Funeral Rites
May. 10th, 2007 03:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947With all the deaths and funerals I’d experienced these last four years, I really thought I’d become adept at dealing with them, emotionally and practically. I was especially proud of my apparent willingness to attend the funerals of peripheral acquaintances – parents or friends of family members or co-workers. I thought I’d come to the point where I could rationally assess my connection with “the departed”, or their family, and decide, very dispassionately, whether or not to attend the funeral or burial. I was quite pleased with myself, especially when my decisions would surprise and gratify Kathy, who was always more sensitive and responsive to these matters. Well, Patty’s death and funeral services really knocked the underpinning of these conceits out from under me. I still have a long way to go in coming to terms with death.
Patty was our housekeeper, and she died last week. Her death was sudden and unexpected. It was only three weeks ago that she spoke to Kathy by phone, telling her that she was ill and unable to clean the house. Her friend Blanca would come in her place, and she would return the following week. Instead, we learned later, a doctor’s visit to treat the pain in her arms and shoulders resulted in the discovery of advancing stomach cancer. Patty died the following week.
Kathy and I did not know how to deal with this death. I certainly did not. We had known Patty for almost 15 years, but only as a housekeeper. She came to our home once a week, arriving after we left for work, and leaving before we returned. In all that time, we probably spoke to her for a total of 10 hours, in a mixture of English and Spanish. I always felt more like a contractor than an employer. Our contacts were usually by telephone and written notes, or very brief greetings when we crossed paths in the morning. In fact, on the occasions when I did not go to work on a cleaning day (Fridays), I would purposefully leave the house so as not to be in the way of her cleaning.
Patty was quick, dependable, and hardworking. She was friendly and personable in our brief encounters and, until three weeks ago, very healthy. Her absences were for holidays or trips, never for illness. The few times that she was unable to work, she called to reschedule, or sent her friend Blanca as a replacement. Now she was gone; from a telephone call saying that she was not feeling well, to total disappearance.
I can’t even guess how this news affected Kathy, because we did not talk about it in any depth. The sum of our comments on the subject was, “I can’t believe she died so suddenly”, or “I can’t believe she’s gone”. There was no further elaboration. We kept the subject at arms length. Blanca had assumed the housekeeping duties, and she kept us informed of the funeral arrangements. Last Friday, she called to say that there would be a viewing at a mortuary on Sunday, and the funeral and burial on Monday.
Kathy really had a difficult time with this news. The viewing was at the same mortuary that was used during her sister, Debbie’s, funeral services, four years ago. She still harbored painful memories of the experience, the coffin, the music, and the setting. She did not want to go and relive it through another death. After anguishing over this matter, she finally decided that she would not go.
I was – detached. I had not let any of these events touch me over the last three weeks. The house was being cleaned, and I rarely had physical contact, or communication with Patty. It was as if she wasn’t gone – she’d merely changed her name to Blanca, and switched her work day to Thursday. However, Kathy’s distress about the mortuary finally slapped me out of my denial. I realized that I had never dealt with the news, or the fact, of Patty’s death. I just pushed it aside and pretended that it hadn’t happened. I was keeping up this pretense because the house was being cleaned. Clean house – no death. I didn’t want to deal with the loss of a person’s life, if I didn’t have to. It was not like the deaths of Kathy’s mother and sister, or the death of the parents of friends or co-workers. Those deaths forced me into the emotional maelstrom of anger, grief, and loss. Those deceased were related to me by blood, marriage, and emotion. I didn’t want to do that again, so I pretended that I had not suffered a loss, merely a substitution.
On Sunday morning, as I was writing in my journal, I decided to go to the mortuary. The act of writing gave me the opportunity to process my relationship and duty to Patty, without having to assess my feelings.It finally struck me that I had been Patty’s employer for over 15 years, longer than most teachers and co-workers at my different schools. I had an obligation to attend at least one of Patty’s funeral services. It is what I do when a teacher or staff member dies. My presence is a respectful gesture to the deceased, and their family. It is what I do as a principal, and Patty deserved no less. I would attend in my professional persona, putting aside my discomfort at walking into an emotionally charged situation, filled with grieving people, whom I did not know, and did not share their sadness. I would put on my dress suit (of armor), meet Patty’s husband and family to convey my sympathy, and present an air of professional courtesy and respect.No one would be able to read my mind or perceive my inner turmoil; they would be caught up in their own grief and sadness. I would be there to express my condolences.
Kathy was enormously relieved when I told her of my intention to go to the mortuary. She had a sympathy card signed and ready to present, and she gave me excellent advice about the appropriate monetary donation to include. I thought I was doing fine in my professional role until I drove into the parking lot of the mortuary. There, I suddenly felt myself gasping for breath, as though I was drowning in a sea of melancholy. It was the same mortuary that was used for Debbie’s funerary viewing. Waves of free floating anxiety crashed over me, and I desperately wanted to escape. But I could not flee. I was trapped by my own sense of obligation. I had to see this through and analyze my sudden reluctance later. I tried to calm myself by thinking of my writing. Perhaps I could use this situation as a writing prompt to explore the feelings I was experiencing. I might discover some new insights into myself about death and grief. I concentrated on breathing deeply and calming my anxieties. I was finally able to step out of my car and walk to the mortuary.
Thankfully, what followed next was a synchronistic series of events that guided me through this difficult time. As I approached the door, I was intercepted by a relative who took me directly to Patty’s husband. I was able to immediately convey my sympathies to him and his sons, who were standing next to him. I gave them Kathy’s card and expressed her condolences. I signed the register, and met Blanca, Patty’s friend, inside the viewing room. I gave her a hug, and we spoke of Patty for awhile. I told her that I wanted to sit for a time, and then leave. Blanca thanked me for coming, and left to attend to others who were arriving. I sat for about 10 minutes and left.
I felt like a failure as I drove home, a failure as an employer and a writer. I had not maintained my detachment from this place of family loss and grief. I had been overwhelmed by my desire to flee. I had gone through the motions of giving solace while in a high state of discomfort, and I had failed to note any descriptive details about the people, room, or situation. My plan to be present as an employer and writer was in shambles. I was simply a man dealing, once again, unsuccessfully with death.
Dying is difficult for the living, and it doesn’t get better with practice. This is the realization that kept ringing in my head as I drove home. Each death is different, and it affects people differently; we deny it differently, we suffer differently, and we grieve differently. There is nothing predictable about how we deal with death. The only certainty is that we will die, and we won’t worry about how others deal with it.
Patty was our housekeeper, and she died last week. Her death was sudden and unexpected. It was only three weeks ago that she spoke to Kathy by phone, telling her that she was ill and unable to clean the house. Her friend Blanca would come in her place, and she would return the following week. Instead, we learned later, a doctor’s visit to treat the pain in her arms and shoulders resulted in the discovery of advancing stomach cancer. Patty died the following week.
Kathy and I did not know how to deal with this death. I certainly did not. We had known Patty for almost 15 years, but only as a housekeeper. She came to our home once a week, arriving after we left for work, and leaving before we returned. In all that time, we probably spoke to her for a total of 10 hours, in a mixture of English and Spanish. I always felt more like a contractor than an employer. Our contacts were usually by telephone and written notes, or very brief greetings when we crossed paths in the morning. In fact, on the occasions when I did not go to work on a cleaning day (Fridays), I would purposefully leave the house so as not to be in the way of her cleaning.
Patty was quick, dependable, and hardworking. She was friendly and personable in our brief encounters and, until three weeks ago, very healthy. Her absences were for holidays or trips, never for illness. The few times that she was unable to work, she called to reschedule, or sent her friend Blanca as a replacement. Now she was gone; from a telephone call saying that she was not feeling well, to total disappearance.
I can’t even guess how this news affected Kathy, because we did not talk about it in any depth. The sum of our comments on the subject was, “I can’t believe she died so suddenly”, or “I can’t believe she’s gone”. There was no further elaboration. We kept the subject at arms length. Blanca had assumed the housekeeping duties, and she kept us informed of the funeral arrangements. Last Friday, she called to say that there would be a viewing at a mortuary on Sunday, and the funeral and burial on Monday.
Kathy really had a difficult time with this news. The viewing was at the same mortuary that was used during her sister, Debbie’s, funeral services, four years ago. She still harbored painful memories of the experience, the coffin, the music, and the setting. She did not want to go and relive it through another death. After anguishing over this matter, she finally decided that she would not go.
I was – detached. I had not let any of these events touch me over the last three weeks. The house was being cleaned, and I rarely had physical contact, or communication with Patty. It was as if she wasn’t gone – she’d merely changed her name to Blanca, and switched her work day to Thursday. However, Kathy’s distress about the mortuary finally slapped me out of my denial. I realized that I had never dealt with the news, or the fact, of Patty’s death. I just pushed it aside and pretended that it hadn’t happened. I was keeping up this pretense because the house was being cleaned. Clean house – no death. I didn’t want to deal with the loss of a person’s life, if I didn’t have to. It was not like the deaths of Kathy’s mother and sister, or the death of the parents of friends or co-workers. Those deaths forced me into the emotional maelstrom of anger, grief, and loss. Those deceased were related to me by blood, marriage, and emotion. I didn’t want to do that again, so I pretended that I had not suffered a loss, merely a substitution.
On Sunday morning, as I was writing in my journal, I decided to go to the mortuary. The act of writing gave me the opportunity to process my relationship and duty to Patty, without having to assess my feelings.It finally struck me that I had been Patty’s employer for over 15 years, longer than most teachers and co-workers at my different schools. I had an obligation to attend at least one of Patty’s funeral services. It is what I do when a teacher or staff member dies. My presence is a respectful gesture to the deceased, and their family. It is what I do as a principal, and Patty deserved no less. I would attend in my professional persona, putting aside my discomfort at walking into an emotionally charged situation, filled with grieving people, whom I did not know, and did not share their sadness. I would put on my dress suit (of armor), meet Patty’s husband and family to convey my sympathy, and present an air of professional courtesy and respect.No one would be able to read my mind or perceive my inner turmoil; they would be caught up in their own grief and sadness. I would be there to express my condolences.
Kathy was enormously relieved when I told her of my intention to go to the mortuary. She had a sympathy card signed and ready to present, and she gave me excellent advice about the appropriate monetary donation to include. I thought I was doing fine in my professional role until I drove into the parking lot of the mortuary. There, I suddenly felt myself gasping for breath, as though I was drowning in a sea of melancholy. It was the same mortuary that was used for Debbie’s funerary viewing. Waves of free floating anxiety crashed over me, and I desperately wanted to escape. But I could not flee. I was trapped by my own sense of obligation. I had to see this through and analyze my sudden reluctance later. I tried to calm myself by thinking of my writing. Perhaps I could use this situation as a writing prompt to explore the feelings I was experiencing. I might discover some new insights into myself about death and grief. I concentrated on breathing deeply and calming my anxieties. I was finally able to step out of my car and walk to the mortuary.
Thankfully, what followed next was a synchronistic series of events that guided me through this difficult time. As I approached the door, I was intercepted by a relative who took me directly to Patty’s husband. I was able to immediately convey my sympathies to him and his sons, who were standing next to him. I gave them Kathy’s card and expressed her condolences. I signed the register, and met Blanca, Patty’s friend, inside the viewing room. I gave her a hug, and we spoke of Patty for awhile. I told her that I wanted to sit for a time, and then leave. Blanca thanked me for coming, and left to attend to others who were arriving. I sat for about 10 minutes and left.
I felt like a failure as I drove home, a failure as an employer and a writer. I had not maintained my detachment from this place of family loss and grief. I had been overwhelmed by my desire to flee. I had gone through the motions of giving solace while in a high state of discomfort, and I had failed to note any descriptive details about the people, room, or situation. My plan to be present as an employer and writer was in shambles. I was simply a man dealing, once again, unsuccessfully with death.
Dying is difficult for the living, and it doesn’t get better with practice. This is the realization that kept ringing in my head as I drove home. Each death is different, and it affects people differently; we deny it differently, we suffer differently, and we grieve differently. There is nothing predictable about how we deal with death. The only certainty is that we will die, and we won’t worry about how others deal with it.
