Part I
Part II
Sleep was not to be had that night. Even Only Son, who relished the thought of an uninterrupted night’s sleep away from his children, tossed and turned. Finally at 5 am, we gave up. In search of coffee, I left the room only to run into bleary-eyed Caretaker, who paced the walk outside of our adjacent rooms smoking a cigarette. We shook our heads and laughed.
A sleepy and apprehensive family drove through rain to the funeral home after breakfast. Youngest hurried into the parlor to fetch the remainder of Mom’s ashes; he brought the cremation box to the undertaker the day before so half of her ashes could be placed in Dad’s coffin. He feared that if he delayed, he would leave without the other half. The Episcopal priest awaited us in the lobby. We discussed what kind of service Dad wanted and decided on the committal from Burial II in the Book of Common Prayer. I had shown that service to my brothers before the trip to Arkansas so there would be no recriminations. They approved.
The funeral director pulled me aside. “We have Mr. E ready for you to see,” he said. He led us to a side room where our father was laid out in his silver coffin.
We had been warned that his face was swollen and discolored. “His face will be heavily cosmetized,” the funeral director continued, “as his nose is bruised. Just so you know.”
Seeing him, though, his face was not swollen as much as it was fat. Our father had weighed around 350 lbs; to us, he appeared as he usually did. We could see the faint areas of bruising on his nose from his death fall but the makeup hid it well. The funeral home had given him a nice haircut.
For a man in his coffin, he looked great.
Instinctively I reached for his hand. It was ice. I kissed his mannequin like forehead and patted his white hair. “Love you, Daddy.” Only Son held back from the coffin, silent and wide eyed. Caretaker and Youngest spoke to the body briefly. We stayed only a few minutes. My eyes were full as I dragged out of the room.
Driving to the cemetery, I was gratified to see cars pull over as we passed, out of respect for our father. We were silent. The rain continued.
We chose not to open the coffin at the gravesite. We had no idea who might come, if anyone did. Dad had not lived in his hometown since 1962. Who would remember him?
As the time for the service approached, as sappy as it sounds, the rain quit and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. We noticed several cars parking and elderly people beginning to make their way to where we stood. Happy to see people arriving, Caretaker and I practically ran to meet them. Seven people in all came. Among them were one of Dad’s best high school friends, now a retired Arkansas Supreme Court judge; the woman who had been Dad’s date to both their junior and senior prom; and Dad’s seventh grade math teacher. We visited for a few minutes then began the service.
If you know the Episcopal prayer book, you know that the committal service is very short. It was just perfect for what my family needed, and was in accordance with Dad’s wishes. Caretaker, who knows nothing about the Episcopal Church except what he has read in the newspaper, was impressed with the priest. He thought the robes were “cool” and called him “the Episcopal priest surfer dude” due to Fr. B’s beard and demeanor. We visited with everyone a bit more, thanked them for coming. Dad’s long ago prom date was very happy to meet us and told Caretaker that she wished we could have been her children. She had just lost her own husband in April.
The time at the cemetery drew to a close as the rain returned. I kissed Dad’s coffin before we left, leaving a lipstick print as a goodbye present. We spent perhaps forty-five minutes there. We spoke about the service back at the hotel as we changed into traveling clothes and agreed that it had gone quite well. As for me, I felt much better than I had when Mom had died. Dad’s funeral had been a good and necessary experience.
A month has passed since Dad’s death. In further answer to Law Enforcer’s question mentioned in Part I, I am much stronger now than I was at this point after Mom’s demise. A good bit of that I attribute to the ability to say goodbye to Dad in a final, ritualized way. There is no doubt in my mind or heart that Dad is gone, no abstract thoughts that he could be just away. Saying farewell to Dad helped me bid so long to my mother also. The urn containing her ashes was tucked into the coffin, out of sight to the onlookers but certainly not out of mind to us children. Although her name was not mentioned, we knew she was there with him and both were going to their rest. This sense of closure relieved my troubled mind.
And awaiting Only Son and me at the end of the journey that funeral day were his children, my dear grandchildren. When they ran out to greet us with grins, squeals and hugs, I almost forgot my grief. Mom and Dad may be gone, but the family they started over half a century ago carries on.
Showing posts with label funeral. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funeral. Show all posts
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Funerals, Part II
Part I
The next day I hopped into the car for the day and a half trip back to Missouri, only six weeks after I had been there for Mom’s non-funeral. Caretaker told me that Dad’s body already was on its way to Arkansas and a service would be either that weekend or the following Monday. I needed to hurry.
Only Son already had agreed to drive with me to Arkansas. I needed his support; besides, he had lived with my parents during his freshman year of college, and had fond memories. Two of my brothers, Caretaker and Youngest, would drive in another car. No one else could afford the short notice plane fare or get off work long enough to make the trip. We hated that so few of us would be there. Dad deserved more.
Immediately following Mom’s death, Dad discussed his own wishes for his "mortal remains". “I’ve got it all arranged,” he said. “Everything is paid for. Call John Doe Funeral Home, and they’ll take care of everything. I don’t want a full service, but I would like some prayers said before I’m buried. And I want some of your mother’s ashes in the coffin with me.”
As I drove, I thought, “A few prayers before I'm buried...” Yikes, who would do that? Apparently reading my mind, Caretaker’s wife called my cell phone (I had my headset on just in case).
“Youngest says you are far enough along in your religious studies to say the prayers Dad wanted. Are you?” she asked.
“Well, I could do it,” I said. “But I’d rather not.” My father had died as well as theirs, after all. But just in case, I had tossed my prayer book and Bible into my bag, and knew where I could borrow an alb. I did not tell her that.
Long silence. “How much would it cost to hire a preacher?” she asked. None of my brothers had any money; just to make the trip incurred financial hardship for both Caretaker and Youngest.
“I’ll take care of finding someone,” I said. In another post, I mentioned what I did to cover the graveside service.
On arrival to my Missouri hometown, Caretaker detailed what the plans were. Meet with the funeral director on Sunday afternoon, then graveside service on Monday morning. That way we could leave Sunday morning and return Monday night. I wanted to look around a day; the area held pleasant childhood memories. But Caretaker and Only Son had to get back to their jobs so that was impossible.
The six hour drive to central Arkansas was lovely. The trees in the Ozark Mountains were transforming from summer green to autumn scarlet, just gorgeous. While admiring the scenery, I reveled in the rare alone time with Only Son. Before my mother died, we had not had time for just the two of us in nine years. It took the death of my parents for us to have the space to reconnect.
The meeting with the funeral director did not take long. Just as Dad had said, everything was arranged and paid. We gasped when the funeral director pointed out how much all of the services would cost today had Dad not made the arrangements in 1991--triple what he had paid! (Now I’m convinced that pre-need is the way to go.) Fortunately I had a favorite photo of Dad with me; the funeral director scanned it for the service leaflet. Only Son brought a long sleeved white shirt to dress the body in; my brothers brought Dad’s favorite tie and slacks. There was nothing more for us to do.
Only Son and I decided to poke around a bit, while Caretaker and Youngest drove back to the motel. We drove through the then brand new subdivision where the pre-school me had lived. Amazing, I thought, how much a place can change in almost fifty years. Amazing how much a person can, too.
The big shock came when we drove past the house that my grandfather had had especially designed and built for him and his wife in the mid 1950s. They were proud of that house and its blue fescue lawn, and worked hard to keep it all a showcase. Many times they won the local garden club’s Yard of the Month. Even in 1989 at the time of my last visit, it remained pristine.
When we drove around the corner, past the well manicured lawns of the neighbors, I asked Only Son, “Where’s the house?” Then I realized that the dump with trash stuffed to the carport ceiling and the sagging, rotted fence was the place on which Grandad once had lavished such attention. The whitewash slapped onto the once lovely cedar siding was the final insult. No other house around was in such sad shape. Surely my grandfather was spinning in his grave.
Any appetite for further sight seeing suddenly left me. We returned to the motel in silence.
The next day I hopped into the car for the day and a half trip back to Missouri, only six weeks after I had been there for Mom’s non-funeral. Caretaker told me that Dad’s body already was on its way to Arkansas and a service would be either that weekend or the following Monday. I needed to hurry.
Only Son already had agreed to drive with me to Arkansas. I needed his support; besides, he had lived with my parents during his freshman year of college, and had fond memories. Two of my brothers, Caretaker and Youngest, would drive in another car. No one else could afford the short notice plane fare or get off work long enough to make the trip. We hated that so few of us would be there. Dad deserved more.
Immediately following Mom’s death, Dad discussed his own wishes for his "mortal remains". “I’ve got it all arranged,” he said. “Everything is paid for. Call John Doe Funeral Home, and they’ll take care of everything. I don’t want a full service, but I would like some prayers said before I’m buried. And I want some of your mother’s ashes in the coffin with me.”
As I drove, I thought, “A few prayers before I'm buried...” Yikes, who would do that? Apparently reading my mind, Caretaker’s wife called my cell phone (I had my headset on just in case).
“Youngest says you are far enough along in your religious studies to say the prayers Dad wanted. Are you?” she asked.
“Well, I could do it,” I said. “But I’d rather not.” My father had died as well as theirs, after all. But just in case, I had tossed my prayer book and Bible into my bag, and knew where I could borrow an alb. I did not tell her that.
Long silence. “How much would it cost to hire a preacher?” she asked. None of my brothers had any money; just to make the trip incurred financial hardship for both Caretaker and Youngest.
“I’ll take care of finding someone,” I said. In another post, I mentioned what I did to cover the graveside service.
On arrival to my Missouri hometown, Caretaker detailed what the plans were. Meet with the funeral director on Sunday afternoon, then graveside service on Monday morning. That way we could leave Sunday morning and return Monday night. I wanted to look around a day; the area held pleasant childhood memories. But Caretaker and Only Son had to get back to their jobs so that was impossible.
The six hour drive to central Arkansas was lovely. The trees in the Ozark Mountains were transforming from summer green to autumn scarlet, just gorgeous. While admiring the scenery, I reveled in the rare alone time with Only Son. Before my mother died, we had not had time for just the two of us in nine years. It took the death of my parents for us to have the space to reconnect.
The meeting with the funeral director did not take long. Just as Dad had said, everything was arranged and paid. We gasped when the funeral director pointed out how much all of the services would cost today had Dad not made the arrangements in 1991--triple what he had paid! (Now I’m convinced that pre-need is the way to go.) Fortunately I had a favorite photo of Dad with me; the funeral director scanned it for the service leaflet. Only Son brought a long sleeved white shirt to dress the body in; my brothers brought Dad’s favorite tie and slacks. There was nothing more for us to do.
Only Son and I decided to poke around a bit, while Caretaker and Youngest drove back to the motel. We drove through the then brand new subdivision where the pre-school me had lived. Amazing, I thought, how much a place can change in almost fifty years. Amazing how much a person can, too.
The big shock came when we drove past the house that my grandfather had had especially designed and built for him and his wife in the mid 1950s. They were proud of that house and its blue fescue lawn, and worked hard to keep it all a showcase. Many times they won the local garden club’s Yard of the Month. Even in 1989 at the time of my last visit, it remained pristine.
When we drove around the corner, past the well manicured lawns of the neighbors, I asked Only Son, “Where’s the house?” Then I realized that the dump with trash stuffed to the carport ceiling and the sagging, rotted fence was the place on which Grandad once had lavished such attention. The whitewash slapped onto the once lovely cedar siding was the final insult. No other house around was in such sad shape. Surely my grandfather was spinning in his grave.
Any appetite for further sight seeing suddenly left me. We returned to the motel in silence.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Funerals, Part I
(This is the first of probably three installments about the experience of my dad's funeral with its context. Thanks for humoring me.)
“I feel much better after seeing Dad in his coffin. He looked really good,” I said as I steered my car into freeway traffic.
“Why did it make you feel better to see Dad when he was dead?”
I had just picked up my brother Law Enforcer at the airport, two days after our father’s funeral. We were on the interstate heading back to the old hometown.
“After all,” he continued, “Nothing was there except a body. He was gone. Why did you have to see him in his coffin? Why drive all the way to Arkansas for his funeral? He didn’t know.”
No one had ever asked me questions like that. The importance of a funeral was something I never had questioned myself. Law Enforcer is a lawyer, though, and likes to make people think.
After a pause, I said, “Maybe it is because I’ve seen so many other peoples’ dead parents. I just needed to see my own.” The number of dead bodies I have seen in a thirty year nursing career spent in ICU, oncology and hospice number well over a hundred.
Law Enforcer nodded. “That makes sense.” Then we noticed we were on the wrong highway; I missed the exit while pondering his question. That conversation was over.
When Mom had died, Taciturn and I were unable to get there in time. The family members who were within ten minutes of the hospital had the honor of being present when she died. Family and friends who lived within an hour were able to view her body before it was removed to the crematorium. The rest of us were out of luck.
Mom had made it clear she wanted no sort of memorial. “Too much fuss,” she said, and Dad honored her wishes. But at dinner a couple of days after she died, something was off kilter. Was Mom just on vacation? That is what it felt like. Without a final, ritualized goodbye, I was not convinced that my mother really was dead. The only thing that seemed different at dinner was the glazed, sad look that passed through my father’s eyes.
“What is it, Dad?” A silly question, but I asked it anyway.
He shook his head as he returned to the present. “I miss my wife.”
We knew Dad was lonely, so my brothers and I called at least weekly. We worried that something would happen during the six hours a day he would be alone while everyone in the house was at work or school. Dad promised us he would get a cell phone to use in case he fell. Seeking another way to ensure he was well, I asked him if he would be interested in video chat on Skype. Dad was enthusiastic about the idea. I made a mental note to call Caretaker brother, who lived with him, to see if a webcam would work with Dad’s ancient computer.
But Caretaker called me first. He found Dad’s body on the floor between the wall and his bed when he arrived home early to take him for a doctor’s appointment.
Dad missed his wife so much that he could live only two months without her.
“I feel much better after seeing Dad in his coffin. He looked really good,” I said as I steered my car into freeway traffic.
“Why did it make you feel better to see Dad when he was dead?”
I had just picked up my brother Law Enforcer at the airport, two days after our father’s funeral. We were on the interstate heading back to the old hometown.
“After all,” he continued, “Nothing was there except a body. He was gone. Why did you have to see him in his coffin? Why drive all the way to Arkansas for his funeral? He didn’t know.”
No one had ever asked me questions like that. The importance of a funeral was something I never had questioned myself. Law Enforcer is a lawyer, though, and likes to make people think.
After a pause, I said, “Maybe it is because I’ve seen so many other peoples’ dead parents. I just needed to see my own.” The number of dead bodies I have seen in a thirty year nursing career spent in ICU, oncology and hospice number well over a hundred.
Law Enforcer nodded. “That makes sense.” Then we noticed we were on the wrong highway; I missed the exit while pondering his question. That conversation was over.
When Mom had died, Taciturn and I were unable to get there in time. The family members who were within ten minutes of the hospital had the honor of being present when she died. Family and friends who lived within an hour were able to view her body before it was removed to the crematorium. The rest of us were out of luck.
Mom had made it clear she wanted no sort of memorial. “Too much fuss,” she said, and Dad honored her wishes. But at dinner a couple of days after she died, something was off kilter. Was Mom just on vacation? That is what it felt like. Without a final, ritualized goodbye, I was not convinced that my mother really was dead. The only thing that seemed different at dinner was the glazed, sad look that passed through my father’s eyes.
“What is it, Dad?” A silly question, but I asked it anyway.
He shook his head as he returned to the present. “I miss my wife.”
We knew Dad was lonely, so my brothers and I called at least weekly. We worried that something would happen during the six hours a day he would be alone while everyone in the house was at work or school. Dad promised us he would get a cell phone to use in case he fell. Seeking another way to ensure he was well, I asked him if he would be interested in video chat on Skype. Dad was enthusiastic about the idea. I made a mental note to call Caretaker brother, who lived with him, to see if a webcam would work with Dad’s ancient computer.
But Caretaker called me first. He found Dad’s body on the floor between the wall and his bed when he arrived home early to take him for a doctor’s appointment.
Dad missed his wife so much that he could live only two months without her.
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