O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

I've had a strong reluctance to take down my Christmas tree this year. What does that have to do with death, and dying, and funeral directing?

Well, maybe absolutely nothing. I do LOVE Christmas and have loved soaking in the flickering magic of a lit tree since I was a little girl. I took an impromptu poll of friends, and while everyone has different excuse, I'm certainly not alone in my procrastination.

But also, maybe it has absolutely everything to do with death and dying. If being a funeral director does nothing else, it provides the constant reminder that life, in the sense we know it, ends. Sooner or later. For everyone. And this year, it has plagued me in a particularly heavy way that each of us, at some point, is living our last Christmas. We just don't know it. Most of us won't know it, either at all or until after the fact.

And while I'd like to believe that it's highly unlikely this was my last Christmas -I can't know for sure. Or maybe it was just the last Christmas before we lost ____________. Fill in the blank with your own pet, loved one, friend, family member.

I know, I know! These are super morbid thoughts right here at the New Year when we're supposed to be setting our goals for life and healthy living, but aren't we all a little motivated by our desire to stave off death anyway? It's there. Lingering in the depths. How lucky are you to have a weirdo friend like me to bubble it up to the surface?!

So, the bottom line is I'm leaving the tree up a little longer this year. Soaking in a few more nights of flickering magic and memories. If it was the last one, I lived it. I was here for it and I'll know I squeezed out every drop. And hopefully, as my grandmother used to say, "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise," I'll get to do it again next year!

Happy New Year RIPeeps!

Another First

I wrote several months ago about my first time dressing a body and how profoundly this affected me. I mentioned how I knew there would be other "firsts" that I would have to work through and I've gotten through many --first hands-on embalming, first home removal, and so on. This week's first came carefully tucked in a cherub casket lined in white with a tiny pink bow pinned to the pillow.

I knew this day, this first, would be hard. It was. I knew I would have to compartmentalize a lot. I did. But the thing that caught me most off guard was the battle between my maternal instincts and the logical reality of the situation. For example, the way that all of us ladies in the office had to talk through the fact that this is the one time it's okay to leave a baby unattended on an elevated surface when everything in us was screaming, "this is not right!" Or how, when touching the palm of her hand, I half expected a grasp reflex and for those tiny fingers to curl around mine. Or how the conversation changes.

Yes, the conversation. I talk to the dead. A lot. And I'm not alone in this. Many of us funeral peeps do it. For me, it's part of the level of care and dignity I think people deserve. It keeps me cognizant of the life represented by the lifeless form. Those (thus far) one-sided conversations usually include lots of explanations -just need to turn you to the side for one second, or descriptions - your girls picked out such a pretty dress for you, and sometimes apologies for the more invasive parts of the process. But it doesn't feel right, it doesn't sound right to say, "okay, sweet girl, let's get you swaddled so mommy and daddy can come see you."

But here we are. I have a friend who lost a child several years ago at about the same age as this baby girl. Having watched her walk this painful journey, I know that this poor mamma has a long, agonizing road ahead and my heart break's for her. And lending even the smallest of steps toward her healing is why we funeral directors will keep compartmentalizing, keep fighting through the cognitive dissonance, keep caring for these little ones.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this particular "first" will not be easier even when it's the thousandth.

RIP Little Miss Sunshine.

I have a midterm today for my Microbiology class. It is a lot of information to remember. A lot! So, how am I spending my time today? Bouncing like a wild devil between stints of studying, writing this blog, and cleaning the nooks and crannies of my house. Does my house need to be deep-cleaned today? Well, yes, it always needs it but today? No, not necessarily. So, why? Why when I obviously have another, much more pressing task, can I not fight the urge to reorganize the bathroom?

The answer is simple. You already know it and you've probably done it a million times. Because when something feels too big (like the names, virulence, symptoms, and treatments for 45 different bacterial infections too big), we humans tend to circle back to something that is manageable. We zoom in on whatever chore, project, or to-do list item will reinstate some small measure of control. Something with a clearly defined start, finish, and result is ideal. We need a little victory to remind us that we can do this bigger, harder thing!

It was in this moment of grasping for control, reciting the chain of infection, and scouring the sink that I remembered my own words regarding a family I recently helped with arrangements: "They seem to be getting bogged down in the little details." I wasn't mad at them by any stretch, but there was definitely that nagging implication of "this is not the best use of my time" built into the observation. And boy, what an asshat thing to say.

Of course they were bogged down in the details. This family had lost a dear member unexpectedly. Some of them were displaced, having traveled from out of state to be with their loved ones. They went in a heartbeat from whatever routine day they had planned, to a calendar full of odd and horrifying reminders like "Funeral home -3:00pm, bring suit and undergarments" and "Attorney's office @ 5:30" and "Call cemetery before noon." Their world was spinning out of control. Their heads and their hearts were at maximum capacity of "too big" and so they circled back and maybe spent too long discussing and deciding what order to sit in for the service -because that choice felt manageable. They needed a little victory to remind them that they can do this much bigger, much harder thing!

So, as I try to cram more knowledge into this head of mine between feverish bouts of sweeping and dusting, I will remember to find the balance between directing --moving the family along in the decision-making process, and waiting patiently while they find their equilibrium.

What about you? What's your go-to task for regaining your composure in the midst of chaos? Spice cabinet? Linen closet? Leave a comment on this page or on the RIPeace Out Facebook page!

Hillside Chat

I'm an approachable person. My friend says I have "one of those faces" that seems to say "hey, come chat with me" even at times I'd prefer to be left alone. Sometimes it's annoying, but it has at other times resulted in some very interesting conversations. This blog is about an occasion in which being a funeral director became more than just being a funeral director thanks to one of those approachable moments. It's a long chat but I hope you enjoy it!

About a month ago, I helped with a service for a family that included a three hour, one-way trip to the mountains for a burial in a family cemetery. After the service the family meandered around between the cemetery and a family member's nearby home. My boss left to go and fill up the hearse for the drive home while I waited for the vault company to show (we don't leave a burial until the casket is in the ground and covered with dirt). As I sat on one of the velvet covered chairs under the big green canopy, a young girl (we'll call her Olivia) came and sat in the chair next to me. It was quiet for a minute as she was looking intently at the casket still hanging over the vault and the hole that would soon envelope it.

Me: It's very shiny, isn't it?
Olivia: (nodding) Will it go in that hole?
Me: Yes. But first it will go inside another larger box. (I lift the curtain veiling the vault to show her.) Then the dirt will go over that box and it will look like all the other graves here.
(Another quiet minute passed.)
Me: Was (name withheld) your grandfather?
Olivia: (nodding yes) This is my first funeral.
Me: Oh. Funerals can be really tricky when you're a kid. (She gave me a quizzical look.) Well, sometimes you may feel sad because you miss the person who has died. But sometimes you may feel bored because, well, funerals are kinda boring. And other times you may feel happy but the people around you are sad and you're not sure if it's okay to be happy. (Olivia kept staring at me intently so I continued.) The important thing to know is that it's okay to feel all of those things. (She relaxed into her chair and threw her arm over the back so that she was mostly facing me.)
Olivia: My dog died a couple of weeks ago and that made me really sad.
Me: That is really sad. I'm sorry to hear that.
Olivia: Have you had any pets die?
Me: You promise not to laugh? (she nodded) Well, I had a really special chicken, named Sally, who died a few years ago.
(She let out a giggle and then quickly covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself.)
Me: (chuckling) It's okay to laugh. She was a funny little bird.

With that, she really opened up. Suddenly I knew all about her family, her school, her best friends, her favorite music, and most importantly, her older brother. She shared how much she loves him and how they get along and play together soooo well UNTIL his other third grader friends come around and then he treats her like she's a baby and he wants nothing to do with her because "those third graders think they're the coolest."

Me: Ugh, third graders are the worst! But...do you know who the third graders think are the coolest? (It was clear this question had never crossed her mind.) The fifth graders! (She almost gasped out loud.) And I don't know your brother but I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and Olivia, I think you are incredibly cool!

She gave me a sideways smile and about that time I noticed a little redheaded girl watching us from across the hill. I asked if they were cousins and Olivia wasn't sure but figured they must be related in one way or another. I shared how she reminded me of myself at that age -all red hair and freckled.

Me: Olivia, I'm going to give you a piece of very, very important advice. Are you ready? (her eyes widened) Always make friends with the redhead!

As if on cue, the little girl made her way over to us, looking as homely as ever with stringy red strands blowing in the wind and a mouth stained with grape Popsicle. She asked if Olivia would like to play. Olivia looked at her, then at me, then back to her and said, "Sure!" Off they went, exploring the hill, picking flowers, and laughing. Later, as her family was leaving, Olivia came running up to me, arms open wide and wrapped me in a huge hug. As she was skipping away, I called out to her, "Olivia, don't ever forget...you ARE the cool kid!" She smiled widely and ran to catch up to her parents.

So, there you have it. Funeral director? Or female empowerment coach? You be the judge. 😉

Beliefs

For those who know my story of transition from Christianity to agnosticism, there is bound to be some curiosity as to how I reconcile my aversion to religion with a job that is, at times, ministerial and often heavily religious in nature . The simplest answer is that (as it should be for anyone) my personal belief system and my ability to maintain professionalism are in no way mutually exclusive.

The slightly longer answer:

I've long been persuaded that all religion really comes down to is who you choose to list in the credits as the end of your life's movie. This job, in many ways, has confirmed that notion. Since my first funeral service in January, I have assisted with Baptist, Methodist, and Lutheran memorials, several Catholic masses, and a handful of completely secular receptions and ceremonies. The differences can be huge from a logistical standpoint, but the content? Not so much. Whether there's a  sermon/message/homily or just friends and family offering encouragement, everyone is saying the same things --"We are hurting. We are missing our friend/spouse/child/parent. We are hopeful that they are at peace. We need each other to get through this." The rest is just a matter of packaging it in the way that gives us the most reassurance.

Death, the great equalizer, doesn't care one lick which god you serve. It doesn't care where, how, or if you believe your loved ones exist after their departure. It neither favors nor spares the members of any religious affiliation. It takes without discrimination and distributes equal heartbreak in its wake. Recognizing this is in large part what allows me to do this job. Pain and grieving after loss are universal. So should our compassion be. Someday it will be our pain. Our loss. And we will want that compassion extended to us.

So, I see myself in this role of funeral director as a witness. I get to be a fly on the wall at the close of someone's story; to witness the moment that will forever divide life into "before" and "after" for those who remain. And I can respect, observe, and even participate appropriately in whatever comfort from religious belief or cultural custom a family leans into as they walk that path. That's how I do it. 💗


Thanks for tracking with me...

because death is a weird space to live in.

(Trying out a new tag line. Let me know what you think. =))

Firsts

I have lots of experience getting people dressed. I've been dressing myself, at least somewhat successfully, for many years now. I've dressed babies. Lots of babies. Oh.so.stinking.many.babies! I've helped dress a family member suffering from temporary paralysis, a grandmother in a nursing home with soiled bed sheets, even a complete stranger in a dressing room once while working retail. (Prom dresses can be a challenge.) Still, I can't say with confidence that any of this prepared me for my first time dressing a body.

Being around the dead doesn't bother me, so when Heather (my supervisor) said "let's go get Mrs. A (not her real name) dressed," I knew I'd be fine from a purely practical standpoint. We put on her bra and panties, her soft knit dress and matching sweater. We had to wet her hair and then blow dry and curl it a bit to get it back to her normal style. At one point, Heather had to leave and told me to go ahead and put a second coat of nail polish on her fingernails and as I did so, I made a deal with Mrs. A. I promised that I would keep her secrets if she would keep mine. (As far as I know, she's holding up her end of the bargain.) Everything went as it should and then we were done and went back to office stuff. And I was fine. Until...

I got in my car to drive home. I started crying. I cried all the way home. I cried as I told Tim about the experience and I cried some more as I texted Heather wanting to know "is it normal to be a big fat cry baby?!" I shared with her that, despite the fact I couldn't seem to shut off the faucet, they weren't tears of sadness -not like the ones her family would shed for her. I didn't know her. They weren't the kind of tears you might shed when something has traumatized you. I wasn't freaked out by it. I just couldn't get past the sheer overwhelm of the privilege, this truly intimate privilege that those moments held. So, I cried and I still cry when I think of her and I cry when I talk about her and yes, I'm crying while typing this blog to tell you about her. And maybe I always will because she was the first.

As time passes, it's highly unlikely that every encounter will have such profound effect on me. There will be lots of firsts as I'm starting this new career. First dressing, first embalming, first infant/child funeral, first... Eventually the firsts will become par for the course, I guess. But I'm writing this blog and bringing you on this processing journey with me so that I can always look back and remember these firsts and never take for granted the high level of respect and responsibility that comes with this intimate privilege.

History and Privilege

I posted a link on Facebook recently to an article written by Didi Delgado.  (A good read.  Check it out here.)  It is one of many articles I've read about the tension between current women's movements toward equality and the frustration of women of color.  They are difficult articles to read because like many of you white chicks out there, I find myself listing all the ways that they can't possibly be talking about me.  But they are.  And that HAS to be okay.  And I HAVE to sit in that uncomfortable reality and regardless of what I consider my "credentials" be willing to listen and learn and FOLLOW.  But if you're still confused by the controversies or wondering how to be part of the movement without unintentionally undermining minority women, I'd like to share some stories from history that may help.

(note: these are summaries of events that are well worth your personal research)

In 1961, on Mother's Day to be exact, a group of mixed race, mixed gender protestors formed by CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) began a journey from Washington on two buses.  Taking advantage of the 1960 court ruling which integrated intrastate travel, the Freedom Riders mapped out a path through and deep into the heartland of the south to challenge state segregation laws with non-violent resistance.  One bus is set ablaze just outside of Anniston, Alabama; its passengers narrowly escaping with their lives.  Meanwhile, the other bus is met in Birmingham by a mob of Klansmen armed with both weaponry and the assurance from authorities that they have 15 minutes to do as they wish with the passengers without any interference from local law enforcement.  The beatings were severe.  Post attacks and with many more obstacles from local whites backed by state officials, the group decided to give up and return to Washington.

Students in Nashville, led by a young woman named Diane Nash, heard that the Freedom Riders were ending their journey and immediately put plans in place to continue the rides.  Many interviewed referred to the fact that these "northerners" (the original group) had only gotten a taste of what life was like everyday for black communities in the south and they simply refused to let the cause die at the hand of the KKK. Several members from Washington returned to continue alongside the students, including John Lewis (the man Donald Trump referred to as "all talk, no action."  Yes, THAT John Lewis).

In this instance, when a group of outsiders (in a manner of speaking) "got a taste" of the injustices perpetuated against blacks in the south, their (completely justifiable) reaction was to give up.  Likewise, white women, under our current administration and throughout his previous campaign year, have "gotten a taste" of what our compatriots have endured for literal centuries.  And while the response has been overwhelming; the Women's March on Washington and sister cities across the globe was phenomenal, it stands to reason that minority women are wary of our stamina. They are rightfully suspicious of our staying power.  We've only gotten a taste. What happens if those scratches become deep lacerations across your back?  What happens if flesh wounds become soul crushing, dehumanizing weights of systemic oppression?  The kind that women of color and marginalized groups have been fighting alone for a very.long.time.

Fast forward a few years to 1964 and the Freedom Summer Project.  This initiative covered a mass of issues but their primary goal was to integrate the political systems of Mississippi through education and voter registration.  But before the program was officially underway, three project volunteers disappeared; two black men -James Chaney and Andrew Goodman, and one white man -Mickey Schwerner.  After nearly two months of little to no effort to locate the men by Mississippi authorities, Mickey's wife, Rita Schwerner, goes directly to Lyndon B Johnson demanding federal resources to aid in the search.  The three men's bodies were eventually recovered in a deep grave but through out the process, Rita Schwerner kept the focus of the search on the greater cause, voicing frequent rebukes that apart from her husband's whiteness, she doubted any efforts would have been made at all to find the volunteers.  And in a 2005 interview ("Freedom Summer" documentary aired by PBS) she explained that she knew if she allowed the media to make the story about "a poor white widow" it would have undermined and been offensive to everyone involved in the project.

This, my fair-skinned friends, is what today's movement needs from us.  This kind of self-sacrificing, shirking off of privilege, eyes open to the bigger picture commitment; an understanding that my grief is no greater than yours and MAY in fact be lesser because I have only "gotten a taste."  The last thing marginalized communities need to be expected to do is to pat us on our crocheted-pussy-hat-heads (yes, I have one and I love it!) while we lick our superficial injuries and say "there, there."  They need us to come out of our own pain, some of it absolutely legitimate, and see the mortal wounds being inflicted all around us.  We have to get over ourselves and stop thinking that we are the cavalry and become the support, the applause, the lifters of the fallen, the shoulders on which they stand -not so that we can be the hero but because we know that from within the fallen, the heroes will rise and we just want to have been part of the history, part of their story.