People ask me quite frequently why I feel so strongly in having the body present for a funeral. They tell me they want to remember the person “as they really were”. They tell me it’s creepy. They tell me stories of when they were children and something horribly frightening happened to them when they were at a funeral home.

However, having the body present may be the only way some people have for really accepting that a death has occurred.

Most of my clients who have experienced it, have said that being present when a loved one dies is a heartbreaking but beautiful experience, that they wouldn’t trade for anything else.However, it’s also very difficult to see someone you love so unlike themselves- frail, disheveled, unshaven or in pain. Time and time again, I’ve had clients thank me for helping to make their loved ones look more like themselves before they were sick, and more like they are in peace, instead of in pain. It can bring an enormous sense of relief.

When a loss is sudden and unexpected, often people can not believe their loved one is actually gone. Even in cases where people were seriously injured, their loved ones feel the need to see them just so they can really believe it.

I had a discussion recently with another funeral director about what it was like to work in Metro New York after September 11. He told me the sad and not unusual tale of a young widow who waited for weeks about news about her husband, until finally word came that a body part had been found.

Finally, after weeks of holding her breath, of waiting for the other shoe to drop, she could have a funeral.

But still, it seemed incomprehensible to her that he could be gone, and that he could be lost in such a way. In the days before the funeral, she asked to see the body part she would be burying. She knew it was just a part. She knew it had been heavily damaged and was essentially unrecognizable.

But she also needed to see it. She prayed that some recognizable trait would be apparent, so she would know it was him. So she would know it was real. She would know he was home.

Even today, she tells people that in many ways she was fortunate, because she at least had a part to say good bye to.

It was only once I understood the grieving process and why my reactions were the way they were, that I was finally able to heal, make peace and move on. I understood that it was ok to let the pain go. I accepted that living a happy and productive life didn’t mean that I loved or missed Matt any less.

To cap off the process, I created my own sort of funeral ceremony to finally say goodbye to Matt and release the pain I had been feeling. This was done just a few days before the seventh anniversary of his death.  Here is what I wrote in my journal then:

On Sunday I made a pilgrimage to the bridge. I tried to go with Matt’s dad, but we could never hook up. I’ve found in the past that when I go by myself, I get numb, and need other people there with me for the visit to have any meaning.

That part is true. I would do anything to sail Matt home. But I had to come to the realization that just because I would do it doesn’t mean I can. I think there is a part of me that was always hoping for a do over. I had to let that part go.

I am so incredibly blessed to have such a wonderful family and amazing friends. I have experienced more love from them than I ever dreamed possible. When I have to choose between wallowing in the pain of one very bad decision by one person, or soaking up the absolute overabundance of love that surrounds me, I’d be a fool not to choose the latter.

It was during those first few years after his death, that I learned that writing was my best outlet. It kept me sane, and lead me to choose journalism as my first profession.

That was also when I developed Rheumatoid Arthritis and Fibromyalgia. I truly believe that I may have been predisposed to them anyway, but the stress of losing Matt is what launched it. I got ill and was diagnosed within just a few weeks of his death. Since then, as I’ve healed emotionally, my symptoms have also improved.

During the first six to seven years after his death, my healing was pretty limited. I reached the point where I didn’t cry every day, and I resigned myself to a new life of guilt and pain, because that’s how I thought it was supposed to be. I became somewhat obsessive in developing, in my mind, a plan for what I would do and say if I had the chance to do it all over again. Matt was frequently prominent in dreams I had in which I attempted to apologize for not doing enough…but I never got the chance. I became jealous of the other friends who said he had come to say goodbye to them in their dreams in the first few days after his death. On the first anniversary of his death, I had a necklace made that bore his name and dates, and I wore it every single day for six years. Every day. I became obsessed with finding out whether or not he felt any regret between the time he jumped and the time he hit the water. I wrote to the bridge authority to calculate the distance between the bridge and the water, so I would know how long it took.

Every milestone I hit became a source of sadness. Graduating college made me think about how Matt would never do that. Falling in and out of love made me think about how Matt was missing out on that. I even got depressed when I made my first-ever car payment and thought about the fact that he never would.

I knew that not seeing him, or at least a casket, coupled with the fact that I was away from home, was partially responsible for my inability to accept that he was really gone. In my mind, there was just no proof. I wasn’t even able to see his urn. There was always a part of me that believed it wasn’t actually real, and that I would have a chance for a do-over.

There were many many times when I had to remind myself that Matt was more than someone who died. He had once been a great friend and a wonderful source of joy, but I forgot all about that. Friends have said that I was more dedicated to mourning Matt than the most devout of people are dedicated to practicing their religion.

I finally made the decision to become a funeral director. There were many reasons why I followed that path, but the hope of helping to make someone else’s journey through grief easier than mine was at least part of my motivation. While going through my funeral schooling, I concurrently studied to become a grief counselor.

That was when my life changed. Learning about grief, and the ins and outs of various types of grief was a major turning point for me. It was only then that I actually learned about the grief process, and that what I was experiencing was known clinically as <a href=”http://www.health.harvard.edu/fhg/updates/update1203b.shtml”> complicated grief</a>, and was not normal. Once I was able to finally understand what was going on, I was able to resolve the unresolved feelings, and come to terms with Matt’s life, his death, and where it left me.

Of course, it took me 6 years and 20 college credits to reach that point.

With the exception of my parents, there is one person who has had tremendous influence on my life, more so than anyone may ever have again. That person is my dear friend Matt.

He and I met in High School, members of the debate teams for different high schools. I was a year older than him, so when I left for college in August, he was just getting ready for his senior year of high school.

I will never forget that my first break from school was October 1-5, 1997. I thought about calling him several times that long weekend, but I was so busy with laundry, family, shopping, that I never did. I rationalized that I would be seeing him the following weekend at a debate tournament anyway, so I spent the time I did have with other friends who were also home from their respective schools, and whom I wouldn’t see again until much later.

I returned to campus on Sunday, October 5, never even having called. On Tuesday, October 7, 1997, he committed suicide by jumping from the Bear Mountain Bridge in Peekskill.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how horrible that was. Suicide almost always leaves survivors guilt, and I certainly had plenty. I wasn’t able to gather with the other people who could have shared my loss, because I was away at school (during midterms, no less). My “friends” at school had only known me a few short weeks, and didn’t know Matt at all. None of us knew how to handle a loss like this.

Matt’s body wasn’t found for weeks. When a friend suggested in the interim that Matt could have staged the whole thing and run away instead, I took it as gospel. After all, Matt was a smart kid, and no one actually saw him hit the water.

When I went home for his memorial service, his body had still not been found. They had given up hope of ever finding it and scheduled the service. I almost felt a bit silly going to a funeral for someone I was so convinced was really still alive. I even wrote him letters with directions to my dorm room and phone number, which I sealed in plastic and threw into the river for him to find. After all, if he was hiding somewhere he would need help and call eventually, right? The service itself, while moving and beautiful, was also utterly unfamiliar. It wasn’t at a church or funeral home, or even a cemetery. It was at his high school. And there was no minister or funeral director or script. People just took turns getting up and talking, and it lasted more than 2 hours, if I remember correctly. I know it was long enough that some people left. Instead of a casket, there were pictures. I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to be experiencing.

I found out that night he had been found, just before driving back to school. I spent that time in the car trying to convince myself that he really was dead. That he really hadn’t staged it, that what I had been through was really a funeral. It didn’t really work.

Long story short, I never realized that my grieving process was abnormal. Not ever having suffered such a serious loss, and being so young, I didn’t know that what I was going through, and the way I was reacting were atypical.

Finally, after almost 3 years, I decided I had “gotten over” it. And of course, by “getting over it”, I meant that I had resigned myself to the fact that I would always feel responsible for his death, and always be in horrible pain. When he wrote in his letters that we would all be ok eventually, I know there’s a part of me that stayed miserable just to spite him. I resigned myself to the fact that I would be that way for the rest of my life.

I hear it all the time. People who tell me that, when they die, they don’t care if they get cremated and spread in the ocean, buried in the back yard, or thrown in the dumpster behind the 7-11.

“I’ll be dead. Who cares?”

What some people don’t realize is that the funeral is for those of us who are left behind.

Civilized human beings have used ceremony and ritual for centuries to recognize milestones: weddings, christenings, bar mitvahs, retirements, you name it. We want to recognize that a change has occurred in life and celebrate or prepare for what the means for our future.

A perfect example of the value we place on ritual can be seen in the local controversies over the graduation ceremonies at Newburgh Free Academy and at my alma mater, Hendrick Hudson High School.

At NFA, the outdoor ceremony was called off less than 10 minutes after it began because of a sudden and heavy rain. Students and parents were told the graduation was complete and would not be rescheduled. This lead to plenty of hurt feelings, tears, and angry shouts.

“Why was there no backup plan? The district should be ashamed of themselves,” one parent was quoted as saying. “These kids worked so hard and have waited their entire lives for this moment.”

At Hen Hud, a prank gone wrong lead to the arrest of 19 students, and a ban that kept them from attending graduation.

While the situation was controversial on many levels, there was a lot of talk about whether the students should have been allowed to attend the ceremony. Other students even threatened a boycott themselves, but were prevented from doing so by their parents.

One parent was quoted as saying that it was more of a punishment for the parents than the kids.

My point is this: human beings tend to place a great deal of importance on ritual at milestone occasions. Whether it’s the exchanging of vows at a wedding, a gathering of family at a baptism or bris, or walking across a stage once schooling is complete.

Likewise, there’s value and relevance in a funeral ceremony. Not having one will not make the pain go away. However, more often than not, having some sort of ceremony will help bring the reality of your loss home, and allow the grieving process to begin.

It matters that someone is here. And it matters when they no longer are.

It is important to honor the life of someone who has passed- in much the same way that the graduation ceremony is important for those who have finished their schooling. Even more important, whether the loss is sudden and unexpected or the result of a long illness, it’s important for the community to come together. It’s often helpful to the family to share their grief, and get support, from others. It’s just one way of recognizing that one important chapter in our lives is complete, and the next one must begin.

Last year, just after Memorial Day, I had the privilege of conducting a funeral for a local hero, and it reminded me of all the reasons why I chose to enter this profession.

This was a man  who was a hero of the Viet Nam war.   Before he even reached his 21st birthday, he had already earned two silver stars, two bronze stars, and three purple hearts. By running to the front lines during ambushes, by throwing himself in harm’s way,  he ensured that many of his fellow soldiers made it home to American soil instead of dying on enemy ground.

But when he came home, he couldn’t leave the war behind. He was tortured by the visions of things too horrific to describe. He never really slept, and even in his waking moments he was haunted by the faces of the young men he was unable to save. He wasn’t killed in Viet Nam, but he gave his life there. He was an American in every sense of the word.

Even though he was granted full disability by the VA, worked hard nearly every day of his life. His emotional problems made him reclusive, and when he died alone in January, it was months before he was discovered.

But he didn’t remain unnoticed. On what would have been his 59th birthday, he was given a hero’s burial.   The way the community came together to honor this great man was a wonderful reminder of why this s such a great place to live.
The staff at the church were wonderful, working hard to ensure he was given the burial he deserved, and making sure he was buried with his family.

The local nursery school graciously relocated their graduation so the two events would not conflict.

A local doctor offered his parking area to those attending the funeral.

The local fire department and fire police came and directed traffic, to make sure the graduation and funeral attendees were kept separated and safe. I didn’t even ask them: they just did it because they felt it was the right thing to do.

Our local congressional representative and her staff were crucial for helping to track down the vital information needed to ensure he received the military
honors he deserved.

The West Point Honor Guard came with an 8-person contingent, and gave a moving and poignant tribute to a fellow soldier. To have more than two people in an honor guard is nearly unheard of.

The most important part, however, was how many members of the community came. That show of support from the community, both from those who knew him and those
who simply wished to honor a stranger, was amazing.

If nothing else, their presence was a testament to all area veterans that for their sacrifice, we are humbled, honored, and grateful.

Like everyone else, I am shocked and saddened by the events that have occurred at Virginia Tech. It’s always sad when someone’s life ends, but it’s that much harder to understand when it seems so random and senseless, and bright futures are wiped away.

However, from a sociological standpoint, it was interesting to watch what happened. Some students rushed home to be with their families. Others created impromptu candlelight vigils- and not just once, but several times.

It really made me glad to see that. C.S. Lewis, upon the death of his wife, wrote, “Joy shared is joy increased; grief shared is grief diminished.”

When we have something major happen in our lives, good or bad, one of our first instincts is often to reach out to those closest to us. Likewise, when a tragedy like the one at Virginia Tech occurs, those affected want to be near others who share their grief.

It’s not necessary to have answers. There are no magical “right words” that will bring sense to an illogical situation, or that will make the pain go right away.  Often, all that is needed at that moment is to be surrounded by people who care and who share your grief, so the path to acceptance and healing can begin.

This is why I feel so strongly in the value of having a visitation when a loved one dies.

This is true regardless of whether what you are dealing with is a mass, public tragedy like this one, or something that is a tragedy only for you.  Pain is pain, period.