1995 was a hard year for us. In April, our son of eighteen years died from an aspiration pneumonia. Later that year in December, Peter’s father who had been suffering for several years with Alzheimer’s passed away. Then, on a sunny February morning, our old dog, Chuck, laid down in his favorite spot in the dining room and never woke up. I was devastated by all of these events, and the last one was almost as big a loss as the others.
This took us into the world of funeral homes, planning funerals, burials, and all the other rituals surrounding death that most of us hope to avoid in our lifetime, but know we can’t.
Michael was our dear little boy who struggled throughout his life having been born two months early and suffered severe brain damage making him unable to care for himself or have any cognitive ability. We anticipated that he may not live a long life, but when the moment comes you are never fully prepared to say goodbye.
The afternoon after he died Peter and I had an appointment at the funeral home. Those places think it is a comfort to the grieving families to have sad, slow organ music playing in Musak through little speakers hidden in the ceiling, low lights and flocked wall paper to compliment the Harvest Gold shag carpet in their office. The atmosphere is further enhanced by the shadowy shapes of caskets on display through the door in the next room so that when you get ready to choose the send-off box, it is only a few steps away.
After we got through that, Peter suggested that we get the rest over with and go on out to the monument place and pick out a headstone. This was to be our family’s marker since we hadn’t buried anyone in our immediate family up until now.
We arrived at the place and started wandering around the samples in the yard outside of Rochester Monument Company. Soon a salesman came out to greet us. He informed us that we were fortunate since that day they had a 10% off sale on all headstones. We looked at the guy for a minute and then I said, “So, it is cheaper to die today than yesterday?” He looked a little embarrassed and recovered quickly as he began to show us his wares. We had zeroed in on a grey, rough-cut stone and pointed that out to our salesman. He said, “Oh, that is a wonderful piece of stone. Cut in Virginia. It is a Rock of Ages stone. Guaranteed for life.” Peter responded, “Whose life?” Things went downhill from there, but since this was the only company in town, we made our choices and got out of there.
After that experience, the rest of planning the funeral was a piece of cake. We chose the music – no congregational singing, just violin and piano ending with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” The service was a tribute to a little boy’s life with standing room only.
By the time Peter’s father passed away, we felt we knew how to do all this stuff. Since he was to be buried in a little niche in the wall of their church next to Peter’s mother, that part was relatively easy. Planning a funeral in an Episcopal Church is easy, too. Because at those Episcopal funerals they never mention the person. I guess it is a one-size-fits-all approach.
We met with the organist and chose a few favorite old hymns of Haddon’s and then chose the Hallelujah Chorus to be played on the organ with no congregational singing. When the time came to celebrate the long and significant life of this father, husband, physician we felt that a December funeral and the Hallelujah Chorus was most fitting. The only problem with that was the organist didn’t know how to play it! We sat looking at the hands in our laps as she struggled through page after page. It’s too bad we hadn’t chosen “The Old Rugged Cross” in F.
By now we were old hands at this funeral stuff, but two in one year were plenty.
We didn’t give the same consideration to Chuck. The evening after he died, Peter and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about our old dog. He said, “At least we don’t have to plan a funeral.” I nodded and didn’t say anything. Then Peter said, “I guess we could have had some music, like “Where oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone.” We got the giggles and I said, “Or, How Much is That Doggie in the Window.” This got us laughing more and through the tears and laughter Peter said, “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.”
After a tough six months of death and funerals, the laughter felt good. As one of my dear friends said to me after Michael was born with all his problems, “You have to keep your sense of humor because some things are just so goddamn sad!”
Copyright © 2024 by Carol Carryer
This is such wonderful piece! My husband and I also developed a bit of a morbid sense of humor after a great loss. While others would have been shocked and mortified, it further bonded us together in our grief. The world of death and funeral planning is unique indeed. Thank you for sharing.
I’m touched by all of your kind comments. Thank you all.
What a tough year that must have been for you. I remember well the difficulties of trying to deal with devastating loss and still having to attend to all of the details that go along with planning a funeral. And yes, it is not only acceptable, but downright healthy to stop and laugh once in a while, even in the midst of deepest grief. It is a lovely essay, full of pathos and humor.
Finding this post, just 2 days following “a day of gratitude” for many, seemed timely. Indeed, one is never truly ready to “say goodbye” when it comes to a son/daughter, a father-in-law/parent or family pet. At the time of loss finding a lighter side, and laughing, can be challenging. With the passing of time, as you share here Carol, each of these losses in your life have left you with warm memories and moments to chuckle over. A heartfelt undercurrent comes through in your written words here. Peace.
What a beautiful telling of some of the moments that have made you, Carol, such a wonderful person. Loving, funny, resilient, and deeply honest. I treasure knowing you.
As they say, we don’t get out of here alive . . .