little miss funeral

an average girl working at your not so average job
April 30, 2015

For JW.

My husband lost a friend this past month.

A young man who I never got the chance to meet, but whose death I grieved greatly.

About a year ago, his family heard that word that stops even the strongest of men in their tracks.

But he was a warrior and he beat the cancer.

At the wake his father said that he gave so much of his heart away, that in the end he did not have enough for himself.

I hugged his mother and sister, not able to find words for comfort.

No words could bring him back.

I want them to know that even though I never met Jed, I loved him very much.

My husband sat and told me stories of them together as kids.

And I thought to myself, how amazing to have lived such a short life and to have affected so many.

How amazing to have gone through something so horrible, but to have brought such peace into the world.

What a legacy to leave behind.

To not curse the hand you’ve been dealt, but to play your cards righteously.

To fight with all you have.

To give so much of your heart away to others so as not to have any left for yourself.

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March 31, 2015

Three hundred sixty five days without Bandit.

It almost doesn’t feel real. I suppose that’s the best way to describe it. One year without my baby.

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How do you find the words?

One year ago today I experienced the physical pain of my heart breaking when Bandit died. If I close my eyes I can still feel him in my arms and my mom’s hands on his face as we told him we loved him. I can still feel the weight of his body as he took his last breath and went limp in my arms. I can still see my father crying as we sat in the vet’s office saying goodbye to the most loving member of our family.

It still sucks.

But the days following March 31, 2014 have also brought peace. Bandit taught me about unconditional love. He was a blessing to my life and helped to shape me into the person that I am today. He is my soul animal.

So to mark the one year anniversary of his death I decided to send him a card. I love you always Bandy Boy. I’ll see you on the bridge.

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March 16, 2015

All I am I owe to my mother.

My mother taught me everything except how to live without her.

Eleven words. Yet when arranged in this particular order the truth of them is almost too much to bear. Even now as I reread them (for the thousandth time, mind you) I find myself catching my breath, and quiet frankly, freaking out.

I am who I am today because of my mom. Besides for all of the lessons and values that she has instilled in me, she has always been a safe place. A person who I can go to with my troubles and joys, never feeling anything other than love and support. I cannot imagine the day I will have to say good-bye.

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My mother taught me everything except how to live without her.

But maybe, the love, support and values are her way of slowly preparing me for ‘one day’.  To teach me how to love and show compassion. To encourage me everyday to be the best person I can be. To take pieces of her and pass them on to the people who I come in contact with everyday.

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My mother taught me everything except how to live without her.

Except I’m not done learning, mama.

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March 15, 2015

A little on Dinosaurs, a lot on old age.

I’ve never watched much TV. That is, I’ve never watched much TV until I got married. When I got married I inherited Netflix. Now I spend hours browsing shows and movies and filling my free time by filling my ‘to watch’ list. I have become obsessed.

The other day, I felt as if I slipped back into my childhood when I randomly rediscovered the 1991-1994 TV show, Dinosaurs. I vaguely remember the details of this show (I was four years old during the last season) but I fondly remember spending Friday nights in front of my TV laughing at the baby. Needless to say, I added it to my list. Yesterday I had some free time after I got home from work, so I decided to start watching. Three episodes in was ‘Hurling Day’. In this episode, it is explained that when a dinosaur turns seventy-two, they are hurled off of a cliff into a tar pit. The son-in-laws get the privilege of hurling their mother-in-laws. We are then introduced to Ethyl, a soon to be seventy-two year old dinosaur and Fran’s mother. This means that Earl (Fran’s husband) will get to hurl the old lady off a cliff. Eventually, Robbie (Ethyl’s grandson) convinces the family that they don’t have to send Ethyl to her eternal tar resting place.

Basically, the tradition of hurling stemmed from ‘olden times’ in the dino world, where old dinosaurs would be a burden and possibly draw predators towards the pack. But Robbie teaches us throughout this episode that older dinosaurs can be helpful. Way to tug at my heartstrings, guys.

Very often, I find myself serving an older generation. As I sit with widows and widowers I often listen to their stories about their lives. And many times, I’ve had older folks unload their fears and concerns on me. I had one woman who needed a walker or a wheelchair to move around. Her husband took care of her because of her limited mobility; that is, until he unexpectedly passed away. As she sat before me and gentle cried, she explained that her sons all lived far away from her and she didn’t want to become a burden to them; but more so she didn’t want to go to a nursing home. She then looked at me and very adamantly explained that she was supposed to die first.

My heart breaks for these people who have lived full lives and have seen things that I couldn’t even imagine. Many of them fought in wars and lived during the depression. They have gone without so many things and survived. I look at my life and cannot imagine living without my cellphone…basically my reality is much different from what theirs was. What I’m trying to say is, they lived. And the sad part is, if my generation had its way, I’m sure we would be in favor for hurling day. Because old people are a burden to our fast pace ‘all about me’ lives. This needs to change.

I think we all need to take a second and step back from the cliff. We need to talk to our Robbie and see the value in age and wisdom. We need to find a place for the people who have made our lives what it is today, and show them that the remainder of their lives are anything but a burden. The remainder of their lives should be filled with respect and dignity. After all, when I’m seventy-two I won’t want to be hurled into a tar pit. I’ll want to be sipping a margarita next to my husband looking at the youth of 2062 and talking about how ‘when we were kids’. And maybe if those crazy rascals are lucky, I’ll share some of the wisdom I’ve gained with them.

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March 9, 2015

Lessons from hot coffee grounds.

When I was seventeen, I started working at Dunkin Donuts. All in all, it wasn’t a bad gig. I worked with a bunch of cool people and I had an unlimited supply of coffee. And when the canisters that held our coffee ran out, I had to clean out the filter baskets and throw away the used grounds. Often, during busy times, I would be emptying boiling hot grounds into the trash. These boiling hot grounds is where the story begins.

I was closing one night when I went to brew fresh coffee. The grounds had not been emptied from the filter, so I grabbed the handle to the filter basket and pulled it free. Somehow, someway, through what I could only describe as an act of witchcraft, a small clump of boiling hot grounds jumped, yes, jumped from the filter and landed very nicely on the exposed skin above my right wrist. Needless to say, I was graced with a lovely circular hole as a painful reminder of the attack. Over time, my skin did that thing that skin does and healed itself, but I was still left with an imperfection above my wrist. A glossy circular patch of skin.

I’ve never hated any of my scars. My mama used to tell me that scars added character, so I always embraced them. And it wasn’t until the other day, when I was getting out of the shower, that I noticed my little patch of glossy skin above my right wrist was gone. After further inspection, I came to one again discover where that nasty little clump of coffee grounds fell some 8 years ago, but it was very difficult to see. It is now so difficult to see, in fact, that if I were to show anyone it, they may claim that a scar never existed in the first place.

When someone we love dies, the amount of pain and grief that we feel is overwhelming. It may feel like there is a physical hole in us, because that person is missing from our lives. At first, our family, friends and community acknowledge this death, because they can see the hole. They do what they can to comfort and support us. Time passes by and we’re expected to heal. To move on. And then there comes the time when our lives are supposed to go on as normal, as if the death has never even happened.

But our grief tells us otherwise. People may not be able to see the scar anymore, but we know it’s there. In some cases, the pain may feel as fresh as it did upon first impact. In other cases, the pain may just be a memory. Either way, it is important to acknowledge the scars you have and to wear them proud. You have changed and you’re a survivor. You’ve added to your character.

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February 26, 2015

A sad meeting, but a different story.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.

At least, that’s what I think to myself as I pull up to the house. I’m very nervous. Ken called just about an hour ago. He was supposed to meet me at the funeral home, but Hospice told him it could be any time now, and it’s probably best that he doesn’t leave her. I told him it was no big deal; I’d come to the house. After all, I do it all the time. But this time is a little different.

Susan isn’t dead yet. She’s dying. But I knew this two months ago. Two months ago I met Susan for the first time when we buried her mom. She was well into her nineties. She lived a long, good life. A life I’m sure she’d wish for her daughter. But Susan isn’t going to travel down the same path. Because Susan is dying.

For a moment, I don’t think I can walk into the house. It’s small from the outside, one story. I know the layout of this kind of house. It will have a kitchen that has the living room directly off of it. Susan will probably be in one of those Hospice beds right in the living room. Right where we will make arrangements; her funeral arrangements. I walk up to the door.

Ken greats me with a sad smile. He invites me in. I was right, I enter right into the kitchen, but I’m relieved when I peek into the living room and Susan isn’t there. I feel bad that I’m relieved.

Everything goes as planned. We talk about the visitation and funeral mass. She will be buried right next to her mother. Right next to a grave so freshly dug that the earth hasn’t settled. I hug Ken and leave. I wait for the call.

The call comes two days later. I tell Ken not to worry about the details. We have everything planned. I start to make phone calls. It doesn’t seem right, seeing Susan in her casket. It doesn’t seem right, that Ken is standing over his wife’s body. It doesn’t seem right, that Susan didn’t have the time that her mother had. Three days after the call Susan is placed to rest next to her mom. The day is cold, but there is no wind. Ken didn’t want to see her casket lowered, so he left the cemetery. I don’t understand what he’s going through, but I think that I get it. Her casket is lowered and when it reaches the bottom of the grave, I realize; I’m never going to get used to this.

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January 31, 2015

What Little Miss Funeral Wears (when it’s cold outside).

What do female funeral directors wear when they have to conduct funerals? What do they wear when they have to conduct funerals and it’s a little (or a lot, let’s be real) cold outside? Growing up outside of Buffalo, I am no stranger to winters. It’s cold here. It snows a lot here. And unfortunately…we’re used to it. I’m actually convinced that my body has adapted to the cold so well in fact, that if it’s not in the negatives (temperature wise) I think it’s a good day. But the fact still remains; a large portion of my job takes place outside.

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I have a large collection of coats. I hope to eventually show all of my ‘funeral’ coats to you folks through this blog. But one that I have been loving recently is this Calvin Klein number that I purchased this year. I love coats that hit below your waist. The longer the better because more of your body is covered for warmth!

Say what you will on my choice of shoes, but unless it is blizzard weather or severely icy outside I still try to wear a boot with a heel. (Short girl problems, whatever). These uggs have been with me for a couple of seasons now and they keep my feet very warm while not looking clunky. Also, I’m not wearing them in my photos, but I recommend getting a pair of leather gloves. I’ve had a few different pairs and my leather ones are still the warmest I’ve found.

When it comes down to it, cold is cold! It’s a constant struggle between looking professional and staying warm. I know my fellow funeral directors who live in snowy areas will agree with me, although the winter can be a beautiful time, maybe it would be a little more beautiful if it didn’t last as long as it does!

These photos were taken by my husband Josiah LeRoy in The United German & French Cemetery, Cheektowaga, NY.

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Coat: Calvin Klein    Dress: Loft    Boots: UGGS    Tights: JCPenney

(I picked up the scarf a few years ago on a trip to Ireland. Once again, super warm!)

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January 25, 2015

A lesson about time.

There are many times when the families I serve cannot get to me, so I go to them. Because of this, a few weeks ago I found myself in the kitchen of the most kind little old lady making funeral arrangements for her husband who had passed earlier that day. We sat and talked about her husband and their many years of marriage as we put together the details of his funeral service.

She sat with her white dog on her lap and sadness in her eyes. She told me stories of her husband’s military career and how she often thought that he would have stayed in the Army for life had she not come along. She then looked me in the eyes and with a coy smile proceeded to tell me how she had married the most handsome man alive. I assured her that her husband was sure to have been good-looking in his younger days. That did not seem to satisfy her, however, and she proceeded to get up from the chair (dog still in her arms) and go to another room of the house. When she returned, she had in her hands a beautiful military photo of a gentleman who could not have been much other than eighteen. And he was very handsome.

Looking at the photo, I noticed the tears in the corner of her eyes begin to well up. She lightly brushed her finger along the photograph. Suddenly, she looked up.

“Where did the time go?”, she asked.

I found this to be a funny question, as she was directing it at a twenty-four year old funeral director. What do I know about time? What do I know about life?

I know that time goes quickly and I cannot slow it down. I know life can be beautiful and terribly sad. And I know that in a way, I am afraid of both. Because was it not just yesterday, when my husband and I were little fifteen year old kids riding our bikes in the summer heat to get an ice cream cone? And here we are, seven months into a marriage and partnership that we spent the last nine years dreaming of.

Time does not wait until we are ready. Time is not polite, gently nudging us forward down our paths whispering, “after you.” Time races along side of us, as we try to catch our breath. Time laughs in our faces, as we approach the finish line and look back on our journey wondering how we ever let it pass us by.

This beautiful, little old lady looked back to the photograph of her husband, entranced in a memory of long ago. And for a moment, I could see myself in the future, gently caressing an old photograph and whispering to myself, “where did the time go”.

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January 7, 2015

Why you will always be with me.

The other day, after a visitation, I went over to the son of the deceased to see how he was doing. He told me that he was holding up pretty well, surprisingly, since he had actually been dreading the passing of his father since he was ten years old. (He was probably in his sixties, now.) He then asked me if I had ever thought about things like that when I was a kid; my parents dying. And I have.

I think that when we’re young, we all have this sense of fear that something will happen to our parents at one point or another. And for me, I have thought about my parents passing away from a young age. Maybe I read too many stories on the Baudelaire children with Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events. Maybe I always just had a sense that life is finite. But still to this day, I dread the day when I have to say good-bye to my parents.

To me, it’s a weird thought. One day, a person that has been there for me though every event, will be gone. Of course, on the other hand, it’s a normal thought. As children, we are supposed to bury our parents, not the other way around. But after talking with this gentleman, I started to really think about losing my parents again and how I would feel when they’re gone.

When the time comes, I will be a mess. There is no other way to put it. My mom and dad are two of my best friends. I can go to them with any problem I’m having. My dad and I have the same sense of humor and my mom and I are basically the same person, just 30 years apart. I am blessed because I carry physical traits from both of them. My strengths are a combination of their strengths. I’ve gotten my ‘story-telling’ ability from my father. My ability to put together an outfit comes straight from my mom. And I’m able to connect with others and speak to people while looking them in their eyes due to years of watching my parents. As a matter of fact, everything in which I am is because of them. So when the time comes to say good-bye, although I will be a mess, I will also be okay.

I am half of my mother and half of my father. In my eyes, the perfect combination. I’ve learned to live and love from them. And I will carry them with me for the rest of my life.

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January 2, 2015

The year of rest; or maybe not.

I want to slow down and enjoy life more.

If there’s one life lesson that seems to keep bashing me in my head it’s that death doesn’t discriminate. Death doesn’t care if you’re young or old. Death doesn’t care if you’re male or female. Death doesn’t care if you’re black, white or purple. Death will gladly welcome anyone into its embrace. And because of that little fact, I want to enjoy every moment of my life. And that’s a lot easier said than done.

My husband and I have deemed 2015 “The Year of Rest.” It kind of sounds funny, but we want to relax and enjoy the little moments. We want to find more time for ourselves. I think I’m slowly learning how to do just that.

You see, so far 2015 has been anything but a year of rest. It has actually been more of oh-my-gosh-I-am-so-tired-I-don’t-even-know-what-I’m-doing-actually-how-am-I-functioning-right-now?! kind of year; or two days, whatever. But I’m doing okay. And I think one of the reason’s why I’m doing okay is because I really love my job. And I’m trying to remind myself of how much I love my job even in the crazy moments. So even as I sit here falling asleep as I type, I’m happy. I’m grateful. And I’m enjoying my life. One little moment at a time.

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