The actual funeral procession has become quite an adventure over the years, with passing drivers increasingly preoccupied with their radios, cigarettes, and makeup—combined with today’s even more dangerous pastimes of talking on cell phones and even watching television behind the wheel.
As the lead car, I have often maneuvered a hearse into an intersection only to be greeted by angry motorists who give me the finger for holding them up. During mild weather months, with windows open, I’ve had to listen to some pretty colorful and profane diatribes. The average driver often fails to realize that a funeral procession enjoys the legal right of way and takes precedence over any other vehicle except an emergency one with its lights on. Failure to yield to a funeral procession is a costly moving violation.
I attempt to give as much instruction as possible beforehand to those participating in the procession. I recommend that they turn on their headlights and follow the car ahead of them as closely as safety permits. “Think of it as a parade,” I say. Alas, most procession drivers are either too upset by the circumstances or choose not to listen. They lag far behind, which makes for a dangerous situation when they approach a cross street.
Since the grave site is usually the last place where all bereaved family members gather, that is also the place where family conflicts come to a head. A few years ago, I arrived at the cemetery for the burial of the father of two sons. The sons could not stand each other. Neither spoke to the other at the visitation or service. The older one, who had arranged for and paid the funeral bill, requested that I give him the guest registration book, but then the younger one approached me at the cemetery and demanded it.
When I informed him that it was usual to present the book to the person who had paid, he produced a handgun, pointed it at me, and asked for the register book again. I immediately complied with his request and handed it over. I then informed the armed man that I would be happy to return to the funeral home and photocopy the pages for him instead. He agreed, apologized, and put away the gun.
It’s not just brothers who act up. A deceased woman was the mother of seven daughters and five sons. Family closeness was severely tested when the youngest daughter had divorced her husband and began a new union as a lesbian. The evening of the mother’s visitation proved a strain, with all eleven siblings making derogatory remarks to their sister and her new partner.
The tenseness continued the following day during the funeral ceremony. Not only was the daughter not permitted to sit in the front row with her siblings; her oldest sister began making threats to her sister’s partner. We arrived at the cemetery, listened to the minister’s words, and proceeded to our respective vehicles. That’s when the fireworks started. The oldest sister strode up to her sister’s partner and attempted to tackle her. But since the partner was bigger and more athletic, she quickly pummeled the sister into submission—to the amazement of the gathered mourners and myself.
One winter day a few years ago, a large crowd gathered at the graveside of a deceased young man who had accidentally overdosed on various painkillers. Before the minister was able to speak, two inebriated females began to argue. One was a former girlfriend, and the other, his current one. One accused the other of providing the young man with the lethal concoction that ultimately took his life. As blows began, it was obvious to both battling parties that neither was particularly accurate with punches. So they both reached down to the snow-covered grass and began to pack snowballs to hurl at each other.
Unfortunately, their aim was off as well, so more than a few bystanders were struck in the crossfire. The minister was so disgusted that he quietly departed, leaving me to say a few words over the deceased man’s grave.
Drug abuse deaths and their commonality have confounded me for years—not the intentional overdoses, but the accidental overdoses of methadone, cocaine, methamphetamines, and OxyContin. A young couple was recently found dead in their home, both victims of a heroin overdose—I had naively assumed that heroin usage was a 1960s relic. The young couple had left behind three school-age children, whom a loving aunt was to care for.
At the cemetery for the double burial, another aunt, who must have thought she should have been the designated caregiver, felt compelled to create a scene. Drunk and disorderly, she told anyone who would listen that the deceased couple “got what they deserved” for their constant illegal drug use. Finally, another family member asked the aunt to leave. Her response was to get into her car and, on her way out, ram as many of her family members’ vehicles as she could.
Another case involving a husband and wife who had accidentally overdosed on OxyContin featured an angry confrontation between two feuding relatives who had supplied the couple with their deadly stash. The mental-midget females each accused the other of furnishing the deceased couple with a big bag of pills on the previous night—but before they could agree on the exact time line, they exchanged blows. One of the brawlers then left the building, only to be followed outside by two other women, who proceeded to beat the first one to a pulp. The scrap was over by the time police arrived, and the two attackers returned to the chapel to brag loudly about their fist-fighting prowess.
Birds of a feather flock together, and that cliché is no more apparent than at the funeral services of deceased drug abusers. Their friends are easily recognizable—skinny from poor nourishment, unkempt from no longer caring about how they look in public, or perhaps so stoned that they don’t even realize how terrible they appear. Other adult mourners are rarely teary eyed or emotional, perhaps because they understand the inherent risks of such abusive behavior.
They may also realize that they could be next.
CHAPTER NINE
No matter how loving, courageous, or strong we are, we all come into contact with death each time we lose a loved one. Nothing can spare us; nothing can prepare us. We have no idea how we’ll respond.
The common denominator among living things is that we all die—as does everyone we love. Yet few of us seem emotionally equipped to deal with death when it happens. Grief sideswipes us and knocks us to the ground like some speeding, out-of-control car. No matter how well we accept the many other logical laws of nature, we never manage to see this one coming.
I cried at my mother’s death—and then eventually became resigned that her spirit was in a far better place. Since she saw to it that my siblings and I attended Sunday school and church from the age of three until after high school, exposure to those many sermons at Front Street Presbyterian Church cemented my belief that we go to Heaven after death. When my mother passed, therefore, I felt somewhat comforted by recalling those streets of gold, walls of jasper, and gates of pearl. No more suffering, no more pain, no need for doctors, no need for undertakers—my mother had no doubt earned her heavenly reward.
I still feel secure in that belief, even when the pain of separation gnaws. I rarely visit her grave site, because I know that she is not really there—however, when I do go, I feel a lump in my throat, and I smile as I ponder the huge and lasting impact of her life here on the earth.
Some of us are more stoic than others. Some stand straight; others crumple. Some recover in time; others never do. Some skate to the very brink of madness and then miraculously resurrect themselves. Others fall off the edge and don’t come back.
I see them all.
When I arrive at the cemetery, leading a funeral procession through the entrance, I often observe a kindly looking elderly gentleman seated in a lawn chair facing a black granite headstone. One day, following a short service, I decided to speak to him.