Death
“This Funeral Isn’t About You”
That’s what I wanted to say.
If you know me, you know that I tend to be blunt. Awkwardly so.
Being that blunt objects aren’t allowed at funerals, I’ve learned the art of professional speak.
Situation Number 1:
Blunt Caleb: “When we picked your dad up from the nursing home, he was looking all purple and reddish, but after we embalmed him, we were able to flush the discoloration out of his face.”
Professional speak, “Your dad looks great.”
Situation Number 2:
Blunt Caleb: “Do you want that beard shaved off your mom’s face?”
Professional speak Caleb ignores asking that question all together and just shaves mom’s face.
Americans — maybe even Westerns as a whole — are impatient. We rarely have quiet. The TV’s constantly on. Our smart phones are ever at our side. Ear buds in our ears. Meditation is a foreign concept. Prayer is avoidable at all costs. And the patience learned in the silence is never attained. And then comes death and the silence that comes with it. The meditation. The prayer. The lack of words. And when the results of grief work don’t come immediately, we become impatient and think, “Something is dreadfully wrong with me!” And we’re right. We usually conclude that we’re deeply depressed; the reality may simply be that we’re deeply and intrinsically impatient, unable to find the peace in the silence that comes from death. Maybe we’re just as afraid of the silence as we are of death.
Death brings its own pace of life … its own schedule. It’s never convenient. But we want it to be. We want to control it. We want to put it on an itinerary that fits our fast paced, purpose driven lifestyles.
Perhaps that battle for control is nowhere more apparent than at a viewing, especially when the viewing line mimics the slow moving, long lines we see at a popular amusement park ride.
This past Saturday night, I stood there behind the register book, striking up conversation with people as they enter the sanctuary. The viewing line snakes around the church, down the hall and into the basement as we try to extend it through the corridors of the church so as to keep the line from going out into the cold elements of a Pennsylvania winter. The family of the deceased is taking their time, talking to each and every person who has come out on this chilly night.
“Other funeral directors stand by the family’s receiving line and tell them to keep their conversations short and simply”, one person stated.
“We don’t do that”, I said politely.
Another couple comes through the line and complains that they’ve been standing in line for half-an-hour AND by the look of things, they’ll probably be in line for another half-an-hour. “Can’t you do anything?” they beg.
I try to make a joke … I tell them that, like Disney World, we are going to create an express line, where you can bypass the crowd for a fee. “That’s a great idea”, they say. “We’d pay $50 to skip this line.”
After having this conversation about 10 times over the next hour, I’m getting tired of my joke and I’m getting tired of people complaining.
I want to pull them close to my face and whisper, “This isn’t about you.” But that would be blunt Caleb speaking and that Caleb isn’t allowed around death.
Perhaps the greatest loss that comes with the drone of our busy lives is that in losing silence, we’ve lost patience, and in losing patience we’ve become so inherently selfish that when we go to a funeral we forget that it’s not about us.
It’s That Time of Year When Morticians Become Monsters
Funeral directors can crack anytime of the year, but during the winter, it seems our mental state becomes much more vulnerable to suffering from the occupational hazards of burnout, compassion fatigue and depression. Sure, many of us who live in the colder climates of the world suffer through the winter blues; but for those in funeral service, winter often means more sickness, more death and more stress placed upon our shoulders.
Death runs strong before, during and after the holidays … and then somewhere before the start of spring, it seems he pulls a double shift. And as those who follow Death’s movements, we too start pulling the double shifts.
After a month or so of pulling long days, we reach a point and suddenly we feel like we have nothing left to give. So, we push through our exhaustion and it isn’t too long before we morph into stress induced monsters. Yes, monsters.
Death is wild. It has no desire to be tamed. And it’s a capricious boss. It doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t listen to our cries for reprieve. It doesn’t stop when we’re exhausted. We have no control.
And this lack of control is the problem. Since death doesn’t hear our complaints, since it can’t be fought and subdued, we funeral directors will often displace our aggression onto ourselves and our families. And this is where the monster is made.
Pedersen, Gonzales, & Miller write that,
“Displaced aggression is thought to occur when a person who is initially provoked cannot retaliate directly against the source of that provocation and, instead, subsequently aggresses against a seemingly innocent target.”
This “seemingly innocent target” is usually those around us: our spouses, our children, our friends and ourselves.
It’s in these time of burnout that some of us start to drink more heavily; some of us will see our families fall apart before our eyes; and others (like me) will spiral down into deep dark places of depression. Those in the funeral industry can suffer burnout anytime of the year; but during this time of the year particularly, the road can become very difficult.
Often we don’t realize we’re burnt out until it’s too late. We’ve been working so hard trying to stay on top of the funerals we’re arranging that we simply don’t have time to reflect and take stock of our personal lives. Our schedules become so busy that we stop going to the gym, we stop eating healthy, getting enough sleep; and we let our hobbies fall on the wayside.
And out of nowhere our partner leaves us.
Out of nowhere we’re contemplating suicide.
Out of nowhere we’re using a destructive coping mechanism to get through the stress of Death’s spree.
Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve noticed that the funeral industry doesn’t offer a good support system when it comes to the personal mental and physical health of its workers. When one of us gets burnt out, there’s rarely someone there to council you. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t see those in funeral service being encouraged to see out professional help from psychologists.
And maybe it’s time to change that. Maybe it’s time we start recognizing that it happens often in this industry. Maybe it’s time to start doing something about it.
So, if you’re burnt out right now, let me encourage you: seek help. It’s not okay for you to be burnt out. In fact, you’re robbing your family and friends, the people you serve and yourself. You are NOT strong enough to do this on your own. It’s time to overcome the monster.
Before
Today’s guest post is written by Susie Finkbeiner
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can go.”
I smoothed her hair with the palm of my hand. So soft. I never would have known how soft. I’d never have dreamed of touching her hair before. She would have frowned at me. Before. She would have wondered what in the world I was doing touching her hair.
Before.
Before she ended up in the hospital for a month. Before we got her back in her house. Called Hospice. Set up the living room with a hospital bed. Oxygen tank. Rocking chair next to her.
Before she started actively dying.
“We’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll take care of each other.”
I looked up. Met eyes with my husband’s cousin. My cousin-in-law, I guess. The one who teased me. Poked me with forks and called me the “new one” in the family. Who usually would make fun of me before he’d dream of hugging me.
His eyes were wet. Far away. Sad.
Losing her would be hard for him. I knew that much. I could see his heart breaking.
But I needed to be strong. Just for a little while longer. Calm and strong and loving and present.
For my husband’s family.
I had to look away from him. From all of them. Cousins and aunts and uncles. My mother and father-in law.
In-laws. All belonging to my husband.
I had to keep my eyes off them.
So I could help her go.
My husband’s grandma. The great-grandma of my kids.
She struggled and fought. Sucked in breath. Tensed up.
Tough in life. Tough in dying.
I admired her.
“We’re going to be okay.”
She’d loved her family. More than herself. She loved them fiercely. Like a warrior. Nobody better get in the way of the love she had for them.
“I promise, we’ll take care of each other.”
She lived for them. Worked all her life for them. Never had two thoughts that didn’t have something to do with one of her kids. Her grandkids. Her great-grandkids.
“We love you.”
She was going. I could feel it. Somehow I could feel it. Hear it. See it.
When I first met her, I didn’t know what to call her. So, I never called her anything. Ever. Well, except for “my husband’s grandma” or “your grandma”. But to her face, I didn’t call her anything.
This woman I’d never allowed myself to name. Her head in my hands. Soft hair against my fingertips. Last breaths of my face.
I realized I’d not named her because I fear that moment. The moment of losing her. If I didn’t name her, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when she left.
But that was before.
“I love you, Grandma.”
I felt the name I gave her. Claimed her. Took her for my own.
“Thank you.”
Gratitude flooded over me. Numbed me.
The numbing. What a mercy in that moment.
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have my family.” I swallowed down what threatened to edge out the numb. I denied it. For a little while longer. “Without you, I wouldn’t have my children.”
This woman. Her life made all I had possible. I never realized the debt I owed her. Not until only moments before.
Before.
“You taught us how to love each other.”
She left. Stopped. Just like that.
Gratitude and grief and exhaustion.
She’d given me so much.
Her family. My family. Love. Stories.
Even her last breath.
I never would have known what a gift that was.
Before.
*****
BIO: Susie Finkbeiner is a novelist and short story writer from West Michigan.
Her first novel “Paint Chips” released in 2013.
Her second novel “My Mother’s Chamomile” releases February 15, 2014.
She is working on her third novel.
Give her your “like” on her Facebook page, Susie M. Finkbeiner – Novelist
When You Should Fire Your Funeral Home
Liberace as Mr. Starker the “Casket Specialist” in “The Loved One.”
Before I tell you when you should fire your funeral home, bear with me as I describe the situation that prompted this little blog post:
I traded in my convertible for a used sedan last week. We’re thinking about kid number two, so it was time for me to grow up and get something with four doors. After doing a bunch of research, I found a well priced used car on AutoTrader that was only about an hours drive away from Parkesburg.
Even though I consider myself a well-informed car buyer, I hate the car buying experience. Mainly because I hate used car salesman. If you’re in car sales or have ever been in car sales, I’m sorry. I would probably like you in any other life context other than when you’re trying to sell me on a car. Really, I hate the pressure. I know the pressure, the double talk, the various sales tactics are coming, and I role play how I’ll respond … but when the time comes to hammer out a deal … ermahgerd.
This particular used car dealership low balled my trade-in. And I fell for it. And now, a week removed, I’ve resigned myself to losing a couple thousand dollars.
When it comes to spending money my mind sometimes gets cloudy. I continually question myself … what are my motives for buying this? Is it really worth it? Are there any smarter buying options? On and on and on until I get brain paralysis and become slightly impulsive only to suffer through a week or two of buyers remorse immediately after my purchase.
Grief and pressure have similar effects upon a person’s decision making. The clouding. The impulsiveness. Factors that both funeral directors and car salesman can all too easily take advantage of if they so desire.
In fact, grief is, in many ways, similar to alcohol inebriation when it comes to decision making. You can’t and shouldn’t make big decisions when you’re grieving. Just as some legal contracts aren’t legally binding when one of the persons involved is drunk, so I’m not really sure that a funeral contract should be entirely binding when one of the persons is suffering from severe grief.
In its original 1975 study on the unethical practices of the funeral industry, the Federal Trade Commission wrote:
Each year, millions of families are forced by the death of a relative to make one of the largest consumer purchases under severe handicaps of time pressures, emotional distress and lack of information or experience. There are few, if any industries where the ultimate consumer is so disadvantages or where his normal bargaining power is so diluted in a situation of such immediate need.
(ON A SIDE NOTE: I can’t stress enough how important it is to think about dying and death BEFORE it takes place. Write a living will, write out your will, name a power of attorney, name an executor. If you can, make “prearrangements” with a funeral home well before you die, that way your loved ones aren’t confused about what you want; nor are they having to make funeral decisions in their confused and grief stricken state of mind when you die.)
When we meet with families, we recognize this “grief confused” state and we usually give families a preface before we sell them anything, especially a casket. When we go into the casket “showroom”, we preface it with something like this, “We aren’t salesmen. We want you to make an informed decision and we won’t push you in any direction.” In fact, we try to “down-sell” caskets instead of “up-sell” them. Simply put, the expensiveness and beauty of a casket has absolutely no correlation to the amount of love you have for the deceased. If you want to buy them something nice, that’s fine, but a pine box serves the purpose equally well.
If you EVER feel pressure from a funeral home or funeral director to buy something more expensive — or something you don’t want — FIRE THEM! Seriously, just fire them. Walk out if you need to. The fact is that your mind is already clouded by grief and the last thing you need in your life is something trying to squeeze money out of you … because they will. You just experienced a death in your life. You need people who love you, NOT people who want to exploit you.
Yes, firing a funeral director at this point in the game is like walking out midway through a haircut. But it can be done and it has been done. We’ve had a couple families who have fired their funeral home and call us. Thankfully, we’ve yet to be fired, although if the day comes, we’ll be understanding.
Firing someone can be awkward. But it’s worth it. You don’t need to be exploited in your grief.
