(Rev. Carin Bonifacino is an ordained interfaith minister who graduated from One Spirit Interfaith Seminary and its Spiritual Counseling and Companioning Program. She also graduated from the Open Center Art of Dying Institute, and has been trained as an end-of-life doula and death midwife. This article, used with permission, originally appeared online at https://revcarin.com/blog/loss-of-a-spouse.)
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My husband died suddenly. It was, quite literally, an accident. There was no warning, no pre-planning, no build-up. He left for work one morning, and then didn’t come home.
We’ve all heard of these kinds of tragedies. Unfortunately, they happen. They happen every day, somewhere – the police officer in the line of duty, the firefighter, the car accident, the shooting.
Anyway – as an advocate for home funerals and keeping the body at home after death, at least for a little while – a sudden death complicates the process. It’s not that it isn’t possible. It’s just that it’s much more difficult.
There’s an investigation. The coroner gets involved. Often there’s an autopsy. It’s not the peaceful (hopefully) hospice death, with loved ones gathered round, and a comfortable space where people can process and grieve together those first few hours or days.
As a brand new widow, whose first priority was her traumatized children, I knew in those first hours that I didn’t have the support or knowledge I needed to navigate the system and bring his body home. But I knew what I could do and that I would be calling the shots with the funeral home, and not the other way around.
Before I continue, I don’t want to give anyone the impression that I don’t have respect for funeral professionals. I do. They are, on the whole, compassionate people who spend their lives in the service of the grieving. That’s a remarkable thing, and many of them do excellent work. However, I personally think that they are as constrained by the culture as we are. Handling “all” the details of a death is what we expect from them and, thus, that is what they provide.
The model that I prefer looks different. What I have learned and discovered is that to the extent that a grieving person is invited, allowed, and encouraged to participate in handling some of those details themselves, they are much better off. Rather than being morbid or depressing exercises, the act of taking care of some of these things yourself becomes a blessing and feels incredibly loving.
Back to my story. I called the funeral home and told them of our situation. Priority number one: no embalming. I was emphatic. I did not want my husband’s body drained of its fluids and filled with toxic chemicals. And, knowing the difficulty of getting Santiago’s body returned home for a day or two, I requested that, upon his arrival from the coroner’s office to the funeral home, my children and I and immediate family members be given time to come view his body. We were going to need a lot of time.
I asked if I could help wash his body but, alas, was shut out of that experience. I was not surprised, considering the current state of things, that they wouldn’t let me. But it made me sad, and I thought to myself, “As if they could do it with more love than I could?”
Priority number two: I would get the casket. At the time, I was the manager of a farmer’s market and was very friendly with a few Amish farmers. I knew that they had casket makers in their community and was certain that I could buy one. It seemed a more meaningful and personal way than picking one out from a book or showroom.
Priority number three: When the day came to dig the grave in the local cemetery, I would be there with a shovel. Unlike “green cemeteries,” where this is often encouraged and allowed, this was a Quaker cemetery which had no provision for people digging the graves of their loved ones. No matter. I was a widow with a shovel. I gave it a moment’s consideration and said, out loud, “Just let someone try and stop me.”
And so, we commenced with a week of unimaginable grief and sorrow and a week of beauty and grace. We began with a week of unimaginable pain and distress and a week of uplifting kindness and love. With each step, I was clear that the children and family and I would be as involved as possible. There were no do-overs in saying goodbye and burying their father. There were no do-overs in getting to perform these final acts of service – these final acts of love.
As I drove to pick up Santiago’s casket, I was driving his truck, and my brother-in-law, Samuel, was with me. I remember this surreal mix of feelings swirling through me. There was the shock and horror of, “I’m driving my husband’s truck, and I’m going to pick up his casket.” And there was the undeniable relief of, “He was my loved one, and this is my work to do.” My heart swelled with love, and it felt like a privilege to be able to do that for him.
When my dad died 14 years earlier, I did not know any of this was possible. I had been denied the opportunity to be involved. My participation was neither requested nor required. My job was to be a spectator. Nothing more.
I could go on with all the things we did to actively participate in the final goodbye and disposition of Santiago’s human form. How my son and I, with the help of the kindest excavator on planet Earth, dug the grave; how my best friend and I returned to the cemetery at the end of that day and blessed and sanctified the grave before the funeral; how we placed a bucket full of Sharpies in the church next to the casket, and invited hundreds of grieving people to write or draw their goodbyes on it; how Santiago’s Mexican family and friends backfilled the grave by hand at the end of the service.
Losing my husband and the father of my children was the most difficult experience I’ve ever gone through, hands down. No contest. But I think it could have been far worse if we had been unable to be there for him in death, as he had been there for us in life. Our relationship with him did not end when his spirit left his body. And, since his body was all we had, then it was to his body that we tended, as much as the situation and the circumstances allowed.
And so, this is why I now do what I do. This is what I wish for people to know is not just possible, but is your legal right.
I believe we are more alive when we are present with death; we are much better off in the aftermath of a loss, for having kept our eyes open rather than shut. In giving ourselves “something to do,” we take away much of the feeling of helplessness that accompanies loss in modern life.
Death is a part of life. It is not the opposite. Birth is the opposite. And just as women and men have come to participate more and more in the births of their children, so, too, the time has come for women and men and children and grandparents – all of us – to participate more in the handling of death. These are our loved ones, and this is our work to do.
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Final Exit Network (FEN) is a network of dedicated professionals and caring, trained volunteers who support mentally competent adults as they navigate their end-of-life journey. Established in 2004, FEN seeks to educate qualified individuals in practical, peaceful ways to end their lives, offer a compassionate bedside presence and defend a person’s right to choose. For more information, go to www.finalexitnetwork.org.
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Oh my. After all my years in the right-to-die movement, a NEW idea, an important new process to consider. Thank you, Carin.
Carin, it is my privilege to know you. You are a very special human being! I am so lucky to have had your presence at the passing of my father and my husband. I have learned a lot about a good death from you. I am so glad to call you friend 🙏😘