Perspective Reviving an after-death ritual
By PATTY McCARTY
When my phone rang after 11 one
recent night, a womans voice asked for Patty. Then I heard my friend
Barbara. She was crying.
My mom just died. I dont know what to do, she
said.
Where are you?
At the nursing home.
Do you want to wash her body? Do you want me to
come?
She gave the phone to the nurse who gave me directions. I told the
nurse we would wash Barbaras moms body and I would be there soon. A
friend who is a nurse once told me to tell the nurse what you plan to do.
Otherwise a nursing assistant would wash the body.
I put a stubby candle, candleholder and matches into a cloth
grocery bag. I found the tube of fragrant cream we used when my daughter and I
washed my mothers body three years ago. I must have told Barbara about
that.
I need a crucifix, I thought. I chose a blue crystal
rosary with a nice gold-colored crucifix.
Years ago I first encountered the practice of friends or relatives
washing the body of a dear one when a friend, a special education teacher, died
young of leukemia. Margie had a large circle of friends who took turns staying
with her from the time of her diagnosis and hospitalization through her death.
Several gathered to wash her body and rub her with oil. The practice was common
in the days when people died at home.
It gave me something to do for my mom when there seemed to be
nothing left to do, expressed something words couldnt convey.
At the nursing home, my dear teary Barbara led me down the hall to
her mothers room. She said, I called my aunt. She said we
couldnt do what were going to do.
The bed near the door was empty and the covers turned down. The
woman who shared the room must have gone elsewhere for a while. The body was in
the bed near the window. I was surprised at how much Barbaras mother
resembled my own mother in death -- the slender nose, white hair fanned out on
the pillow, mouth open in the same oval.
Pat Marrin, a coworker on the NCR Company staff, recently told me
about seeing his fathers dead body. Pat said, His mouth was open in
what seemed a final great cry of praise.
I had never met the recently departed Marie, who made her
transition to a new life at age 83. I touched her cheek and was surprised it
was still warm. Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord
I
prayed. I asked Barbara if she would like to sing. She shook her head.
Last time I sang to her she moaned. But you can sing. I sang as
many of the words of Gentle Woman as I could remember.
Barbara asked the nurses if we could light the candle. That was
OK. They brought us a basin, some washcloths and towels. I gave Barbara the
rosary. Should I put it on? she asked. Catholics usually hold
rosaries, I said. If I hold it, I wont be able to use my
hands, she said. She wore it like a necklace.
I filled the basin, set it on the bedside table, dampened a
washcloth and handed it to Barbara. She lovingly washed her moms face and
lips. You wont need this body anymore, Mom, she said.
Its all worn out. She washed her mothers hands and
arms. We removed the hospital gown. Poor woman has only one breast,
Barbara said. She washed her moms shoulders and torso. I freshened the
water and removed the padded booties that protected feet that had walked so
many miles.
Barbara washed Maries thighs, legs and feet and applied the
fragrant cream. Her legs are stiffening, Barbara said. She smoothed
the covers across her mothers torso and legs.
How can we leave? she asked. We sat and talked about
her mothers life. Marie was a descendent of pioneer people who lived in
Kansas before there was a Kansas. She taught school for many years. Barbara
wondered about a good day for the funeral and how to handle the obituary. She
wondered if her brother who lives in Paris and had visited last fall would come
again so soon.
Youre having quite a year, I said. Barbara is
going through a painful divorce. Her 10-year-old son was spending the night
with a neighbor. Her husband had plans for the weekend.
We can ask the nurses for plastic bags and take your
moms stuff, save you a trip tomorrow, I said. We packed several
pictures and cards. Barbara left a few pieces of clothing to be passed on to
whomever might need them.
She thanked the nurses and aides for their good care. I waited in
the hall while she said goodbye to her mom. As we walked to our cars, Barbara
said, Im glad we did that. I, too, was glad.
Patty McCarty is NCR copyeditor. Her e-mail address is
pmccarty@natcath.org
National Catholic Reporter, February 15,
2002
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