Personal Narrative: The Funeral Home

As we pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, I felt the knot in my stomach tighten. Just a week ago, my ex-husband Rick, had brought our children back from a fun-filled vacation. They had spent two weeks exploring Tennessee, visiting amusement parks, and flying over the Smokey Mountains. He had brought them back to Ohio, dropped them off at my new house, and had asked to see the dog that my daughter adopted at the humane society. I had taken him to see the dog, she seemed uncomfortable with his presence and growled. Still he had lingered, talking about their trip and his plans for the next time he saw them. The conversation and pleasantries were hard for me to force. Years of living with someone who was manipulative and had abused

drugs and alcohol, made engaging a civil conversation hard for me. Finally he said his goodbyes. He said he was going back the hotel. I was relieved to see him go.
Later that evening, as I sat on the couch watching T.V. with my children, the house phone rang. It was my ex-husband. He said that he had decided to drive back to Tennessee, and wanted me to tell the kids that he loved them. “The kids are still up, you can tell them”. The conversation he held with them was brief. The next morning was Sunday, Father’s Day. I don’t know how long I had been awake, maybe it was late morning, and maybe it was early afternoon. My house phone rang again. This time, it was my former Mother-n-law. I could not understand what she was saying at first. I walked outside. “Andrea, Rick is dead.” I did not believe what she was telling me. Maybe I was not hearing her right? Words, just words that she was saying. They held no value to me. She was mistaken, this was not true. She did not know how or why. The police still did not know if he had done it himself, or if he was murdered. She had found him when she had awaken to get ready for church. He was outside, sitting in a lawn chair, a rifle lay beside him on the ground. The police had tested herself and her husband for gunshot residue, they did not find a suicide note. At some point my brain had shut off. What would I tell my children? They were only six and nine.
She told me she was hanging up now. I called my husband. We had only been married the month before. He was stationed in Alabama, through the Army Reserves for a year. I don’t know what I said to him, I just knew I needed him to come home. I did not want to tell my children alone. My husband told me that he would talk to someone immediately about getting released to come home. I still had to tell my children. How do I tell them? I do not recall how soon I told them after that phone call. I do not recall what I said to them exactly. These are all things that I have pushed to the back of my mind. They knew that their grandmother had called. They wanted to know why. I believe that I said something to the effect that their Dad had died in his sleep last night. I do remember the tears, their tears. The crying, the screaming, the barrage of questions. I remember trying to console them, the fierce need to take away the confusion and hurt that they felt. Hurried phone calls and preparation led us on the trip to Tennessee. We arrived the night before the funeral. I asked my children if they would like to write a letter to their Dad to give him the next day. They sat down at the little hotel desk with pencils and paper with the hotel logo, to bid their Dad a final farewell, in the words of a six and nine year old.
So, all of this leading to the moment we pulled up the funeral home. Preparing to see people that I had not seen in 4 years. Preparing to see the dead father of my children.
The funeral home was generically decorated, as most funeral homes are.

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

didn’t know, were there purely for support of the grieving. I began to hear the music. I recognized the songs as ones he had told me he wanted played when he passed on someday. “Knocking on Heavens Door” and “Simple Man” were the two that stood out to me. A preacher who had never known Rick, attempted to convey a comforting service. A small graveyard service followed in a small country cemetery. The husband of Rick’s first wife, had arranged a military service. We left to go back to Ohio as soon as the service was over. My husband had to drive back to Alabama to finish working on his early release. The children cried and asked questions during our time in the car. Thankfully, my brother, their uncle, had come and was able to help with these. I do recall that during this ride is when I told them that he had been sick. After all, was this not a lie? It was the best explanation I could offer to children so young. They seemed satisfied with this. Later, the truth would come. They would be angry that I did not tell them immediately. But, it seemed right at the time. I justified the explanation by saying that mental illness and addiction is indeed a sickness. A sickness that it seems, there is no cure for.
Our lives have gone on.

My husband was able to receive a congressional release from his station in Alabama, allowing him to come home to help deal with the train wreck that was left. Counselors have been seen, although none have seemed to help. Support groups have been joined. Dreams have been dreamed. My daughter had one where her Father appeared to her in a playground and told her that he had finally found her and her brother. My dream was a phone call where Rick told me that this was all a joke and he was still alive. Hope was still had by my son, evidenced by asking me any time the phone rang, if it was his Dad on the other

end.
Even as I write these words, almost 7 years later, waves of feelings that I try to suppress come washing back over me. The guilt, the grief, the anger. It never goes away, one just learns to push it somewhere that is hard to access. There are too many questions, and no answers for any of them. I must concentrate on loving my children, and giving them the best life that they deserve. Father’s Day is especially hard, the day he chose to end his life. I offer every year to celebrate his birthday with them. Most of the time my offer is declined. My children worry excessively about me when I am away or driving. Both have anger and seem to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders. I do not believe that this is something that even counseling can take away. My husband has become the step-father that they love to hate. The bond that had begun to form between them in the beginning, was torn by death. I had said to my husband one day, that I felt had I not divorced my ex, he may still be alive. Words spoken with no ill-intention towards my husband; just spoken from guilt. He seemed surprised. I think that even the smallest part that one plays in the life of someone who dies by suicide, questions and thoughts will always be centered on “What could I have done differently”?
As I watch my children grow into teenagers, and soon into adults, my hope for them is that they will have the skills to seek treatment for depression, and restrain from abusing drugs and alcohol. I hope that they will be able to deal with the trials of this cruel world, so that they come out on top, and not be crushed by defeat. I hope that they understand someday, about the uphill battle that their step-father faced in his role helping to raise them. I hope that they understand the reason for the anger that they feel that seems to erupt from nowhere. My wish for them is to have happy, healthy, functioning relationships; and to be productive, happy members of society. Most of all, I hope that they realize that they are my greatest accomplishment, and that life is theirs to seize, to appreciate, to love and cherish. Tomorrow is not promised.