The day after Christy died came very early. I was able to capture only three hours of fitful sleep; the rest of the time falling victim to continuous replays of the events of the previous day and continuously checking on my daughter to make sure she was OK. When I DID sleep, the replays invaded my dreams as if I were stuck in a torturous video loop. After multiple futile attempts to keep my eyes closed, I got out of bed, took a shower and went outside in the still, quiet darkness of the pre-dawn hours and just sat.
Later that day, I had an appointment at the funeral home. Arrangements had already been finalized the day before; however, I had to deliver clothing, make up and a photograph so that Christy's body could be prepared for viewing and the funeral the next day. I didn't look forward to the tasks ahead.
About mid-morning, I took Kacie aside to discuss what I was about to do. I had asked her the previous evening to think about what clothing she would like for me to take to the funeral home. I also asked her to think about the funeral service -- about any special songs or poems or Scripture that she would like to have included. When I inquired about her desires, she had ready answers and delivered them in very short order, I might add! She told me exactly what clothing she had selected as well as a song she definitely wanted included in the service. So quickly -- so easily she shared those suggestions. Then, she asked if she could go play.
As she ran out of the room, I sat in awe of her composure. I knew that at some level, the facts were still being held at bay by the shock and numbness that so often accompany a death loss. I knew that reality would eventually break through and she would find herself struggling to grasp the enormity of what had happened. For the moment, she had taken one small step toward embracing the pain of her loss and I was grateful.
A constant and steady stream of well-wishers moved through the funeral home the evening of the viewing. Honestly, it was -- and STILL IS -- a blur. The only thing I remember clearly is Kacie's reluctance to enter the room in which her mother's casket rested. I asked her several times if she wanted to go in with me to see her mom. Each time, she ducked her head and quietly said, "No, Daddy!"
The next day -- the day of the funeral -- was yet another set of blurry events. However, one exchange between Kacie and me finds itself forever burned into my consciousness.
The funeral was over. The family had greeted all guests and well-wishers in attendance. Preparations to transport the family and Christy's body to the cemetery were in process. I held Kacie in my arms as we walked next to the casket. Kacie had yet to view her mother and I knew how very important it was for her to have that experience.
I stopped and asked the funeral director to wait a moment and I had the following conversation with Kacie.
"Kacie, I know you haven't had a chance to see your mom yet and I know how very important it is for you to do so." She became quiet, ducked her head and said, "Uh huh!"
"I know that you were a little scared last night to look into the casket, weren't you?"
"Yes, Daddy!"
"Would you like to see her before we go to the cemetery?"
As if she sought to disappear from sight, her shoulders curved inward and she quietly said, "No!"
I didn't want to pressure her; however, I understood the gravity of the situation so I said, "Kacie, I know you are scared but I really think it is important for you to see her. How about just the two of us -- you and I -- go into this room and have the funeral director open the casket so we can have a private moment together? Would that be OK with you? I won't ask you again or pressure you if you say you don't want to. I just wanted to give you one more chance."
She leaned her head on my shoulder and finally whispered,"OK, Daddy!"
The funeral director wheeled the casket into a small chapel, opened the top and retreated so Kacie and I could have our private viewing.
I walked to the casket with her in my arms and stood next to the metal box. Kacie just stared in at her mother's body. I stroked her hair and patted her back. After a few moments she said, "It's not as bad as I thought it would be, Daddy!"
I looked at her and asked, "What did you think it would be, Honey?"
"Well, I thought she would be all bloody and gross and I didn't want to see her that way. But she looks pretty. She looks like my mommy!"
Kacie was holding a small bear that someone had given her and she leaned over and placed it in the casket with her mother's body. She then touched her fingers to her lips, kissed them, then reached down and placed her fingers on her mother's cheek.
"I'm ready now, Daddy! Thank you! I love you!"
"I love you too, Honey!"
We exited the chapel and made our way to the cemetery for interment.
As I have reflected through the years on that crucial conversation, I have become convinced of several things related to children and funerals.
Almost 20 years have come and gone since that afternoon in January. So many things have changed over time. The one thing that has not changed, however, is the indelible impression that conversation has made on both Kacie and me. As a result, we have been able to converse honestly, openly and frankly about multiple issues as they have presented themselves through the years. Take a little time and work to put yourself in the place of children in your life. Work to see life through their eyes! Until next time . . . Peace! Mark Copyright 2008 Mark E. Hundley
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