Death, Be Not Proud
by Karen Williams | October 26, 2006 - Seminole Chronicle
My mother and I used to have conversations about death.
No, we didn't discuss the metaphysical implications of leaving the planet - where we'll go when we die, how we may be rewarded, and whether they'll have television and chocolate up there. The focus was her funeral.
"I want to make sure that you carry out my wishes," Mom would remind me. She seemed to have grave doubts. Admittedly, I hadn't done well as her wish carrier-outer in years past.
My mom had not approved of my first husband.
"He's an OK guy, but he's not for you!" she would insist, and her snarls in the wedding photos reflected those feelings.
I hadn't carried out her wishes when I had more than one child.
"Kids are a lot of expense and a lot of work," she declared. "Why bring that upon yourself more than once?"
As a (predictably) only child, I shouldered responsibility for taking care of my mom in her later years, and I alone would tend to her funeral arrangements when she was gone.
"You promise me that you won't have the casket open when I die," my mom instructed repeatedly. "I just hate it when people stand around and stare at a dead person, and I don't want that happening to me."
"Do you really think you'll care at that point?" I asked hesitantly.
"Yes, I'll care!" she exploded. "I know these funeral homes. They won't get my hair right, and they won't get my clothes right, and people won't think I look natural."
Mom and I had called at funeral homes on countless occasions as I grew up in Indiana, and older people would indeed stand by a coffin, debating whether the deceased looked "natural" or "unnatural." To me, they always just looked dead.
I assured her I'd follow her instructions providing she didn't die in January. There was no way I would return to the frozen tundra of Indiana in January for her funeral.
Mom died on Jan. 15, 2004.
Meeting with the funeral director during an Indiana snowstorm, I explained emphatically that Mom's casket was to be closed.
"I'm sorry to say there's been a problem in this region with funeral homes having the wrong body in the wrong casket," the man explained. "We'd really appreciate it if you would let us have the casket open for just a few moments so you can verify it's your mom and you can also say your last goodbyes."
"Uh, I guess that will be all right," I said with immediate trepidation.
It might have worked out fine had the "calling hours" at the funeral home not been scheduled for lunchtime.
As it turned out, the funeral director was at lunch when I said my final goodbye.
Immediately, friends began to file in and stroll over to the casket, which was wide open with Mom in a pink robe she would never have been, uh, caught dead in.
Struggling to block people's view, I tried to turn them toward the wall as I hugged them while I frantically sized up the coffin to see if I could close it myself.
At last, a staff member appeared and shut the lid.
People looked at me strangely. Many mourners sob when a casket is closed. I, on the other hand, must have looked utterly relieved.
Well, I'd messed up one last time on carrying out Mom's wishes.
But it was Indiana in January, so what could she expect?
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Copyright 2006, Karen Williams
