Yes, I'm the Cemetery Snob

Saints arising from the dead, different than the average person.

I recently learned that I'm a bit of a cemetery snob. I've researched the subject for years, wrote about it, and studied burial methods and what the professors called "outdoor museums," or cemeteries, in my master's studies. So, I know about Christian burials and the tradition of placing the head to the west and the feet to the east in many cemeteries. Not all cemeteries, mind you, follow this tradition. But, my paternal great-grandfather purchased twelve plots in a cemetery that does follow this tradition.

Burying a body to face east is a long-standing tradition that goes back centuries. In Christian belief, this body orientation is never directly referenced in the Bible. But, ancient tradition dies hard, so some scripture was used to validate the continuation of this body orientation, including Matthew 24:27:

For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so with be the coming of the Son of Man.

Another reference is found in Ezekiel 43:1

Then the man brought me to the eastward facing the gate, and I saw the Glory of God coming.

And, yet another reference in Luke 1: 78, 79:

...because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death...

Enough for references. You get the picture -- by being buried facing east, a body could be easily resurrected facing the Son of God. Simple, I thought, and very convenient for fast and easy resurrection. But, I learned that many Christians today aren't aware of this tradition. They aren't even aware that many churches were built so that congregations were facing east to meet the Son of God should he arrive on a Sunday morning between, say, 10:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. Or, on a Wednesday night. Or, during choir practice.

So, therefore, I am a bit of a cemetery snob. But, I have learned that the funeral home that oversees this particular cemetery where my mother will be buried knows about this tradition. And public works, which oversees cemetery maintenance, also knows about this tradition. I assumed I could trust them, then, in placing stones in the correct positions.

So why did I sense something was awry when I visited that cemetery earlier this year after my mother's death? Dad and I had traveled to talk to the funeral home about the plots, since dad was entitled to two of those plots -- one for him and one for his wife -- as a direct descendant. There were plenty of plots left, but mom and dad decided to be cremated and share one plot. This cemetery allows that practice (not all cemeteries do).

By the time I had figured out the problem, the owner of the funeral home was in attendance, as well as one of the funeral directors, and the head of public works. We all realized that the headstones in our family plots were being placed at the feet of the graves. If I go into details here, I won't have anything left for this chapter in my book. Let's just say the situation was rectified the following day. Since no bodies had to be moved, all was well (the mystery deepens, no?).

Today, my father and I traveled to that cemetery again to view my mother's headstone for the first time. When we walked up to the plots, dad and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. My mother's headstone was in the wrong place. Fortunately, I'm a cemetery snob. I had the funeral home's phone number, and I called and talked directly to the owner. The conversation, in my opinion, was hilarious. At the end, the funeral home owner said, "One day we'll get this right." I answered, "Yes, when all the plots are filled."

Fortunately, mom is at home in her urn on the fireplace mantel. No body had to be moved. All is well for now.

About the image with this blog entry -- attribution is below. Note that the people arising from the dead in this image are saints. Saints, clergy, and other religious leaders are different than ordinary people. They, traditionally, are buried in the opposite direction of the congregation; so, when the resurrection arrives they can lead the masses that arise to face the Son of God. I don't know why, but I keep thinking about phrasing this tradition as an "organized Walking Dead." I'll probably burn for that thought.

"Plaque resurrection dead VandA M.104-1945" by Marie-Lan Nguyen - Marie-Lan Nguyen (2012). Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Plaque_resurrection_dead_VandA_M.104-1945.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Plaque_resurrection_dead_VandA_M.104-1945.jpg

Off to a Great Start

It's been a hectic week with tons of tasks on my plate, but I'm off to a great start. Outside tending to mom's garden beds and working, I'm also helping dad to downsize his household. That's not an easy task, since mom and dad were married for 60 years. Fortunately, they moved several times, so mom downsized a bit every time they moved. That helped.

Also, I made the nerve-wracking decision to start my Indiegogo funding campaign to pay an editor and to find time to finish the book. The editing will take a good portion of the funds I'm asking for in this effort. This campaign was a month in the making, and I wrung my hands several times over whether or not to do it. But, I firmly believe in what I'm doing. A friend shared this quote last night, and it resonated with me:

"I think one of the big things that holds people back is the sense that they don’t have time to give everything, so what they have to give is not enough. It’s enough. It’s more than enough when you’re willing to give anything."*

I'm willing to give it all, truly. I feel as though my mother and I have partnered happily for the first time in my life as I continue to tell her story about her death and dying.

I'm happy that a few friends so far have trusted me enough to help me in this effort financially -- what a great start! I'm also very, very happy that a few friends have shared this fundraising page among their friends and readers (many of my friends also are published authors). As a result, over one hundred people almost two hundred people have viewed this campaign in the first two three days. Those shares and visits, as well as the initial funds, have helped to keep my efforts on Indiegogo's "trending" front page for a few days.

Please consider helping to keep me on that front page by sharing this effort or by donating at least $5 for a sample of my writing. Maybe, after you read a few pages, you'll believe in this effort, too.

The black and white image is of mom in 1951. The smaller image is of Mom and me the week before she died, May 31, 2014. I wrote the poem in April 2014.

* Thanks, again, to Mara Eve Robbins.

Taking a Day for Dad

Dad in the Air Force, about 1950.

If I learned nothing else from taking care of mom during her last phase of her life, it was that I also was taking care of dad. Dad was like a deer in headlights when it came to emergency situations. Plus, even though he says he knows how to pace himself, he tends to overdo when it comes to an obsession -- like mowing the lawn. Oh, he has a riding lawnmower, but that thing tends to beat him up like a roller-coaster ride.

Losing a spouse can be one of the most stressful events in a partner's life, especially among elder couples. And, for men, the long and drawn-out final phase of a wife's life can be more stressful than that wife's sudden death. Men, especially, suffer more after a spouse's death, and reasons behind this rationale include the loss of social support or the inability to cope with stress.

Another study [PDF] tends to put other myths about spousal survival to a test. in this study, Deborah Carr discovered that:

...the closer the marital relationship, the more depressed both men and women were likely to be after their spouse died. She also found that surviving spouses who were better off economically, as measured by home ownership, were likely to be more depressed than peers who lived in apartments or retirement communities. "Those who own a home may do worse because they have the added strain of caring for a house," Carr speculates. "They may be more socially isolated, lonely, and even afraid of living in a home alone, compared to surviving spouses who live in apartments and have neighbors close by."

I worry about dad. A lot. Dad and mom had a very close relationship, and mom took care of everything in and around the house, including the bills. Dad had to learn how to do laundry, and he had to re-learn how to balance the checkbook. He also had to learn how to cook, although he always made a mean pot of beans.

But, I worry. It appears that the six-month and eighteen-month marks are the most crucial times. We're still three months out from the six-month mark, which puts him at higher risk, supposedly, right before the Christmas holidays. That juxtaposition alone is a stressful thought for me.

If you've read the introduction and other materials, you know that dad has a heart problem. What I've not mentioned -- except to friends on Facebook -- is that dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer this past February, just four months before mom died. He's supposedly doing well, but he's not in the clear.

I don't want to be writing a sequel about being my dad's caregiver. I hope and pray that dad can survive and thrive through the next year. I'll do all I can to help, but I'll need help in determining what's best for him. Hopefully, this is just another chapter in my current story.

Writing About Death

Last photo of mom and me, exactly one week before she died.

Before mom died, I read somewhere that it might not be a great idea to write about grief and loss when feelings about grief and loss are fresh and unrelenting. I believe I was reading Kim Addonizio's book, Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within (2009). I almost hesitated to write about my experiences with mom because of that advice.

That advice was moot anyway, as I had signed up for a memoir writing class a few months before mom's death. Ironically (and I rarely use that word), the first class was held on the evening of the day following mom's death. I forced myself to the call for this distance-learning class, knowing that if I missed the first call, I would consider myself somewhat of a chicken. I could do this.

I'm glad I did attend that class, and every class following for six weeks. The phone calls were soothing for me, as I began to share my experiences as mom's caregiver. And, I think that my participation engendered some trust among the participants, because I was honest about my feelings. Sometimes too honest.

Society has built walls around dying and grieving. I used to collect etiquette books, and each book contained certain guidelines and societal "rules" for grieving, mourning, and funerals. Those rules, or walls, can prevent us from healthy venting about caregiving, death, illness, and even about the fear of encountering those subjects with our loved ones. I know that I was willing to talk about those subjects with mom, but she wasn't ready to talk about them with me or with anyone else.

The last thing mom did before she became too sick to function was to pick out the funeral home she wanted to use, their services for her funeral, and her funeral urn. She made those choices on Wednesday, three days before her death. Dad forced her hand on the issues, and she obliged, finally. I understand her fear and reluctance in committing to this task, especially when she couldn't talk about death at all. Especially her own death. That meeting with the funeral home director was the last coherent act she conducted in her life.

I can write about her death. I can write about her death and my caregiving with a vengeance, but without malice. We need to talk about death and dying. We need to embrace that final and most assured event as much as we do the rest of our lives. We can live with gusto, and we can die with the same fearless intent. We can set examples for our friends and family. We can be vulnerable without fear when it comes to this subject.

I think Addonizio is correct about the rawness factor, that sometimes it's not a good idea to spit out feelings when they haven't been examined or critiqued. At the same time, it might be good (and it is for me) to go ahead and write about what transpired, and then sit on it for a while. That's what I'm doing. But, in going back to re-read what I wrote, I change little. I believe in truth, and I believe in common ground. Death is common ground, if nothing else.

If you could talk about death and dying with your parents, no matter your age or theirs, what would you ask them?

Endnote: The class I took was under the tutelage of Mara Eve Robbins. I highly recommend her course when she offers it. Her website is Process, Practice, Words.