Holy Sonnet X, John Donne: Death be not proud.
Death is a fact. Dying is an act. After actively witnessing close up the acts of dying my mother and (most recently) my grandmother have participated in, I have come to a few conclusions.
Dying is ugly. I will probably, like most, see back through jellied lenses at what I know and instinctively find ways to convince myself that it was deep. I will make meaning of chaos. But truly, dying is ugly. I believe those who convince themselves otherwise are avoiding the issue or finding ways to be right with it. Thats fine. But at present I cant escape the knowledge of smells, sights, sounds, textures, and smells that linger as tastes. I cant escape indignities, of the body fighting itself and the process of decay. I cant stop struggling to hope for more grace, a quicker route than I have seen pass.
There are those who enact hospice, who find fascination with dying as well as defining themselves as enablers of peace. I do not admire them, but know them to be useful to others. So be it. We have lost our rituals of dying; so that many of us are left to act as best we can, making it up as we go along, stumbling, hoping for better.
I despise funeral homes. There is nothing, nothing at all, more fake than a funeral home (what home is this?). The fake condolences, the fake fluids, the fake box. The fake spaces, which never seem to be completely clean and always a bit shabby, tacky, and inept. The only thing that is not fake about a funeral home is the stark black on white of the legal document agreeing to fork over very real cash, large amounts of it. If one reads the fine print (and I did), it is a laundry list of fake services no one needs. If one takes a mental red marker to the list (and I did), what you are left with is a huge base charge for people you do not know to carry away your dead, pump them with chemicals, and display them for view. The rest are add ons of every sort meant to balloon the profit margin for a business that has successfully lobbied over the years to take over our ability to mourn, to process our dead. The strategic shame game when being offered boxes, the subtle sliding of more services to customers addled with grief, the oh you should discuss that part with your pastor/priest for the things they do not want to handle, and the awkward organizing thats left is all just fakery.
What I and my father know, what we have done to help our dying family members, looms large beside what we did not get to do. We should have been able to complete the process we were so intimately a part of. We did the dying, and were denied the death. The last steps for thousands of years- the washing of the body, dressing, building a simple box, digging the hole, putting the dead in (or burning, if that is your tradition) then covering over- it should be our right. It is the end, and to have experienced the rest and not the end is unfair. It is wrong. It is a step, an essential step, left out. Once in the ground there is silence. Others who came, leave. Then it is time for bills to get paid, letters written to cancel services. Clothes get donated, the room cleaned. A once vital, well loved human finishes becoming memories.
I know I was loved. I know, however fragmented, I was understood. I know I loved in return. They are gone, two of those who loved me most. Two of those whom I loved most. I am left with a smaller circle of care, of family, of those I love and whom know me in return. Death be not proud, but ugly. Inevitable. Now let us be about our business, those of us who witnessed and enough of fakery. We know what has passed, and what is lost. There is no end to the loss, just fact. The act is done.
Goodbye beloved mother, grandmother.