By Dr. Jennifer Lares, the Mulling Mortician
“Give the sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.” — William Shakespeare, Macbeth
I first met you as I slid you onto my stretcher. Your tiny body was so light, unlike most young men. You were an adult on paper but forever youthful in appearance. When I arrived at the mortuary, I decided to begin caring for you right away. I had met with your father earlier in the week, and knew you’d be going home across the sea. That’s when we really became acquainted.
Your father had described the years of medical challenges – the countless surgeries and your mental awareness of the physical entrapment that was your body. You expressed it in poetry and song, paper held in small, disfigured hands. I listened intently as he described your travels and efforts to find solutions, all of which would eventually fail. He showed me videos of the songs and poetry, countless photos of his boy, which I observed at a mental distance. This was all prior to you and I meeting.
When I began assessing your body, I saw all the surgeries, the disfigurement that was your normal posture. I saw the curvy road of your back, and the metal used to affix parts together. I saw the long journey that brought you to me, and it filled me with sadness for you. I used that to fuel my attention to all of the small details. I was gentle but effective, even with the challenges the abnormalities presented. Before I walked away, I brushed your hair one more time, and placed your twisted hands back on your stomach. I turned, feeling the weight of our shared time and left you for the day. Or so I thought …
There’s a moment when the back and front of the house collide in your head. It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, it is difficult to push away. I now had images that displayed what your father’s words couldn’t.
I expressed this difficulty to my colleague and was given support. As time passed and I continued caring for you, I allowed myself the sadness. I tried to prepare for when your dad and little sister would come see you. I knew it would not be an easy day. And then it came….
You looked as peaceful as could be. Your freckles were clearly shown, and the garments and mementos placed as requested. The staff all knew when your family was coming and closed office doors to give them the privacy they deserved.
I waited alone in the entryway, so they would be greeted at once. I felt a tightness in my chest and apprehension of that first view. In my many years, I have always felt the first viewing by the family to be one of the saddest of moments. People can no longer deny what has happened, and they face it in a vulnerable and emotional state. I walk in with them, sometimes our arms intertwined. Other times I walk slightly behind as others are there to provide support.
Today your father came in with your little sister clutching his hand. She was crying before she stepped into the building. When they were ready, we came in to visit with you. As soon as your sister walked in, the wailing started. It echoed throughout the whole building, that visceral sound of pain. A few of my colleagues would later tell me the sound of it was difficult for them.
Some would walk to the other end of the building. I of course saw it firsthand, the grief of a 9-year-old girl over her dead big brother. I looked at the carpet for a moment, then glanced over at the lamp, while they stood next to you. I blinked back tears and swallowed hard.
After a while, when the time was right (you figure that out over the years – when it’s OK to approach), I checked that everything was as they wished. After a small correction to your hair, I stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind me. They knew I was right there, if and when they needed me.
When they felt they had visited long enough for the day, I escorted them out. I answered a couple of questions your father had as I walked with them to the car. Your sister was hiccupping and trying to normalize her breathing, spent and weary. I took your father’s hand for the last time, and as he turned away, he mentioned how much you would have liked me. You and I had similar interests it seemed. I smiled slightly and agreed, and they drove away.
When I came back into the office I went straight to my colleague. “I’m going to need a break before I take another case. Can you help with that?” I asked. Without hesitating he assured me it wasn’t a problem, and I took a rest.
It’s OK to feel things, and it’s OK to say when you need a minute. A healthy organization
fosters that. I hope you, dear reader, have that wherever you are and whenever you need it.
Dr. Jennifer Lares is a licensed funeral director and embalmer in Florida and Texas. She is the founder of Mulling Mortician, a company providing custom onsite and virtual training & education. She has been licensed in Washington, Nevada, Tennessee and North Carolina and served as a Department of Defense Mortician for over eight years.
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