modern death ritual

I’ve always had a difficult time with funerals. I have a tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, most especially when other people are crying. Funerals are sad. I, personally, don’t think they should be, and I honestly believe that being desperately sad at a funeral is a little bit selfish. The funeral is held for the family, to express and deal with grief, though often organizing a funeral only worsens the depressing feeling of losing a loved one. It is also held to revere the memory of someone, but who is doing the remembering, and why? Why is someone sad at a funeral? Is it because this person is gone from their lives? It’s a biological certainty that we are all going to die. We, of course, don’t know for certain when or how, but it’s inevitable. The funerals that I’ve gone to have confused me. I understand the general air of grief and loneliness and loss that accompanies such an event, but when family members and friends start sobbing, I start crying too. Not necessarily because I feel sad, but it’s just my general reaction to tears streaming down another’s face. I cry at TV shows and movies. I cry at letters from my brother. I’ve even cried at a Hallmark commercial before. Maybe I’m unconsciously extremely emotional, but on the surface it doesn’t register to me. My tears are a Pavlovian reaction.

I’ve been to seven funerals in my life – at least that I can distinctly remember. The most recent of these was the funeral for my aunt Cherie. She had just finished a long battle with breast cancer. I remember going to visit her in the hospital. I watched my uncle and my dad, and the utter sorrow evident on their faces. It troubled me to see them so distraught. It was a sad situation, to be sure, and it was difficult for me to see her in that state as well. Her funeral was packed with people I’d never met. It was a nice service, and I tried to keep my sobs quiet, though focusing on that made me miss most of the service itself.

I think the strangest thing for me at these funerals, though I believe it occurs at most, was that afterward we all get together at have a big potluck meal in some church cultural hall. It seems an odd change; people are gloomy or hysterical, and then 20 minutes later smiling and laughing and eating a large meal. A very odd dynamic. But I digress.

Then there was a funeral for an acquaintance of mine, Dustin. I didn’t know him extremely well, but could see that he was a very kind hearted and caring person, as well as a wonderful musician. I believe he was in his early twenties when he passed away. I only really remember what the weather was like, that it was icy. I know that he died of an overdose, though I can’t recall whether it was drugs or alcohol, but I do know he had struggled with his problem for a long time. I didn’t think any less of him for it. His family members were surprisingly gracious and seemed at peace, like they had come to a blessed understanding of Dustin’s afterlife. I felt it was a more appropriate feeling for a funeral, to be happy that someone had lived their lives, and their time on Earth was remembered with love and warmth, rather than getting stuck in the cliché of sorrow and grief.

The funeral for one of the co-owners of the theatre that I’ve worked at for the past nine years was interesting. Anything involving actors usually is; they ‘seem’ to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and perhaps some of them do, but I remember the reactions were more melodramatic than usual. She was a wonderful, strong, kind, amazing woman, who had succumbed to cancer, but had made peace with it and was able to spend a good amount of time with her loving family. The line for her viewing was out the door, and even the LDS prophet (though not at the time) came to pay respects. It was sad, but I mostly went out of a feeling of obligation and a desire to see many of the friends I only see once in a great while.

I had the opportunity to know both my Great-Grandmother and my Great-Grandfather. They were lovely, interesting people. I was asked to sing at both of their funerals, which was nice, but difficult for me, since everyone was already crying and I had to face the entire audience and sing a somber, sorrowful melody while keeping my composure so it sounded nice and didn’t mar the memory of their lives. I think my Great-Grandfather’s funeral was more memorable for me, because he was afforded military honors from being a veteran of World War II (he was flying into Pearl Harbor in an unarmed photography plane when it was attacked). But I was at peace with their passing. They both had lived wonderful lives and left a plethora of offspring which I can call my extended family.

The summer after my Junior year of High School, I received a call from a classmate. She informed me that one of our fellow students had died. I was told that he passed away while attempting to get a high by choking himself and then releasing it before he passed out. He had a seizure, and essentially was hung by his own tool of pleasure. A horrible, horrible fate, and extremely sad and unfortunate. I was also told that myself and the other 11 girls that were in the Madrigal Choir for the next year would be performing a song at the funeral. I don’t think I would have gone otherwise. It was very odd for me to be at a funeral for a 17 year old that I had just seen a few weeks before. It was also my first time seeing a dead body, and to be honest, it was a surreal experience for me. It looked like him, but didn’t. I had a subtle tingling expectation that he would sit up, look around, get out of the coffin and leave.

The first funeral I ever went to, that I can recall, was my Grandfather’s. He was special to me, and still is. He died when I was six years old. My mother received a phone call from her sister, and immediately flew out to California to be with my Grandfather. I remember feeling anxious for my mother, and wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I was worried that everyone was so distressed. I like people to be happy (which is most likely a big reason why funerals bother me). He passed away sometime that night or morning, and the next day my father, little brother, baby sister and myself began the drive to California. We came to his funeral, and I barely remember it, except that it was vividly green and gray and sunshiny, and my mother and aunts sang tearfully under a white shade tent, while I wriggled uncomfortably on a hard folding chair, unsure of what was going on.

So there are my experiences so far with modern civilization’s death ritual, the funeral. Full of mournful hymns, potluck food, tears, flowers (OH, the flowers! So many.) impartial dead people, and confused relatives and friends, nearly all sad and in the smallest way a little bit selfish, because they don’t have that person anymore in their lives. Life goes on, ends for some, continues for others, on and on and will always continue that way until the end of the world, whether it be an implosion, explosion, fiery cleansing of sinful souls, mass alien attack and domination, widespread plague, global warming, or any other number of things.