Clerical, White and Blue Collar
The funeral industry as we know it now in America allows for some of the greatest examples of both human graces and disgraces. The disgraces are all too publicized, and rightfully so. Most of us may remember the 334 bodies found in the back yard of the Tri-State Crematory in Georgia. Instead of fixing their retort, the crematory simply placed the bodies in the back yard to decompose and in place of the actual cremated remains, they gave the families boxes filled with wood chips, cement powder and wood ashes.
Many of us have seen the Nightline reports where funeral directors were caught bypassing laws on a regular basis, trying to scam money off of the elderly and acting more like greedy salesmen than compassionate professionals. Unfortunately, there are many funeral directors who are all too willing to use disadvantaged people to their own advantage. It’s ugly. It’s exploitation at its most base level. Yet, it happens. The unfortunate result of mixing grief clouded minds and greed poisoned hearts.
But, there are those of us who work hard, with undying honesty and integrity, sweating yellow tinged stains on our white collars. We withstand the sweat rolling down our backs into our cracks on the hot summer days as we stand in the caustic sun at the graveside. My great grandfather used to mow the funeral home yard in his shirt and tie. We’re probably still the only practitioners who ask for winter suits … they only make the medium grade suits today because white collar workers just aren’t out in the cold. Our backs are one of the main occupational hazards in this industry. And we get dirty too … crimson red on a bright white cotton shirt. Our collars may be white but our hearts are bleeding blue.
There are those funeral directors who see their profession as a calling; who find a sacredness to their calling, as though there was something spiritual about their work. As though they are more so ministers than death merchants. They are understanding, compassionate, hard-working, service oriented people who are more concerned about the richness of life in death then the wealth of their bank accounts. There are those who give their services for free to the less fortunate and downtrodden. Those of us who push families to buy caskets under their financial means instead of over. There are those of us who go above and beyond our contract expectations; who spend that extra five hours making the car accident victim viewable so that the family can see him one more time. There are those of us who offer more than just pre-need and at-need services … those of us who are there for the family months after the fact. There are those of us who understand that our integrity and honest direction can make Death a lot less hard for a whole lot of people.
The ancient and famed Egyptian embalmers understood that to be good death practitioners you also had to have religious and moral over and under tones in your life. And although we don’t divine like Egyptians, there are those of us who view this profession first as a practice of spirituality and secondly as a business; and, who do both with a strong work ethic. That’s the mold that I’m trying to fit into. A blue, white and clerical collar.
I Buried my Best Friend Yesterday :: A Guest Post
Today’s guest post is from Brigid. Brigid is from a small Louisiana town. She is currently pursuing a graduate degree in Psychology. Passions of hers other than Psychology include creative writing, reading, playing Dungeons and Dragons, and bird-watching. She has a pet dachshund and a zebra finch. Brigid writes poetry, prose, and random thoughts at her blog, Scraps of Madness: http://scrapsofmadness.
Make sure you give Brigid your like at her facebook page, Brigid Mochroi – writer.
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Aimee
I buried my best friend yesterday. It was the hardest, most intense and exhausting experience of my life. I knew her since Kindergarten. She was the first friend I ever made. We grew up together. Our lives have been intertwined since we met. Her name was Aimee. She has influenced me more than I can even fathom. But I can pluck out her greatest lessons. And I want to share them with you.
Aimee was born with a kidney illness. She was not supposed to live past infancy. Then she was not supposed to live past childhood. But she defied the odds and made it 28 years. And no matter how sick she got, how bad off she was in the hospital now and then, she always bounced back. Yes, she would have moments where she got frustrated at her medical conditions, but she NEVER let any of her conditions define her. She pushed the limits.
I remember recently, when she was beginning dialysis 3 days a week, a big rock fest came into the town she was living in. She went to it and partied the whole time it was in town. That’s the kind of person she was. She never passed up an opportunity to have fun. And she never met a stranger. She made friends with everybody. Upon meeting her, most people had no idea of the health struggles she faced on a day to day basis. Her illness was something she had to deal with, but it was never who she was.
Aimee’s greatest lesson was in her example of how she made the best of any situation. She had a strength and resiliency that most of us can’t even imagine. She was fire and lightening. Full of pure energy, life, and love. And no matter what she was going through, she was always there for you if you needed anything. She lived to help people and would give you the shirt off her back if she thought you needed it more.
We always knew it was a possibility that she was destined for a shorter time on this earth than we would have liked. But we also understood that she was already defying the odds by having survived infancy and childhood. She focused on the present and on enjoying every moment she could. She and I only had the death conversation a handful of times in all these years. She would not talk about it for long. She did not like to waste time dwelling on things out of her control and she did not want to worry anyone else.
“I know my kidney could stop working any day. I know that I’m lucky I’ve made it this far. I know that I could die anytime. I don’t like to think about it, nobody likes to think about that kind of thing. But I’m here right now and I’m going to make the best of whatever time I have.” That was what she said to me. And that was as far as the discussion went.
She truly did live life exactly as she pleased. Grasping each moment with full awareness and making the absolute best of it. I think that inner strength was a large part of why she defied the odds.
She passed away suddenly in her sleep. The end did not come as we all feared it would. We all feared it would come after weeks of lingering in the hospital and hooked up to machines. We all feared it would be the end to a long drawn out suffering death process.
Yes, she had been in and out of the hospital a lot lately for various reasons, but she was functioning well. She had just been on several short vacations recently. She had just gotten engaged. Her mother and father told me they just saw her and she was her usual energetic and happy self.
She just went to bed one night during the happiest point in her life and slipped away in her sleep. And I think if she had been given the choice of going that way versus going the way we all feared, she would have chosen this. This was yet another blessing. Even in dying, she defied the odds and made the best out of a bad situation.
I hope that I have captured some degree of her shining example in this post. I hope that by posting this, her influence will be extended to those who never had the honor and pleasure of being part of her life. She lived to help people. And by writing this, I want to give her the chance to continue to help people.
We all agreed that instead of sending flowers to Aimee’s funeral we wanted to encourage everyone to donate to the National Kidney Foundation or the Ronald McDonald House in her name. I hope that some of you will be compelled to make a donation to help these causes. They were very important to her. If there is another cause that is of particular importance, then consider making a donation to whatever that may be. Aimee was all about helping people in whatever way possible. Another great lesson in life.
In conclusion, I want to share a lesson I have learned from this experience of loss. Losing someone close to you is the hardest pain you can imagine. But the pain comes from how close you were to that person and how much you loved them. Yet, you never regret the closeness. The things you regret are missed opportunities to see them, the times you put off calls or visits, or the things you had planned that never came about. You never regret loving as hard as you can.
When Grief Kills Your Faith: Some Practical Advice
(Some days I play the role of advice mallard. So, hang with me as I dish.)
I want to give you permission to pursue your doubts about your faith.
In some faith communities and religious families, the doubters are ostracized. Doubting isn’t just seen as questioning; it’s viewed as something that’s underpinned by rebellion, by sin. The prevailing idea is that, “You’re doubting the faith, so you can leave the faith; and by leaving the faith, you are leaving our family.”
To stave off being ostracized by family and friends, many doubters keep their questions about God to themselves. And, to a degree, it’s okay, except when that doubt is part of your grief.
Doubt and grief are directly correlated. Kenneth Doka suggests that “one of the most significant tasks in grief is to reconstruct faith or philosophical systems, now challenged by the loss” (Loss of the Assumptive World; 49). All forms of grief, normal, complicated and especially traumatic grief produce doubts about one’s faith.
Goodness is sucked away in grief; and many of us base our faith off the presumed goodness of God. When that goodness is sucked into the darkness of grief, the foundation of God’s goodness begins to shake; our faith trembles and sometimes it shatters.
Faithquake.
The dilemma that results is this: we need our family and friends during grief … to share our grief with, to remember and to receive acceptance; yet, we’re afraid we will be ostracized by our family and friends if we express our doubt. Do we: 1. Pursue our grief induced doubts at the expense of our community and at the expense of experiencing the grief within the community; or, 2. Do we pursue our community at the expense of our personal faith searching?
We do both. You need both. You need to accept your doubts and find acceptance in community. And it might be nearly impossibility.
If you are experiencing doubt in a faith community during your grief, tell someone you trust something like this:
“I need to talk and I need you to just hear me and accept me right now. I know your faith is strong and I respect you for your faith, but my faith has taken a hit since ____’s death. Instead of forcing my faith, I’m processing my doubt. _____’s death is changing me.”
If they can listen, you need to talk it through with them. It’s healthy to express your grief within the community of grievers; and if your grief includes doubt, sharing will only help diminish your pain and clarify your outlook.
On the other hand, I want to give you permission to pursue the faith you’ve never had.
Grief can also enliven a newfound belief in God. All of a sudden your darkness sees a light and now – in your community of “unbelievers” – you’re the religious nut.
And you need to say the same thing to your community:
“I need to talk and I need you to just hear me and accept me. I know we aren’t very religious and I respect you and how you live life. But, I’m pursing faith since _____‘s death. I don’t want to convert you, but I want you to know I’m changing.”
The grief that can produce doubt can also enliven faith. And both are okay. And both need to be done in our communities.
Accept your grief. Accept your enlivened faith. And, to the best you can, do so in your community.
Lift & Roll
Today’s guest post comes from Celeste Donohue. Celeste is a writer/comedian who lives in Los Angeles and is also the daughter of a 3rd generation funeral director. Her blog “Death To Hollywood” is about her life growing up in a funeral home and her current life in Hollywood.
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The rear entrance of the funeral home.
The way we brought the bodies in to the morgue was through the alley (SEE PHOTO to the right). There were big white doors (with brass door knobs of course) that would open wide enough to bring the stretcher in. For everyone else on our street, it was their garage. So technically, the morgue was in the garage that was connected to the basement. After the person was embalmed and dressed, we had a motorized lift to take the dead people up from the basement to the first floor. My dad told me that before it was a lift, it was an electronic chair for my grandfather to go upstairs after he had a stroke. Once my dad built the morgue in the basement he took the chair off and replaced it with a piece of wood that he could lay the bodies on.
That lift was fun. When I was really little my dad would let me ride it. I’d sit on it and he would turn the switch on and I’d start to go up the stairs. There was a light bulb on the other side of the steps that I used to pretend was the moon and I was an astronaut on my way up to the moon. Normal kid stuff, if you consider riding a lift for dead bodies normal.
The front of the Donohue Funeral Home
That lift was later replaced with another one that was much more elaborate and cool. The new one actually came up through the floor of the parlor so that the body would already be in the casket and ready for their big day. The other lift couldn’t have held a casket, just a body. Once everything was in place; flowers, etc. no one would know that the lift was underneath the casket.
One time the body came up through the floor, was in the casket and everything seemed fine until the leg of the stand underneath the casket collapsed. We were upstairs watching TV when we heard a loud thud followed by my dad yelling a string a curse words. That may have been one of the few times I heard him say “fuck,” except he yelled it. The leg collapsed, the casket fell and the body rolled out. Luckily this didn’t happen during a funeral, it happened while he was setting up, but the family was due there soon so my dad was freaking out. Naturally, we ran downstairs and the dead lady was in the middle of the floor.
Dead bodies aren’t really fit for moving around once they’re in the casket because they’re so stiff. The body was facing down and when my dad rolled her over, her hands were still folded. Can you picture that? It was funny because people who are alive are just the opposite. My dad wasn’t able to laugh about that one right away, but we did.
Of course, my dad and brother got her back into the casket and everything was fine after she had a slight touch up. The family never knew that their loved one had been face down in the middle of the floor in her fancy dress a couple hours before that. And that’s for the best because there really isn’t room for a lot of error when it comes to a funeral. People are so distraught they probably wouldn’t find it funny to watch a dead body roll out of a casket.
Why You May Never Heal
In Kubler-Ross’ model of grief process, she listed five stages of grief:
denial,
anger,
bargaining,
depression,
and acceptance.
In this process of grief, Kubler-Ross assumed that throughout the whole grief process, the bereaved should be experiencing what Freud called “decathexis”, which is a removal of emotional energy from the deceased; a detachment. Freud then suggested that during and after “decathexis” we will take those emotional energies and reinvest them into another object or person in a process called “recathexis.” Essentially, we find other people to love … and use them to fill the “love hole” left by the deceased.
The assumption to both Freud and Kubler-Ross’ model is that the end of the grief process (healing, acceptance) is a form of detachment from the deceased.
But, I think they’re wrong.
Anna Lamott writes,
“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
Instead of saying that the end of the grief process is detachment and healing, I think we should say that the healthy end of the grief process is adjustment. It’s adjusting to the fact that your loved one is no longer here to share life experiences with you. It’s adjusting to the loss of the future, but there’s never a detachment from the past.
We simply have on-going bonds with the deceased. They will forever be apart of us and instead of trying to “heal” and find “decathexis” (although I don’t think Freud’s idea is categorically wrong), we must learn to adjust and dance with our limp.
Over time, you will learn to adjust to the death of a loved one. A part of you has been lost and you will never find it again, so you must learn to live without it. But, don’t confuse your adjustment for healing. You may never heal.
This from Jandy Nelson over the loss of her sister, Bailey:
“My sister will die over and over again for the rest of my life. Grief is forever. It doesn’t go away; it becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving Bailey because I will never stop loving her. That’s just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don’t get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.”
Maybe the reason we never heal is because our love never dies.
