Sitting across from the funeral director, I held my husband’s hand. I needed to feel something real while my body moved between sadness and shock. I glanced at my mom to steady her and at my husband for support. There was one person noticeably missing from our group: my dad.
The day before, I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be spending my afternoon at a funeral home. I had talked to my dad that night and made plans for our weekly dinner. When I hung up the phone, I had no clue that was the last time I’d speak to him. There was no inner hunch that doom was on the horizon, and nothing that said he wasn’t feeling well. So, the next morning, when the ER doctor told my mom, husband, and me that they tried to revive him and failed — I didn’t know how to process the information. Dying of a heart attack made no sense. I thought we had plenty of time.
Throughout my life, we had relied on him to answer the hard questions, and we desperately needed him now. It had only been three hours since his unexpected passing, and here we were planning his funeral. I had no idea what he wanted.
He was healthy and active
I recall sitting at my parents’ dinner table with my then-9-year-old son. He drank his milk while my dad gestured to the desk behind him. The white stack of papers (the size of a small novel) stood out against the stack of magazines. “Do you want to read my will?” my dad asked with a wink.
I paused.
Not really what I’d call an uplifting dinnertime read. At 71 years young, he was active and in good shape — a recent retiree ready to travel and spend time with his grandkids. I didn’t want to think about his potential decline — my dad was invincible.
He never caught the colds and stomach flus I brought home from school. He rarely missed work, and I figured I wouldn’t have to deal with this anytime soon. My grandparents lived well into their 80s — my great-grandmother until 100. I did the quick math — that was at least another 10 years or more.
I politely declined the read, telling him there’d be plenty of time to cover that another day. “That’s all right,” he began with a smirk,” I fell asleep when I tried to proofread it.” And that was that. There was no talk of caskets or whether he preferred The Beatles or the Rolling Stones to be played at his funeral.
No reason to discuss his death when he was so full of life. That night, we finished our hamburgers, and his will stayed on the desk, gathering dust, for the next year. And then time ran out.
Not knowing what my father wanted made it hard to grieve
This memory ran through my mind as I tried to answer the questions the funeral director asked. It was hard to concentrate with this huge lump in my stomach. Mostly, I wanted to cry and run away. Even hiding under the covers right now sounded like a good option.
I concentrated on the warmth of my husband’s hand and answered some basic questions, such as where my dad was born and his age. I failed when asked for his Social Security number. My mom tried to take over, but she was so distressed that her answers were slow and hard to access. I wanted to talk to my dad. I wish I had. This would be so much easier.
Looking at my husband, I immediately thought about my son sitting in a similar seat for us. My shoulders tensed. My tears started again, but this time because I imagined an older version of my kid stumbling through unknown answers with no space to feel his feelings. I did not want this overwhelming ordeal for him. If I could make it easier or eliminate this step completely, I would.
My husband and I made plans so my son doesn’t have to
Later that night, when my husband and I had a quiet moment alone, I told him I wanted to write out our death details for our son. He looked surprised and whispered, “We have plenty of time.” I’m sure that was meant to reassure me, but it was exactly what I said to my dad not that long ago. My mom heart would do anything to protect our son’s space to grieve. I wanted cozy childhood memories to comfort him when one of us couldn’t — not images of his mom or dad in a casket.
A few weeks later, as I processed my dad’s passing, my husband and I talked about our own. We created a checklist of what we wanted, including which funeral home and cemetery to contact. My husband and I added doodles and love notes to the list and made sure our will was in order, too. Instead of freaking my 9-year-old with more morbid information, we told trusted family members where to find all the papers. Fingers crossed, it will sit in my desk drawer gathering dust for many more years to come.
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