FUNERALS

 FUNERALS

Why not go? Life moves quickly through high school and college graduations to lavish weddings, fun retirement parties, and quiet, dignified, respectful funerals. What’s next?

Sue Ann Webber-Utterback

Maybe that last question is the reason I hesitate to go to funerals. Yogi Berra once said, 

“Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise, they won’t come to yours.” 

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to another funeral. I received an email from a high school classmate (Danny Sacks) that Sue Ann Webber-Utterback (a classmate) had passed earlier in the week. The funeral would be on Friday, and the visitation would be from 11:00 to 1:00. At my age, I get a lot of invitations to funerals. 

I’m not a novice when it comes to funerals. I was present when my mother was rushed to the hospital with excruciating pain in her leg. The diagnosis was that she had a blood clot. She was taking Coumadin. Her heart was weak. Mom was weak, and the doctors felt that if they operated, she would die from the operation. They decided they would not operate. What about the blood clot? 

When the doctor entered the space, I stood at the foot of Mom’s bed in the small emergency space with clothed walls between patients. Dad was seated next to Lucy against the wall. My mother raised herself from the pillow. 

“What are we going to do?”  

“Wait.” 

“Wait for what?” 

“Mrs. Duncan, the clot will move at some point; it will move to your brain. When this happens, you will have a thrombotic stroke. Mrs. Duncan, I’m afraid, this is very painful news. You're going to die.” 

There was a hush in the room. I couldn’t believe I heard what the doctor said. I looked at Dad. He was sitting up in the chair, and slowly, he slumped, looking at the floor, his elbows on his knees. 

Mom: “How long will it take before it moves?” 

Doctor: “We estimate one to three days.” 

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I comfort Mom or comfort Dad? I stood frozen in place. Then, the doctor suggested that she get her affairs in order and gather her family as quickly as possible. 

My mother was a deeply religious woman—one of the most faithful Baptists you would ever want to meet. However, she and I were not on the best of terms. You see, I had committed adultery and was divorced. The Ten Commandments have a number seven. ‘Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery.’ I was ostracized or ghosted by my parents for years. 

As the Baptist faith teaches, I can no longer enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” I had committed the unforgivable sin. My parents no longer had a son. And yet, Dad called for my help to get the love of his life to the hospital. I was caught in an emotional typhoon. 

Again, I didn’t know what to do. I was surprised Dad was not up out of his chair, giving comfort. He continued in his chair, looking at the floor. I kept thinking, ‘Dad, get up, say something to her.’ Then Mom raised her head and motioned for me to approach her bed. She clasped my hand thumb to thumb and held my hand tight. 

“I love you, Steve.” … “I’m going to die.” 

“Yes, I heard what the doctor said.” 

I can only assume Sue Ann and Larry shared their tender moments. Was there a conversation between Sue Ann and Larry that may have occurred when she was placed in hospice? Did Sue Ann have her “I’m going to die” moment? I’m sure there were soft words before she passed. 

It's difficult to say goodbye to your wife of 60 years. When the funeral is over and the friends and family have left, Larry will find himself in a home without Sue. It will take time. Moments late at night, he wakes. He now eats meals alone, waking up to an empty house. 

When should I go to funerals, and when should I pass? I don’t have a good answer to that question. Was Sue Ann a great friend? Did I know her well? Was she one of my “Very Close And Personal Friends?” I hate to say it, but “Not really.” Did I know her? Sure, she was always pleasant and kind to me. Her husband, Larry Utterback, was also gracious to me. Most of our interaction was at high school class reunions over the last 50 years. Sue Ann and Larry were classmates. 

But this funeral made me feel like I should at least pay my respects. My mind goes back to when my father (George R. Duncan) passed, and we lived in Florida. Dad asked me to promise him that I would never put him in a nursing home. And so, I took him to Florida with me. 

One morning at The Good Shepherd United Methodist Church, I was wheeling Dad into the sanctuary when the Preacher approached me and said, 

“You need to put your father in hospice.” 

I was stunned at the suggestion. Put Dad in hospice? No, he’s not ready for that!

As it turned out, a woman came to the house at my request, and I asked her if Dad was anywhere near needing hospice care. She broke it to me as gently as possible.

A hospital bed was set up in the living room; a nurse came each day to check on him. Then it began, Dad was not eating. The hospice nurse warned me about the path my father was on. 

He can remain alive for a long time if he is not eating. But, if he refuses water, and won't take water, his life expectancy is about 3-5 days before your father passes. I noticed the nurse trying to place water on his lips with a small wet sponge on the end of a stick. Dad turned his head away from the sponge as if water tasted awful.   

His arrangements were made in Indianapolis years ago. When it came time for my father's funeral. I was unsure if anyone would come. Dad was 99 years old. Is it possible that all of his friends have already died? 

I was surprised at the number of people who came to pay their respects. While greeting people, I noticed a friend (Steven Garrity) sitting in the corner of the viewing room. I was surrounded by a long line of people wanting to say something personal to me, and I wanted to hear each word they wanted to say.  

At one point, I thought the line would slow so I could chat with my friend Steven, but it was not to be. He stood up, and I looked away from the person I was talking with. He gave me a soft and subtle salute and left the building. I still remember that moment.

Did it make an impression on me? Yes, the gift of his time was something I have never forgotten. That event was seven years ago.

I believe He was simply saying, I know your loss, your pain, your feelings, and I came to pay my respects to you and your father. There was no handshake, hug, or whispered words in my ear. Just a glance and a half smile as he left the room. 

As I dressed, still thinking whether I needed to go to the funeral, I was unsure what to wear. I decided on “Black.” Black slacks, a black pullover sweater, and dress shoes. It’s interesting how clothes can make a person feel. Should I have worn a formal suit with a necktie? I believe it would have been acceptable. However, I decided this funeral was not about me; it was about being there and paying respect.

I need not be fearful of this event. I need to blend in like Steven did with me seven years ago, simply be there and pay my respects.   

The funeral home was in Brownsburg, twenty miles west of Indianapolis. Brownsburg has a population of 32,000 and is considered a suburb of Indianapolis. The parking lot was full. I found a space and parked. I walked slowly to the large double doors of the funeral home. I admit I took a deep breath before I entered the building. 

An elder man in a dark suit stood just inside the door. He motioned me to the room where the funeral was being staged. I noticed the register. I signed my name: Stephen A. Duncan. Funny how I have many “me’s.” In some places, I’m known as “Steve.” In other places, I’m known as “Duncan.” Today, I’m Stephen A. Duncan. I scanned the register and looked at the names. 

I pulled away from the register and walked into a very large space. It’s a typical funeral in that there are couches and chairs against the walls and rows of folding chairs in the middle of the room. The casket is against the wall at the far end. A line of people is standing in line. I walked through the crowd, talking softly, and found my place in line. I was ten deep in the line and knew it would take a few minutes to express my regrets. 

As I stood in line, I analyzed the people in the receiving line. Larry Utterback was seated on a stool in front of the casket. To his right was his son. He was very animated and wanted to introduce people to his dad. He tried to make this moment as pleasant for Larry as possible. Next to the son was a daughter. She was flamboyant and focused on a group of five women before me. Next came two young boys. I watched them very carefully. They were uncomfortable being in the line. I assumed their parents told them to be polite. 

As I approached the two young men, I smiled and asked them,

“And who are you?” 

We are the grandsons. I guessed them at an age where I don’t think they were driving a car just yet. They each gave me a limp handshake, which was very polite. I told them I was Sue and Larry's 1962 Pike classmate. They seem to be a little more at ease with that information. 

It was time to introduce myself to Larry's son. Larry jumped in and shook my hand as I was about to tell his son who I was. Larry was very gracious and made me feel comfortable. He told his son that I was the photographer for the class reunions. I had to laugh. 

Larry looked tired; it’s been a challenging week for him. He will be returning to an empty home after the funeral. I waited for anything Larry wanted to tell me about Sue. His eyes left me with the impression that he had been her good and faithful husband. Sue had been ill for a very long time. Larry did everything he could to make her comfortable. Larry is a very good man.

I normally take a lot of photographs, but a funeral is a solemn atmosphere. Taking pictures at a funeral could be considered disrespectful, so I don’t have photos for this post. 

I moved to the back of the room and found other classmates standing and talking. Nellie Marie Sanders, Marion Nicholas Sutphin, Judith Eileen Lovell, John Cross Etchison, Shirley Jane Elsbury. 

The small talk was over, and the service was about to begin. I decided not to stay for the service and the burial. I stepped back a few steps and watched as the room started finding their seats. I moved back a few more steps, turned, and walked slowly to the front doors.

I pushed on the door bar, and the heavy doors released, and I found myself standing in the afternoon sun. If you have your health, you have everything. I don't need cains, crutches, walkers, or wheelchairs yet.  

"A man goes through life to death, it's the middle that counts." 

That sentence is attributed to Ernest Hemingway, though it's not a direct quote from his published works. However, it reflects a common Hemingway-esque philosophy that emphasizes the importance of living a meaningful life during the "middle" years, focusing on the experiences and choices that define a person's journey rather than just the beginning and end. 

The Dash by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend. 

He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning...to the end

He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke the following date with tears, 

But he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time that they spent alive on earth. 

And now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth

For it matters not, how much we own, The cars...the house...the cash. 

What matters is how we live, love, and spend our dash.

So, think about this long and hard.

Are there things you'd like to change? 

You never know how much time is left, and things can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough to consider what's true and real 

And always try to understand the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more, and love the people in our lives 

Like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile, 

Remembering this special dash might only last a little while

So, when your eulogy is being read with your life's actions to rehash... 

Would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent YOUR dash?