Cremation and The Confessions Of A Small Town Funeral Director
When I lived in a large city it would bother me when someone would declare that I “must be able to harden to all the tragedy that a funeral director sees. “I would never want that to be true of myself. In my town when tragedy strikes the community instead understands that it is difficult for me too and they are concerned for my well being. There are always baskets of goodies left at my front door by the church ladies or a hug and thanks for doing what I do. It’s the thing I rely on when so often I’m caring for people that I know. They are not potential customers or prospects; they are neighbors. This is you see the paradoxical curse and blessing of being a small town funeral director. It’s why in between deaths I can’t sit around wondering which one of them will be the next to go. I prefer instead to put it out of my mind and stay busy around our little farm on the tractor or making maple syrup in the sugar house. I stay busy trying to help out in my community and when someone needs my help I stop what I am doing and I go. It rained again this morning and it made me think about an event that happened three years ago. At that time I stood under a canopy at Pleasant View Cemetery with the hospital chaplain and the parents of a child who had died shortly after birth. They had come to say goodbye to someone they never got a chance to know. There were no memories of happier times spent together no humorous stories from her life. All they could do was say goodbye. As we stood in silence a warm spring rain began. The drops falling from the edge of the canopy made it seem to me as though the heavens too were crying. This was their first child and the grief they were experiencing was profound. Under umbrellas I helped the parents and the chaplain into their cars and they drove away. As I stood under the canopy alone waiting for the cemetery workers I tried not to but I could not help but to think about my own family. How fortunate my wife and I had been with our four children not to have experienced that kind of heartbreak. Our children had all been born healthy. Never had we gone to the crib in the morning to find one of them cold and lifeless. God willing they will live long productive lives and bring us grandchildren in our old age. As the cemetery workers drew closer I felt tears streaming down my face. Not wanting them to see I stepped out from under the canopy and turned my fact to the heavens. My tears were instantly combined with rain drops my secret safe. Now it seemed to me that the tears and the rains had gathered together in one place for one brief moment the sadness of all the families I had tried to help over the years. My friend Christopher, the hospital chaplain who stood with me that afternoon died last year. He was 38 years old. He had a seizure that revealed a brain tumor that would eventually take his life. Two nights before he died I had the privilege of sitting up with him all night, pushing the button on his morphine pump whenever it would allow. At one point he came up from his narcotic induced coma and mumbled to me, “good nurse. “Two nights later he died. Another of his friends, Dan and I carefully place Christopher on the stretcher covered him with a quilt and took him out to the van. Back at the funeral home I sacramentally bathed his tired body, trying to remove any signs of dreaded disease that had claimed him. The cancer could not harm him anymore. The next day we dressed Christopher in jeans and a t-shirt and he and I took one last ride together to the crematory the long way around. I find myself thinking I’ll bump into him at one of his favorite places, like the coffee shop or the library, places where I expect to see him still. His death tore the fabric of our community and I miss him. He was my friend. The day before his funeral two brothers , one 17 and one 12 pulled out of their driveway for a road trip to visit their mother who lived two states away. Less than a mile from their house the family dog jumped into the lap of the eldest who was driving causing him to lose control and sending the car over the embankment. His unrestrained 12 year old brother was thrown from the car, which then came to rest on top of him. He died as his older uninjured brother ran a half mile to the closest house to call for help. Jake sat quietly as his parents made funeral arrangements for his brother. When it came time to pick out a casket Jake stayed behind. After I had finished explaining the caskets to his parents while they spent time looking around I went back and sat with Jake. I told him that he was a good kid and how sorry I was. He said nothing in return. There were other things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him that sometimes people die and it’s no one’s fault that his little brother was lucky to have someone who cared enough to want to spend time with him even though he was five years younger. But anything else I might have said was cut short by the lump welling in the back of my throat. So we just sat silently waiting for his parents to return doing our best not to cry. The car insurance paid most of the bill. I could not bring myself to press the father for the balance. The rest of the payment would come from a good night’s sleep knowing that some things in life are too horrific to demand a fee. I couldn’t add a financial burden to the tragedy of losing a son in such a manner as this. Perhaps I was just trying to be a good neighbor. Or maybe I was just trying to make myself feel better. It just seemed like the right thing to do. While I’m sure that most people find me very helpful I am not under the lofty illusion that I can somehow magically reverse the sting of grief. Sometimes I feel that the best I can do is to stand with them, guide them through several difficult days and along the way try hard not to make things worse. Recently I stopped off at the grain store on the way home from work to pick up some feed for the horse. As I entered the store I could see Jake several aisles over, stocking shelves. He looked up as I entered and without smiling quickly tipped his head up his way of saying hello. I gave the clerk my order. As I finished paying the clerk grabbed the walkie-talkie to radio my order to the yard. But before he could speak, Jake shouted “I’ve got this one. “It was the week before Christmas and quite cold outside-single digits as I remember. Jake went to the back room and found his coat, then silently joined me as I walked out to the grain yard. He went about loading the grain into my truck and as he threw the grain into my truck and as he threw in the last bag he looked up at me and with the faintest of a smile said “have a nice Christmas, Mr. Garner” “you, too Jake. ” I said “you too. “I went home and changed my clothes then went out to the barn and unloaded the grain. And as I mucked out the horse’s stall this time I cried. My best friend is a respected local physician of long standing. Sometimes when community tragedies are mounting we retreat to his hot tub and over a cold beer try to make sense of it all. He delivers the news of terminal illness to members of our close-knit community and I sit with them months later when the disease has run its course. I don’t think that we’ve ever really come up with any profound wisdom on the subject-nothing to explain away the human condition or give us some unique ability to treat it all as though in the long run it doesn’t really matter, anyway. But this much we believe; it does matter. When someone we love is taken away we will grieve and we will miss them. Living in a small community we try to help each other through life’s tragedies and we give thanks for each other. Perhaps my doctor friend and I feel fortunate that our unique perspective on the issue makes us a little more grateful for the gift of life and for the closeness of friends. And though it’s not ever easy to be front and center for this town’s illness and grief far from being a burden it is a privilege. I like to think that it in some way defines part of who we are and of how we will be remembered when we like our friend Christopher have gone.
If you or a family member have any further questions or concerns with respect to cremation, cremation services, cremation costs or a direct cremation please feel free to contact Cremation Options toll free 24 hours daily at 1-877-989-9090.