Is There a "Diva" Chromosome?

I went to a funeral today, and, I shamefully admit, I was glad that I was not one who had to sit in the "reserved" section. The dearly departed was the ex-wife of my mother's first cousin. Though I am saddened by her loss, I was far enough removed from the spectacle that I was able to sit towards the back and watch the family. She had suffered from chronic medical issues and this was the time, expected but not expected, when she didn't get to leave the hospital and go home with her family. I arrived just over an hour before the services, with time for visitation with the family. No family was present, except for her grandson, my fourth cousin, who unsurprisingly, has not had much experience with funeral home customs, and he stood out in the hall chatting with all the men-folk as they came in. No one was in the visitation room but visitors until a half-hour before the service. Finally, my male cousin arrived and did his duty meeting and greeting and making small talk until time for the service. As the time rolled around to begin, the daughter still had not arrived, and her brother started talking about her need for "everything to be about her." Apparently, between coordinating schedules, doses of Dutch courage, and a heaping helping of Xanax, she found time to be more fluid than the rest of us do, and had, um, sort of not been on time for either the visitation the night before or the funeral services that were scheduled to begin. Thirty minutes after the pastor had seated the immediate family to begin the funeral, the daughter arrived with her father, my second cousin, and ex-husband to the dearly departed, among much jollity among the male funeral goers about getting lost on the way (they had been there the night before).

 
This was a difficult moment, because I am a firm believer that no one should judge the bereaved in the way they do (or don't) handle their grief. Yet, I'll admit, the conventional part of me, the part of me that thinks that everyone should put away those white shoes after Labor Day, go to the Fourth of July Parade, and BE ON TIME FOR YOUR MOTHER'S FUNERAL, was scandalized. Not even in the gossipy, "OMIGOD, Becky, look at her butt. It is so big" way, but in the "This just ain't right" way. I try hard not to be judgmental, but, I judged. I judged. Even during the service, she was so overcome by Sarah McLachlan's "Angel," her son had to leave his row with the pall bearers and support her in her DFO moment (Done Fell Out) while I watched and wondered if anyone else was visualizing pitiful dogs and cats from the ASPCA commercial. Even in the recessional, her son and daughter-in-law had to prop her up as she lolled across their strong and sympathetic arms out to the waiting limousine.

I don't make people wait for me to be ready. I am always the one catching the DFO, and have never, never, never made a scene in public, except for the Terms of Endearment moment I had at the hospital when they were failing to provide adequate hospice care to my mother. Even then, it wasn't for my sake, but for my mother - a world class attention getter - who was absolutely worth making a scene for if it would make her more comfortable in her last days. I have always been that way. When I was two and in the hospital, when they told me to be brave and hold still for the IV, I did. I don't try to top others when describing my pain, physical or psychic, as if loss and despair could somehow be ranked. I try to reassure wait-staff if they make a mistake with my order. I try to be absolutely invisible in every circumstance, never calling attention to myself in social settings. Anyone who has ever seen me teach or talk in faculty meeting would scoff at this, but it is absolutely true. Where is my Diva gene? Do I want one? Maybe a little bit of one?