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Modern funerals : essays
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Sitting in the lobby of the hotel, I felt the cold breeze escape the sliding glass doors and touch my bare shoulders, triggering goose bumps to appear all over my body. As my family and I waited for the cab to arrive, I caught my eyes drifting down to my dress. I had worn it a few months before to a basketball banquet. I liked the way the small crystals all clustered towards the bottom of the dress sparkled against the black fabric. They reminded me of stars twinkling in the night sky. The sparkles on the dress might be disapproved attire at a funeral, but to me, it was symbolic of my grandfather. As I watch the cab pull in, my family and I head out the sliding into the frigid London air. I open the cab door and take a seat by the window. …show more content…
Entering the chapel, I observed all the familiar and unknown faces around me. After about fifteen minutes of being introduced to people who claimed they remember me, a man who I couldn’t identify began to talk. Throughout the rest of the ceremony, different people read their encomiums in which they had written about my grandfather. It was odd. For the duration of the funeral, I felt disconnected. I felt devastated, but in an emotionless, indescribable way. This had been the first funeral I had ever attended. Surrounding me were faces full of devastation and tears racing down from the dozens of luminous eyes. I still felt detached. Why do people cry at funerals? Maybe the person they lost wouldn’t want them to be sad, maybe they would want them to honor this moment and praise the life that they’d lived. After an approximately thirty minute long funeral, we were asked to rise as the pallbearers entered. Before I knew it, I found myself in a line of sorrow, waiting to see my grandfather. The body laying before me was not my grandfather, but rather the body of my grandfather outlined against the velvety interior of the basket. After everyone had their turn, the pallbearers placed a bouquet of orchids on top of the casket. Orchids represent strength and my grandfather was indeed a strong
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
The funeral was supposed to be a family affair. She had not wanted to invite so many people, most of them strangers to her, to be there at the moment she said goodbye. Yet, she was not the only person who had a right to his last moments above the earth, it seemed. Everyone, from the family who knew nothing of the anguish he had suffered in his last years, to the colleagues who saw him every day but hadn’t actually seen him, to the long-lost friends and passing acquaintances who were surprised to find that he was married, let alone dead, wanted to have a last chance to gaze upon him in his open coffin and say goodbye.
Dolgellau. I turn my head once again to the graveyard. This to me is a
Though most have a desire to leave earth and enter eternal life peacefully, without any sorrow, the departure of a loved one can be despondent. Previously in 2011, my grandfather passed away due to heart failure. It was an arduous battle, not only for my grandfather, but also for the close knit family surrounding him. His battle with heart failure enabled me to create unforgettable memories with him, even in his final days. Laughing together, playing together and learning significant values about life together made me grow to become a more mature and wise person. Therefore, my personal experience is entwined with empathy because the death of my grandfather has made me realize how dismal it is to lose someone important. It also interplays with self-interest because I have grown as an individual to deal with the ache that is attached to losing a family member. It has helped me to realize how beautiful the gift of life is. Stephen Dunn, the poet behind Empathy and my story are connected because they both involve the feeling of empathy for others and the self-interest of an individual. They help us to grow and learn about ourselves and the emotions of
Imagine that the person you love most in the world dies. How would you cope with the loss? Death and grieving is an agonizing and inevitable part of life. No one is immune from death’s insidious and frigid grip. Individuals vary in their emotional reactions to loss. There is no right or wrong way to grieve (Huffman, 2012, p.183), it is a melancholy ordeal, but a necessary one (Johnson, 2007). In the following: the five stages of grief, the symptoms of grief, coping with grief, and unusual customs of mourning with particular emphasis on mourning at its most extravagant, during the Victorian era, will all be discussed in this essay (Smith, 2014).
My first experience with death as a child happened when I was eleven years old. My grandfather passed away in his sleep from heart failure. I had spent that night at a girlfriends, when I came home I asked my father where my mother was. He replied simply that my grandfather had passed and she was with my grandmother. It was not discussed any further and I went to my room where I awaited my mothers return. My mother proceeded to explain what happened. I was more concerned with her well being than the death itself. At the time I knew what death was. I had a fascination with death as a child, it was something that greatly interested me. My grandfather had a very traditional funeral. I was very timid and curious at the viewing. I felt uncomfortable
A moment in time that I hold close to myself is the funeral of my grandmother. It occurred a couple of weeks ago on the Friday of the blood drive. The funeral itself was well done and the homily offered by the priest enlightened us with hope and truth. But when the anti-climatic end of the funeral came my family members and relatives were somberly shedding tears. A sense of disapproval began creeping into my mind. I was completely shocked that I did not feel any sense of sadness or remorse. I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to mourn, but there was no source of grief for me to mourn. My grandma had lived a great life and left her imprint on the world. After further contemplation, I realized why I felt the way I felt. My grandmother still
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
It smelled sterile, of chemicals, of death. I had requested beforehand, that the children be allowed to see their father privately. No need for gawking and unnecessary displays of emotion directed at little humans, who could not truly grasp what was happening. I tried not to look at anyone as we passed by the small groups of people scattered here and there…..staring, I knew they were staring. I heard my ex-mother-n-law call out to my 9 year old daughter. I pulled her closer and we walked into the viewing room. My children began to cry. Again, I do not recall what was said. I remember that they put their notes into the casket. I remember looking at my ex-husband and thinking that this was a dream, that he didn’t look how I expected him to look. I don’t know what I thought he would look like. We stood there, for what seemed an eternity. It was probably no more than ten minutes. We exited, and immediately the children were whisked away by relatives who wanted to comfort with good intentions. It seemed that the children were drawing on the emotions they displayed. The funeral began an hour after we had arrived. My husband and I sat in the back of the room, while my children sat in the front with their grown siblings, grandmother, uncle and cousins. I surveyed the small room. Very few flower arrangements were present. I began to notice faces. No one I knew except for his family. The few people that I
I sat down in the large, unfamiliar church pew. Right up in the front row. Absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of my brand new black dress. I could still taste the salt on my lips; my tears freely flowing as the service progressed. I’d never been to a funeral before. The casket laying open in front of me. Surrounded by grieving friends and family. The sweet sound of “Amazing Grace” playing over and over. I thought I would be ready. Everyone says funerals bring closure, bring the joy of remembering a beautiful life, bring the surviving family closer and makes them stronger. “It gets better,” they say. But not when the person you lose is still alive, not when you have to see how their life moved on without you, not when you don't get the closure of the funeral. It doesn't get better.
My father passed away in 1991, two weeks before Christmas. I was 25 at the time but until then I had not grown up. I was still an ignorant youth that only cared about finding the next party. My role model was now gone, forcing me to reevaluate the direction my life was heading. I needed to reexamine some of the lessons he taught me through the years.
Once, there the family deliberated on when and where to do the visitation and funeral. Then the only problem was who would be the pallbearers? That was a rough affair for the family. In the end, I as well as my father, and brother were some of the pallbearers for Uncle Mike’s casket. The days following all of this are a haze. One instant I had a few days, and then the next it was time for the visitation. We were there and for an eternity. We met so many people that we had never met before. It was similar to the first day of middle school. We talked, and talked, and talked eventually everyone trickled out, and we all took one last look for the night and went home. Then the next day came in a blink of an eye. I woke up and felt this knot in my stomach. We ate breakfast and then left for the funeral. When we arrived there was a little service inside due to the weather being as cold as Antarctica outside. It was a heartwarming service, and then it came time to carry the casket. We all lined up around the casket all six of us. I was not the smallest. I was somewhere in-between strength wise. My brother and father were the strongest and they were put on separate sides. Then my uncle, and his son were on the same side as my brother. I was on the same side as my dad with another one of my
Something that I really struggled with was the passing of my Grandmother. She was a strong woman and an inspiration to everybody in my family. I think that I struggled with it because she was a great human being, I kind of looked up to her a bit, and of course she was part of my family. I think that along with her passing, I struggled with the fact that she died when I thought that she did nothing wrong in her entire life and did not deserve to die. Mainly the fact that she was a really good person and she just died like that.
The first thing Death said to me was: “I’m sorry.” His voice was like an old man that had outlived his children, and when I heard it, all the courage that I had built up since I had gotten the call from the doctor drained out of me. I fell to my knees and started crying. “Why me?”