Funeral for a Friend

Last week, a former coworker died from cancer at the age of 44. I was stunned to hear the news as I hadn't realized the extent of her illness. While we had worked together, we weren't close friends, however we talked a lot about our children. Her son was 3 years older than Holly. Nikita loved looking at pictures of my daughter and sharing stories about her adorable son who I met on several occasions when he came into the office. We came from very different worlds - she was African American, a life-long DC-area resident, and very religious - but our children brought us together. Plus, in a male-dominated office, she was one of the few women in a position of some power and she didn't take crap from anyone - a characteristic I highly admired. When I made the decision to leave that job without a position lined up, she gave me some critical advice that helped make the transition much easier emotionally and financially.

My last email communication with her was two and a half years ago. In it, I thanked her for her support and advice during my final days in the office. In her last message to me was the statement "I learned early on never to let my situation rush my decisions and lay out my options. Peace of mind is the best happiness ever!" She told me how much she loved the pictures of Holly I shared and to "keep in touch."

Sadly, I didn't. When I found out the funeral was going to be on Saturday with a viewing, I wasn't sure if I was going to go.  I've been to very few funerals in my life. My parents always told me that funerals with open caskets were awful and that there was nothing natural about stuffing a person full of chemicals and putting them up on display. They told me that it’s best to remember the person the way they were when they were living and memorial services where the person is honored through the telling of kind, funny stories (without the body on display) was the preferred (for them anyway) way to grieve.  It’s not that they didn’t pay their respects to those who had different traditions, it’s just that they always shuddered at the thought of them and sheltered me from them, too.

When my own father died 5 years ago, we had an intimate memorial filled only with those close friends and family who knew him AND our family well. I’m not sure how I would have felt about “fringe friends and acquaintances” spending time with me on one of the worst days of my life.

So I wrote to an advice columnist about what to do. Her response was to direct me to Deirdre Sullivan's "This I Believe." The main point? Always go to the funeral. 

I reread Nikita's final email to me again and choose to go to the funeral with another former co-worker. I did so partly because I felt it was the right thing to do and partly because of the advice, even if I wasn’t sure I agreed with it based on my own personal experience. I was nervous -  about the open casket, about seeing my former bosses; two men I truly disliked who I assumed would be there as she worked for them for 15 or so years, and about infringing on another family’s grief. The funeral was at her Baptist church. Not only had I never seen an open casket before, I’d never experienced a full on Baptist funeral with lots of singing, calling out, and prayers. I was out of my element.

However, I was so glad I attended. 

Yes, it was terribly sad to see her young son and husband crying and her body still and unnatural. While at first I felt a bit like I was imposing on their grief, I realized that it was important for them to understand how many lives she’d touched and how much she meant to me in the couple of years we worked together. It would have meant a lot for me to hear from those who knew my dad, but not me, about how great a person he was and we didn’t really give them the opportunity to do so.

I didn’t get to stay until the end of the funeral. It apparently went on for 3-4 hours and the coworker I rode with had to leave early. Still, I got to say my goodbyes, shed my tears, share a handwritten card about the lovely woman who left us too early, and understand, finally, that there is no right way to mourn.  Oh, and my former, awful bosses didn’t even show up. I guess they didn’t get the memo about always going to the funeral.