I Embalm the Grandparents
I Embalm the Grandparents
Unfortunately, there’s something uncomfortable at the center of this piece, and I’d like to start by dealing with it, so no one feels weird while reading: My grandfather died last November. He was a spectacular human being, but he was also 94.5 years old and in rapidly declining health, so while we all miss him, we also know it was time and that his quality of life was not going to amount to much. That doesn’t mean it’s nice or fun or that I’m not sad, but it does make it a little more tolerable.
When someone dies, surviving relatives often leap into their postmortem responsibilities. Some are on notification duty, getting the word out by calls, texts, and Facebook to everyone who needs to know and some who don’t—hoping not to forget anyone because we all remember what happened when Carole forgot to tell Mrs. Doris when grandma died, and she had to find out from the newspaper! Some are on research duty, hitting the internet searching funeral homes in the area, reading reviews, and calling about options and pricing. Some sprint to the closet to find the perfect viewing outfit. Some break down and become completely non-functional. And some raid the house while everyone’s distracted to ensure they get the items they want because “Daddy wanted me to have the Winchester” is basically the same as probating a will, right? Everybody plays a part.
With my five-generations-deep-in-funeral-service family, it’s a little different. My father, the funeral director of nearly 40 years, contemplates clothing options—“We need long sleeves. That just works better”—and scours the service schedule to call dibs on the perfect day and time. My mother begins writing an obituary in her head (because they don’t trust me to do it, apparently! What are you afraid of, cowards?) and considering what personal items we should display at the visitation to make things more personalized. My sister searches her brain for special songs and stories—anecdotes for the bereaved.
That leaves me, and I embalm.
I know that’s a weird responsibility, but it’s my weird responsibility. For years, I heard stories of my grandfather preparing family members and close friends, all told with great admiration and appreciation, so when my grandmother, my mother’s mother died in 2008, I, aged just shy of 26 years, apprehensively volunteered. I was nervous, but I got through it. That experience actually taught me that disassociation played a huge role in my ability to do that job. Classmates, former teachers, friends’ family members I’d know my whole life, they were not themselves while I was working. Most funeral directors and embalmers will tell you this is a calling and not a job. That can be true, but in some of those moments, I had to make it just a job—a necessary step in a necessary process that kept deceased people off the streets.
The thing is, with my grandmother, and a little over a year later with my grandfather (my mother’s father), embalming was a part of my daily duties. I was in my prime, 1995-96 Michael Jordan. When my dad’s dad died back in November, however, I had been out of the game for a while—six and a half years to be more specific. A person born on the day of my last embalming would be in first grade by now. (I know. That’s an odd way to look at it.) I felt more like 1995-96 Bill Walton. My position within the company had changed. Embalming hadn’t been on my radar for a while, so the volunteering wasn’t quite so immediate. Can I even still do it? What if something goes wrong, and I can’t fix it? Of course, the concern was less about the familial relationship and more about my ability technical ability. I’m a real piece of work.
Embalming the grandparents is my job, though, so the next morning I set out on the two-hour drive to my hometown terrified that I’d made a huge mistake and wondering how far I’d make it before talking myself into turning around. My good friends Conan O’Brien and Mike Birbiglia, through magic of podcasts, provided enough distraction that I made it off the ledge and to the funeral home. Thanks, guys!
There was a young lady there who was going to assist me and take over if I couldn’t keep going for whatever reason. She, however, had a limited window, so I needed to either get done or get to a point of confidence quickly. Speed was never my strength even in my 95-96 MJ days.
What did happen quickly, though, was falling right back into the routine. The embalming tank was filled with my old go-to (one bottle of 30 index, one bottle of 25 index, one bottle of humectant, and one bottle of arterial conditioner in 2.5 total gallons; a 2.75% solution for you embalming nerds out there). I set the features, found my vessels, checked my rate of flow, and started injecting. For you non-embalmers out there, these are all technical terms that mean I started embalming.
I did take more time than my nice assistant had, so she had to leave before I was done, and of course, that’s when the challenges came. Nothing terrible, but I did have to make some adjustments. Then, suddenly, I realized I hadn’t called my wife like she told me to to tell her I made it alive, so I grabbed the prep room phone and called her just like the old days. She was happy know I didn’t die on the way and asked about my mental and emotional wellbeing.
“How are you doing?”
Here’s the thing. When someone asks how you’re doing the day after losing a family member, you normally assume that’s what they’re talking about, and you answer accordingly. I, however, being in embalming mode, answered like this:
“Well, the bad news is he’s embalming like a 94-year-old man, but the good news is I can still find a dorsalis pedis artery.”
She sighed and asked the question again. This time, I answered the question she was actually asking and told her I was doing okay.
After something like 2.5 hours, the job was done, and I was on my way home. The next time I entered that building, it was just a few hours before my grandfather’s funeral (scheduled by my father with memories and songs curated by my sister) where his minister would read an obituary (written by my mother). We were immersed in samples of his woodworking and quilting (selected and arranged by my mother) scattered throughout two visitation rooms. And there was my grandfather in his cedar casket (selected by my father and uncle) wearing a long-sleeve, button-down shirt (selected by my father) looking like he could open his eyes at any moment and start telling stories about growing up on a Depression-era farm or his time in the Navy—looking peaceful (embalmed by me).