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Column Rituals of grief drained of power
By JEANNETTE BATZ
Were going to do this our
hometown way, promised Scott, my husbands oldest and best friend.
He was insisting, over my protests, that I call him the minute Andrews
dad died, because even if he and his wife were out of town for the weekend,
theyd come back.
Theres no need, Scott, I said faintly, worn down
by his kindness. The loyalty stuck in my heart, though, and the morning Mal
died, Scotts was the first number I dialed. He was at church, but I left
word, and inside an hour he was climbing the steps to my in-laws house,
laden with food.
Strange to these rituals of mourning, I felt bemused by his
generosity. Would we really want food? Stalwart, Scott helped us tell
neighbors, came with us to the funeral home, and quietly set out platters and
paper plates (hed kept everything as labor-free as possible) when we
returned. Sure enough, people started pouring into the house, and in that odd
way of crisis, everybody was hungry.
We sat around the table, crying and laughing and urging slices of
cake on each other, and I began to understand. It was so much warmer, so much
more honest than the funeral home, a three-story neoclassical edifice where
someone had gingerly placed a silk branch of leaves across a Roman
statues marble lap.
Sex and death, I thought dully, following the funeral
director into a plush, silent office. There he explained that in addition to
the casket wed already purchased, a steel vault would be required to
encase it. You get what you pay for, he said, describing various
degrees of impermeability, the last worthy of a nuclear containment site.
Dazed, my mother-in-law polled us all for our opinion. Ashes
to ashes, dust to dust echoing in my mind, I heard myself blurt,
Bodies are supposed to decompose. The funeral director glanced at
me, tight-lipped, then dutifully wrote down our choice of the cheapest vault,
still $1,000.
Then he started to pen the newspaper announcement: Malvin K.
Cooperman, beloved husband and father, blah blah blah, interment. Er ...
cant you just say burial? I asked, strangely angry. He
looked up, genuinely shocked.
Oh, we never say burial. Its too cold.
Too true, I muttered to myself. Interment sounded like he
was on his way to a Japanese concentration camp. But as we were now in what
theyd called, on our first visit, time of need, I figured my
mother-in-law had more important things to suffer than a stubborn
daughter-in-law arguing semantics. I held my tongue.
We left soon after, breathing easier in the crisp autumn air. The
afternoon passed in a blur of stories, phone calls and fond, fond laughter.
There was so much love, openness and normalcy in that house, I found myself
almost looking forward to the wake, forgetting the dreadful, macabre childhood
memory of my mother being dragged sobbing to her fathers open coffin
because her sisters thought it was obligatory.
The next afternoon, we walked into the funeral parlor. Armed by my
refreshing new maturity, I was ready for the rituals and went right up to the
casket. I recoiled instantly. Mal didnt look like Mal at all. On Sunday
morning, his jaw had been slack, and hed had the utterly relaxed look of
somebody whos fallen sound asleep on the sofa, snoring in blissful
oblivion. After weeks of pain, fear and dread, hed looked genuinely
peaceful. It had been easy to gaze gently at him.
Now, theyd clamped his mouth into wide-awake,
pillar-of-the-community respectability. Theyd distorted his face to make
him look alive, and theyd powdered away the gray-white alabaster dignity
of his death. Paradoxically, theyd only succeeded in making him look
paler, prissier and smaller, somehow, than the 6-foot-4-inch, ruddy-cheeked
bear of a man wed loved. I moved away quickly, turning back toward
stories of the real Mal. But after a while, even the hugs and reminiscences
started to feel oddly hollow.
Then, at 7 p.m., our priest closed the casket, and I breathed a
sigh of relief. My feet stopped hurting, my heart lifted. Finally, we would
break open the constraints of this pastel, generic parlor, admit deaths
finality and acknowledge its greater purpose, its transcendent meaning and
truth and spirit. It didnt quite work that way. The prayers and psalms
were as beautiful and stirring as theyd been for centuries, but people
came from a range of backgrounds, and they werent sure what to expect,
and they had trouble following the handout.
Bowing my head dutifully, I found myself now looking forward to
the burial. Surely the wrenching horror of seeing our beloved Mal slowly,
creakingly lowered into the dirt would jar loose real grief, creating enough
intensity to commemorate the loss.
At the end of the burial service I reached for Kleenex, braced
myself for the cathartic awfulness of the lowered coffin. A moment passed.
Chairs scraped, people rose. Behind us I heard quiet consolation, plans to get
together. People moved away in clusters, and a few car engines started.
They dont do that anymore, a friend whispered, seeing my
confusion.
We drove back to the house and polished off the rest of
Scotts food and the neighbors cakes. By that afternoon, I was back
at work. Unable to concentrate on wider news, I blurted the events of the
morning to another reporter, a good friend. He took it all in silently, then
began to tell me about the traditional Greek death rituals that have lasted
through this century.
The body is shrouded and buried lightly, he said,
and in a year, its exhumed. By then, the flesh has disintegrated,
and what is left shatters into dust the minute it hits the air. Then they take
the skull, and fill it with red wine, and pass it around, and that is the
moment of catharsis for anyone who has unfinished business with the person who
has died.
How macabre, I thought. How healthy. Death is every bit that
visceral, and that powerful. We do everything possible to diminish its power --
joking with the hospice nurse and offering her coffee on the morning of the
death, tacitly reassuring her that were still polite and reasonable,
were not going to make her uncomfortable with messy grief.
We remember to inquire about fellow mourners jobs and
families, eager not to seem consumed by our own grief. We throw ourselves into
the practicalities. None of this distance can hide the fact that a man we
loved, a man who was very much alive, is now dead. The world has been
diminished. The change will ripple, in varying degrees, through every life he
ever touched, for years to come.
You wouldnt know it from the bland, proper forms that,
drained of passion and frozen into convention, pass for ritual in modern
society. We go through those motions, but they dont really help. In the
end, we have only our memories, and our faith, to help us bury him lightly.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer for The Riverfront Times,
an alternative weekly newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, December 17,
1999
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