I went to a visitation, the only public service for a 66 year old woman who died earlier in the week. It was sobering, how small the jar that held the ashes of the woman I remember standing in front of me, energetic, smiling. The man in line just before me crossed himself and bowed his head to the urn. It’s not the same thing somehow. There was a kneeling pad there but no one kneeled at the urn that I saw. I can’t get used to not seeing the body, although I might in the end prefer cremation. It’s a very different experience. Not that it matters what I prefer. I went there for the person’s family.
The woman’s husband recognized me from fund raisers and the like. I was relieved. The woman had worked hard at YSB for many years, retiring some four years ago. His recognition of me meant I was not a total stranger walking up explaining why I was there.
“(Name of the person now reduced to ashes contained in the pretty urn next to us) was a great worker who helped a lot of families,” I said. “But no family meant more to her than this one.” I managed to get the attention of her husband, daughter and son as I said this.
To the daughter I said “She talked about you so much at work. When I saw her she would tell me about your successes at college, your grades, your determination. She was so proud of you.” I was about her age when my sister died. I thought then that standing in line at the funeral home was a form of torture until I was in the line. Then I realized it brought strange comfort.
That is all I really came to say. I came to tell this family that their mother and wife talked of her love for them. You never know how close people are with their family, how demonstrative they are in sharing their emotions. In all likelihood they knew that, but I wanted to affirm it anyway. That was the whole purpose of my visit. I did express to the husband my surprise at his wife’s death because she was relatively young and seemed so healthy and vibrant just a short time ago.
“We knew she had some problems but we had no idea until the diagnosis how serious it was. It was incurable, which was strangely good in a way because she did not have to suffer treatment and if made the end very predictable. We knew exactly what was going to happen and were given a timeline, and that’s pretty much the way it worked out. She was prepared, and accepted it. She did better than us really.”
I left the line after that, skipping her siblings and extended family who I didn’t know. It was short. If it hadn’t been for the couple in front of me who used the visitation as an opportunity to recall with the husband story after story of good times shared with his wife now packed in the urn, I would have been out of there in ten minutes. I think like in golf there should be a funeral ranger, in some type of uniform, maybe a flag attached to him or her, who moves through the crowd and confronts slow line movers, excessive talkers, and informs them “I’m sorry but you’re going too slowly. I’m going to move you up now, drop you off further down the line, in order to speed things up.” Sadly I am aware of no etiquette established or even discussion of funeral line speed protocol. It’s rude to hold everyone else up and we’re too polite to address it. If there is talk of guidelines please tell me. I want to get in on it.
Sixty six, the age of the woman in the urn, is four years older than me now. During August I went to two events related to the death of a woman I’ve known for a long time who died at age eighty three, a much more comfortable twenty one years more than me now. Like my former co-worker she received a diagnosis of an advanced problem in a vital organ and sought no treatment. Instead she immediately told her daughters she wanted to throw a party; a big party with family and friends, a tent in the yard, a porta-potty, the whole deal. She created a menu for the guests; some food catered, some homemade. She told her daughters which women to ask to make what dish. We went to her party on one of the many wonderful afternoons that have graced us this summer. She was sitting by her garage when we arrived, beautifully dressed in a wheel chair. She sat next to her husband of sixty three years in something of a receiving line and welcomed each guest. She knew that we knew that she was soon to pass on. She thanked us for our kindnesses to her during her life and we thanked her in return for her spark, her wit, and her life. At the end of the party she made a little speech, with her son helping her, and then had her daughters take her into the house because she was tired. That was the last time most of us saw her. She was gone in a week.
She planned her funeral right down to the band, the songs they played, the scriptures that were read, and the route of the funeral procession to the cemetery. It was a more traditional funeral, with a coffin rather than an urn, but the end result was exactly the same. Her funeral was a moving experience. Her family shared memories of her as did the priest. We laughed at parts. It was as if she, and the life she lived, was helping us still in our grief.
Death makes old people think of time differently. Unless we’re lucky enough to know with certainty when we will die, like my two friends, we are unaware of how much time remains. But we know too well our time is limited. The end of life and the time that is left means far more to the old than the young. It makes me want to get busy. Please forgive me if I forgo some appointment, some commitment, some time you wish me to devote to a pursuit not my own. I think I’m going to be more selfish with my unknown quantity of time in the future. Here’s a poem written at the end of one of this week’s recent and yes, finite number of days that may help you understand why.
Whiskey poured late this afternoon,
neat,
into an early morning coffee cup,
dissolves the sugar and coffee dried in the bottom,
making Ireland taste at the same time
sweeter and more bitter.
The novel I am writing,
an account of building this shack,
which I’ve announced to my friends,
and they ask about,
gained no words today.
I did the crossword,
read,
ordered more books,
checked my e mail and Face Book too often,
napped,
listened to the radio,
and worried unexpectedly.
And here I thought I was through with worry.
But at day’s end I managed to write this poem,
finish my whiskey,
and call it a day.
I’ll write more words tomorrow.
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