my boys something that I really wanted to have, the solid understanding of our roots. And as we listened to the stories of how my Aunt Mumsy, when she had first come to the country and she tried to be a nurse, how she had to pass for white because the hospitals wouldn't hire blacks, and how she colored her, powdered her skin black

Several she had lighter, and the almost, the pain that caused her just to make a living, the anxiety that she had with doing that. We heard the stories of how she saved every penny to bring her siblings here for a better life. And my boys, hearing these stories, seeing the courage and the strength that we had, they knew without a shadow of a doubt that

They come from a strong line of people, of people who knew how to survive in any instance. And that's what I wanted them to have. And as we loaded up the car with foods I would never get in New Hampshire because there's no Jamaican stores. And as we drove off, I remember the words that Maya Angelou said when asked if she ever got nervous when she'd stand on stage alone. And she said,

I come as one, but I stand as 10,000. All my ancestors are here with me. And tonight, all my ancestors are standing right here with me in this cemetery. My aunties giving me strength and courage. My sons, my grandchildren. We know from where we come. We know the stock that we belong to. And we know, without a shadow of a doubt, we belong.

Thank you.

Since this funeral more than a decade ago, Jerianne says she and her boys have played a lot of Jamaican music, and they visit the island and see family all the time. To see photos of Jerianne and her sons and this bright celebration of life, go to themoth.org. ♪

I've been watching a lot of interviews with the Dalai Lama lately to prepare to meet with him in India on behalf of the moth. And people like to ask him if he's afraid of death.

And in every instance, His Holiness answers, Fear of death is a waste of time. Death is part of life. And that's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. Thank you for taking the time to listen. We hope you'll join us next time.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Catherine Burns, and Sarah Austin-Ginness, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Maggie Ceno.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Special thanks to the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, which provided sponsorship for the Leap of Faith main stage in which Bruce McCullough told his story. Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Queven Oriola and Thomas Bartlett, Gaucho, Julian Lodge, and Ernest Ranglin. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.