The Art of Happiness and Life after Death

Arthur Dobrin has written a book titled:  The Lost Art of Happiness.  He, along with about 12 members of Ethical Culture from four Ethical Culture Societies, just completed a 10 week seminar, discussing the book.  We met for the last time this week--and the final discussion centered on death, dying, losing a loved one, and life after death.

Dobrin has a nice section in his last chapter that talks about the memories that we hold of those we've lost--and that others will hold of us when we are gone.  Not believing in heaven, hell, assorted deities, etc., we might still like to continue for a time in the hearts and minds of those we've touched on our journey.  While there was some discussion of this, there was more in the vein of not having so many connections in this life and feeling unsettled about what happens after life.  "Nothing" was not very satisfying.

I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.  My thoughts might have been even less satisfying to these, mostly, strangers to me, and I did not want to debate.  What came to my mind focused most intensely on funerals and that memory thing.

My experience with funerals falls mostly into the traditions of the Southern Baptist Church.  I've been to a lot of those, from quite an early age.  They have a pattern, which I don't need to recount, and they serve a need for the community.  Serving that need is where my thoughts went in that last seminar discussion.  I wanted to say that funerals don't do the deceased a damned bit of good.  Funerals are rituals that help those left behind adjust to their new status in life.  A husband dies, the wife is now a widow.  A mother dies, the child is now motherless.  Each new status will come with expectations for behavior--from the person whose status has changed and from others who must now shift their relationships to that person.  That's a fairly bald statement of a lot of years of anthropological research (not mine) that points to funerals (and other rituals related to life changes) as a means to assert community beliefs and maintain social organization in the face of change.

What we talked about in the seminar was making sure that we had planned ahead so that our family knows what our wishes are regarding our own funeral.  This will settle future family arguments about what to do--and give us some comfort about our dignity in those last hours above ground.  Well, yes, except that what I wanted to point out is that once you're dead, well, you're dead.  We all know that "you can't take it with you."  We all need to know that "you're not actually going to be present at your own funeral."  I wanted to say that funerals are for the living, not the dead.  What we should be wanting for our loved ones is whatever they need to get through the ordeal, if it is such, of separating from us.  What gives them comfort?  What gives them closure?

I write about this from some experience.  My husband's death was sudden, unexpected.  He had, however, frequently said that he did not want a funeral.  No fuss, no muss, just cremation.  He was also an organ donor.  I honored his wishes.  No funeral.  And I gave permission, at nearly midnight on the day he died, to the caller who let me know that they would be taking him away for a while to let him make one last contribution to others.  I didn't want to know the details, but, yes, he was a giving and caring man, and we both would want him to help someone else in their time of need--and certainly to increase our knowledge of medical science.  So, no funeral and a fragile body from which some parts had been removed--so that, once he had been removed from my late mother's home, I might never see him again.  It was a blow.  I had so much change to cope with at that point, and little support to cope with it.  

Still, I honored his wishes.  Except.  If he was to be cremated, I could not let his body just be tossed in a fire.  I ordered the special casket that is used for cremations and began the two-week wait for the one bay that could accommodate him at the crematorium to become available.  I also knew that his daughter would need to see him to say goodbye, so I arranged with the funeral home that we would have a "viewing" before he was taken to be cremated.  One request that I made was that his casket be covered with a flag.  Even though his "service" was in the Army Reserves, I thought his dedication and service-to-country extended well beyond that brief period of time.  The funeral home was helpful in placing a flag (a loaner) over his casket--and I was comforted by that chance to honor my husband.  Other than that, I had only a moment to talk to him, to tell him that I . . . well, I was cut off mid-sentence as the funeral home representative said that my step-daughter, her mother, and her step-sister had arrived.  And then the discussion turned on their comfort and solace.  A few days later, when I went to the crematorium, there was a moment, when the hearse left with his casket and I followed behind, when my grief overflowed.  This was the funeral cortege--a hearse and me, following behind.  It seemed both appropriate that there would be such a journey and so inadequate for the kind of man that he was.  At the crematorium, I stood at a window and looked at the bays where bodies were consumed in flames, all closed, of course.  I watched his casket enter that larger bay.  I held up as long as I could, but I know that someone came to stand by me and help me survive the closing of those doors.  

And that was it.  No magic words.  No ritual motions.  No comfort.  No closure.  No healing.  

Could I have found healing in words spoken by someone who did not know him?  Could I have had some closure with songs and flowers and family standing beside me?  I had left the church long ago.  I did not want, nor would he have wanted, bible verses and "when we all get to heaven."  Well, honestly, I do like the song.  I don't accept the meaning, but I love the joy and community in singing it.  But it would have meant nothing if sung at some service for my husband.  

His death remained a raw wound for years.  I wrote to him, as I had been doing before he died.  Years of emails exchanged while I took care of my mother in another city turned into long notes about my days, my thoughts, my concerns as I ended or began a day with "notes" written on my computer.  I joined a grief support group at a local hospice.  I eventually found community at the Ethical Society of Austin.  Every event meant to help someone else get through grief became a moment for me to seek some comfort for my own loss.

So what I wanted to say at that last meeting of the seminar is that your funeral is not about you.  You may be the center of your life today, but when you are dead, you are gone, not here, not aware.  Those you leave behind, however, are still living, still thinking and feeling.  It is not your ears that will hear the songs, not your eyes that will see the flowers.  Your mouth will not taste the food of your funeral feast.  The question is not what you want people to do to send you on to your grave (which is pretty much the end of the road for you) but how badly you want them to get on with their lives, grateful to have had some time with you, but prepared to continue living and breathing a little while longer.

Honestly, I don't know what could have helped me get through these past 10 years any more easily than I have, but I do think I needed a chance to say goodbye.  A chance to speak privately with my husband, to talk to him one last time, to finish my sentence.  I was grateful to be able to give him the small honor of a flag.  I could barely see to drive in that last mile before reaching the crematorium, but I remember being grateful to have that particular ritual, wishing that others could have been there to honor him on that journey.  But there was never a goodbye.  I think now that I should not have honored his wishes, because I really needed that goodbye.  Still do.