After we said good-bye and Ken breathed his last labored breath, the Hospice nurse asked everyone to leave the room and let me have a little time alone with Ken. They all left. I found myself in a place I had never imagined I would be...standing at the bedside, looking down on my dear husband’s poor, battered body. I tried to talk to him, but it was so obvious that “Ken” wasn’t there anymore. It was only what was left after what made him who he was had gone. I kissed his face, closed his blue eyes and told him, again, that I loved him. Then I went into the living room and began the process of “making arrangements”.
I am not sure who called the funeral home...it must have been either Mama or Ken’s mom. The house was FULL of people. There were many family members from both sides, as well as people from our church family. I honestly don’t know just who all was there. I just remember feeling like I was stuck in one spot with all of this frenzied activity swirling around me.
The paramedics came, which I think is a requirement whenever someone dies at home. They asked me if I wanted any “heroic measures” done. I blinked at them, trying to figure out why they would try and do anything to resuscitate someone who had already died. When I realized that they were waiting for an answer, I shook my head and said, “No, leave him alone. He’s been through enough.” They went in, confirmed that Ken had no vital signs, and pronounced him dead. {An interesting side note...I had absolutely NO memory of the paramedics coming until almost four years after Ken died. I had always assumed that the Hospice doctor had pronounced Ken over the phone. I’m not sure what triggered the memory, but when it came back, it was clear as day. Funny how the minds works.}
Pastor Keith arrived just prior to the men from the funeral home. He said he would stay in the bedroom with Ken’s body while the men prepared it for transport. I was glad he was there to make sure they treated Ken gently and with dignity. For some reason, everyone tried to keep me from seeing them wheel Ken’s body out on the stretcher. I guess that bothers some people. I remember looking out the front window and watching the hearse pull away. “Bye, Baby”, I whispered.
Pretty soon after that, people started leaving. My family had to get back to Alabama so they could all make arrangements to come back for the funeral. Ken’s family, I guess, went home. Mama stayed to help look after the boys. Jan, my best friend, stayed with me that night so I wouldn’t have to sleep in my bedroom all alone. We talked most of the night, not much sleep for either of us. It was good to have her there with me because if I wanted to talk, she would listen and talk to me. But if I wanted to just be quiet, then she was a loving presence in the stillness.
I had an appointment the next morning at the funeral home. Mama went with me (I don’t remember who stayed home with the boys.) When we arrived, I was surprised to see most of Ken’s family–his Mom, Dad, both brothers and at least one of his brothers’ wives. I didn’t mind them being there, but I wondered why they felt the need to be there since I was the one planning and paying for the whole thing. I wondered if they didn’t trust me to give Ken a proper funeral. I realize how bad that sounds, but all I could think was, “Why now?” Their denial had kept them at a distance for two years, but now that Ken was dead, they all wanted to be there at the end. I didn’t understand...still don’t, really.
Anyway, we all sat around this table and listened to the lady talk about what services they offered and what my choices would be. In all honesty, I had already planned the service in my mind. It was during those endless nights when Ken was so sick and my mind would not stop. I remember feeling guilty about those thoughts as they were happening, but now I see that it was God’s way of helping me out with tough decisions when the time came. So, the only real decisions I had to make at the funeral home were when to have the visitation and funeral, the kind of guest book I wanted, and which casket I wanted Ken to have.
Moving from the dim, hush-toned conference room into the insanely brightly-lit casket room was, for me, the ultimate exercise in the ridiculous. It almost felt like a television commercial, where they open a door and a halo of light comes spilling out. All it lacked was the “ta-daa!” music. When I got to the door, I started to hyperventilate. I remember Mama saying, “It’s going to be alright”, to which I snappishly responded, “No, Mama, there is NOTHING alright about this!” It is a good thing my Mama loves me so much, because that was mean of me to say to her after she had done so much for us. They ushered me into this roomful of caskets, all with the lids raised, and lists of specifications inside. It reminded me of a new car showroom – everything bright and shiny, saying “pick me!”. The lady started telling me about each casket, listing all of its qualities and warranties. She said something about a “life time warranty against leakage”. I’m thinking to myself, “Whose lifetime? Ken is already dead. Besides, if the casket does leak, who’s going to tell us it is leaking?” Craziest thing I’ve ever heard.
I walked across the room, laid my hand on a wooden (either oak or walnut) casket and said, "I’ll take this one". It didn’t have anything to do with its appearance, its price or its qualities - it was simply because it was made of wood. Ken never could abide any furniture in the house that wasn’t made with solid wood. I guess, since that casket was going to be Ken’s final “bed”, I needed it to be solid wood.
We set the visitation for the next night, and the funeral was to be the morning after that, at our church, Boynton Baptist. I wanted the service to be in one of the places Ken loved the most. I also did NOT want his visitation and funeral to turn into the three-day family reunion thing where everybody camps out at the funeral parlor and laughs, visits, and eats non-stop the whole time. I guess it is a regional thing, because that is the way every funeral I ever attended while I lived up there was. The funeral parlors even have full-sized refrigerators for each family because instead of bringing food to the family’s home, people bring it to the mortuary. Darndest thing I’ve ever witnessed. And, in all honesty, to me it seemed disrespectful. I always had a hard time reconciling the party in the back room with the dead person laying in the front parlor.
We had to make one more stop, at the cemetery. I had to buy burial plots and a vault. I chose plots close to Ken’s other family members. I bought two, so I would be able to be beside him when it is my time. Do you know that they give you a deed with a legal description and everything when you buy burial plots? I guess I had just never thought about burial plots being considered “real estate”.
