A Memorial, An Anniversary, A Birthday, and a Wedding Part I: The Funeral Director

Posted On November 18, 2018

“So what type of service did you have in mind?”

It was 4 pm on the first Friday in October. I was sitting at small table in Cheektowaga, NY, being questioned by Ed, a funeral director. He was a tall, thin, bespectacled man in his late 60s. Basil was sitting to my right, holding my hand. Jan, our Aunt Terry’s best friend, was sitting to my left.

The funeral home’s interior reminded me of a hybrid of an early 1990’s suburban model home and a Catholic church: we were surrounded by soft pinks and golds, angels and crosses, fake ivy plants and fake white roses.

Since Aunt Terry died unexpectedly 36 hours before, I had felt like I was moving underwater. I kept waiting for the chance to come up for air. I was stunned by how much it made me remember losing Dad. Of course I felt that terrible–Aunt Terry was Mom to Basil and I–but it was still bewildering to find myself back in that place, that flavor of sorrow.

Basil and I had talked about what to say to the funeral director during the five hour drive from Columbus to Buffalo that morning. Jan had met us at the hotel before we drove over to the funeral home to discuss our thoughts as well. So I should have known the answer to Ed’s question: I had been thinking about it all day. But I struggled to articulate anything.

I finally said we wanted something simple but meaningful. I knew Basil and I would each want to say a few words about Aunt Terry and that we would invite anyone else who attended to say something if they felt moved to do so.

“Nothing religious,” I explained. Aunt Terry was raised Catholic. I was not. But I have always had an appreciation for Catholic history and pageantry, resulting in an occasional desire to attend Catholic rituals. In recent years when I had offered for us to accompany Aunt Terry to Midnight Mass on Christmas, she said she had no interest in going. Two years ago when I was taking Basil to see Our Lady of Victory, Buffalo’s famous Catholic shrine and Basilica, I asked if Aunt Terry wanted to come with us and light a candle. She declined as if I had asked her to walk six miles in the snow uphill: a vigorous “no”. So while we had not definitively discussed her preferences for a funeral service, it was clear to us from these responses to earlier Catholic-adjacent conversations she was no longer interested in being a practicing Catholic.

“Who is going to officiate the service?” Ed asked. I could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea of “nothing religious”. I felt a string of tension start to rise into the air like a tendril of smoke from newly lit incense.

“James is going to,” Basil said, watching me start to hesitate. We had talked about this on the way to Buffalo also: I didn’t want some random person to preside over Aunt Terry’s funeral, saying vague impersonal things about her. I didn’t feel qualified (whatever that meant) to lead the service, but less than two days into her passing, I was not ready to appoint anyone else to this task. We would later decide to find someone who would truly lead a non-religious service. Basil would find a lovely, queer-community-friendly, dreadlock-wearing reverend from Canada to deliver a heartfelt talk at the service.

If the nothing religious aspect had bothered Ed, this seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. Feeling his discomfort, I could feel my own face start to redden.

“I know some non-denominational clergy who would be happy to lead the service.” Ed offered.

I felt more heat rush to my face. I knew this wasn’t what I wanted, or what Aunt Terry would have wanted, but I was suddenly hesitant to speak up. Ed was clearly attached to his faith. We were here talking to Ed because Jan was helping us with Aunt Terry’s arrangements. I didn’t want to be rude to an acquaintance of Jan’s. I knew it wasn’t fair for Ed to impose his own religious preferences on us, but . . . I was so tired. The last two days had felt like a bad dream–I just wanted to wake up. I think my mouth was moving, but words were failing to emerge.

“No,” Basil said, coming to my rescue. “James just said we don’t want a religious service.”

When I had been driving home from a client the day after Aunt Terry died, my friend Matt had called to see how I was doing. I talked about losing Aunt Terry, making the funeral arrangements, and 100 other things I was anxious or upset about. During our conversation, Matt suggested I set up a code word with Basil for the next several days, so if I was in a situation I needed help out of, I could say the code word and Basil would come to my aid.

“That’s one of the many things I love about Basil,” I replied to Matt, “We don’t need a code word. He knows me so well and pays such careful attention to my expressions that he knows when I am sad or tired or hungry or mad–sometimes before I even do.”

Basil had immediately recognized in my conversation with Ed that I was uncomfortable and struggling to stand up for myself. And he was having none of it.

“We can read some non-denominational Bible passages.” Ed suggested.

“No. James just said we do not want anything religious.” Basil responded to Ed, polite but firm in his tone.

I nodded and squeezed Basil’s hand. My hero.

Basil had to go through a few more iterations of this same conversation with Ed–no, no Christian poems, no vague references to God, no means no.

Jan had offered to take care of the post-service reception and helped us with other arrangements: Basil and I were so grateful for all of her love and support. She had stepped in when Aunt Terry was ailing and had been an invaluable support then as well. I am in a life-long debt to Jan for all she did for us and Aunt Terry. One hour later, we had concluded our initial negotiations with Ed and were leaving the funeral home.

We climbed into the big silver Cadillac XTS I was driving at the time. I had rented it a few weeks before after my beloved Camry Hybrid had been totaled by a distracted Indiana driver. Since my “executive status” with my rental car company afforded me the opportunity, I was determined to drive the biggest tank possible in the aftermath of the accident.  When Jan had seen what we were driving she had laughed and called it a Mobster Mobile. I responded that Aunt Terry, whose favorite movies were those in the Godfather trilogy, would have approved.

I thought about the car accident: something had crashed into me that I had no control over. I had been so worried about getting a new car-it was my second total vehicle loss in six months. Now that I had lost Aunt Terry, losing the car felt like the insignificant, meaningless loss of a material thing that it was.

As we drove back to the hotel, one of the many lessons I had learned from losing Dad rang in my head: even though these first days would feel terrible and forever long, it was really just the beginning of a lifelong mourning process. I squeezed Basil’s hand, turning down streets in Buffalo suburbs that were largely unfamiliar to me.