The Grim Trade

On Wednesday night we took our first field trip.  We went to one of the largest local funeral homes in the area, a very beautiful one that includes its own cemetery and church.  The home itself is modeled after George Washington's house, and it's gorgeous, all white with Victorian touches throughout.  Soft classical music is piped in, and it wasn't for the flat, medicinal smell of the disinfectant, the space would simply seem like the lobby of an elegant hotel.

The woman who runs the home, S, is not what you would think of when you think of a funeral director.  She's bright, bubbly, cheerful, and very passionate about her job, as well as very enthusiastic for the students coming into the field.  I would love to work with her some day.

After meeting in the lobby, we went upstairs to the sales floor.  This home offers packages at incredibly good prices.  That is one of the most positive things about the big funeral chains sweeping through the field - they can offer their clients huge discounts and help ensure that they can hold the funeral that they want to hold.  The people who work at big chains also have a lot of advantages over the people who work at independent homes, such as shiftwork.  Someone is on call 24 hours a day at all funeral homes, and if the home only has two people running it, take makes for a very busy schedule.  Also, the big funeral homes can offer services that the smaller homes can't afford to offer.  One of the most wonderful additions I saw to the more inclusive packages was a year of grief counseling by phone for $95 dollars.  The hotline is open 24 hours a day, and according to S, the service has already saved a couple people from committing suicide.

S is also a big fan of theme funerals, which are starting to gain more popularity.  The days of stiff formality and rigid protocol are starting to fade away, which I think is for the best.  It gives the family yet another way to personalize the funeral, to make it really about the loved one, which paradoxically makes it easier to let go.

S mentioned two highly personalized funerals that I am going to remember for a long time.  One of them was for someone who loved the whole country-western scene, so the coffin rested on bales of hay, his favorite country sounds were piped in, his boots and spurs and hat were arranged beside the coffin, and a saddle was placed on the coffin itself.  Some people might find this tacky, but I don't, because the funeral was about the loved one as a man, not the loved one as remains.

The second one was a gorgeous idea, and it will stick with me even more because S mentioned the decedent's name, which is the name of my best friend, and they were close in age, though the decedent was still in high school.   He passed away in a car accident that involved a fire, and it was bad enough that an open casket was completely impossible.  Restorative artists can come close to working miracles these days, but sometimes, the injuries are too extensive.  Sadly, this was one of those cases. 

Because the decedent was in high school, many, many students were coming to his funeral, but they couldn't see him to say goodbye.  However, part of his last name involved the word "gold"* and so S came up with the idea of having a gold colored coffin and supplying dozens and dozens of gold gel pens at the funeral.  All the students, family, and other mourners got to write their goodbyes on the coffin itself, and when he was placed in the ground, their love went with him.  That's one of the most wonderful funeral stories I've ever heard.  I choked up, and S did a little bit too.

After the sales floor, we went into the "care center," which is where the decedent are embalmed, prepped, and placed in their coffins.  In the long room where cosmetics and hairstyling are done stood a long row of bodies under sheets, a couple coffins, and two bodies under heavy red covers the indicated that they weren't finished yet.

The room didn't smell like death.  The flat, medicinal tang of disinfectant was stronger, but there was no hint of corruption or decay.  That alone made me feel better.  We talked to the embalmers for a little while, and one of the students asked what the difference was between a body from someone's home and a body from the coroner's office.  The embalmer started to explain, then said, "Well here, I can show you," and turned to grab one of the heavy red covers.

I had a split second to think, "How is this legal?  Oh no, oh my God, I don't know if I'm ready to see a body yet.  I need to brace myself, because here we go . . ."

The the embalmer whipped back the cover, and the assistant embalmer, who had been lying on the table, shot up roaring.

To our credit, not one screamed or fled the room.  However, just about everyone jumped back, and a lot of people yelped.  Then there was a huge outbreak of nervous laughter (and some quiet swearing) and all the tension in the room, that I hadn't noticed before, went away.

It's a tradition for the more senior funeral services students to pull a prank on the Funeral Services 100 students every year.   It's something like an initiation, as well as a tradition and a gentle test of the nerves.  There is a lot of horror in this field, and working in funeral services means striking a gentle compromise between emotionally disengaging and being empathetic.  Too desensitized and families will sense it and go elsewhere, and the basic reverence for the task will be lost.  Too emotional, and you become ineffective.  As my instructor says, "The family shouldn't have to comfort you."

After our scare, we left the care center and walked to the chapel beside the home.  It was another beautiful, peaceful space, and S talked to us for a little while longer before dismissing us for the night.  She invited us to come to the candlelight service that her home holds annually for for their clients.  I lost both my grandfathers recently.  One of them lived in Indiana, and no service was held for him.  The other lived in California, and my family on that side does not "do" viewings, embalming, burials, or funerals.  There was a Life Celebration, which was very nice, but nothing beyond that.  I would have liked to have said goodbye, but no one saw the corpse except one of my aunts, who was there in the hospital.  No one else could "bear" it.  But I think it would have been far more healthy to see Grandpa's remains, to achieve closure.  But we are so far removed from death now, and we don't know how to grieve anymore.  This is one of the many things changing the face of the funeral industry.

Overall, I feel very positive about the visit to the home.  I was worried that I would freak out or get upset, but the care center is one of the calmest, most peaceful places I've ever been.  In a lot of ways, if felt similar to a cemetery, very quiet and restful.  It seems like a good place to work.

One of the topics that recently came up in class was the regional differences in funeral service practice.  He wasn't talking worldwide; he meant differences he'd observed in the United States.  Ordinarily, I defend my state tooth and nail, but some of the things he said just made me ashamed of the people here.

On September 26th, my funeral services class is taking a trip to a local funeral home to tour the facilities.  We'll be going through the visitation rooms, sales floors, and care rooms.

"Care room" is a funeral service euphemism for "embalming, cosmetic, and other prep room."  It's the room that most people don't want to think about. 

This trip is a big deal for me, because I've never seen a corpse before.  I'm envious of the students who have been working in homes (one of them even at the home we're going to) and are very "ho-hum" about the whole thing.  In general, I am quite in control of myself, but I'd be lying if I said I knew how I would react to a dead human.  I'm not scared of human remains - the animating spirit is gone and the dead can't hurt you - but I am concerned about my reaction.  I hope that I handle it with grace, and that I don't turn into a screaming, crying mess.  I hope that I don't pass out.   I hope that I don't throw up.  And most of all, I hope that I don't go into the room and realize that I can't do this job.

I first told my mom that I wanted to be a mortician when I was fifteen years old.  I chose rotten timing. Shellacked under a layer of pale makeup with raccoon rings of heavy black eyeliner around my eyes, black nail polish, and sporting a boyfriend who fancied himself a vampire, I looked more likely to dig up a body than put one in the ground.  Add to this that my mother has very set, very opinionated beliefs about the funeral trade, and this topic of conversation could only go in one direction.  "I forbid you to become a mortician!" she said, "It's sick!  Touching dead people is disgusting.  This is just part of this black crap phase you're going through.  You are not going into that grim trade.  Do you understand me?"