Why
it Matters; a Father’s Reflections on the Value of Viewing
By:
Shane A.S. Ritchie, CFSP
The young lady was 24 years old when
she was very suddenly stricken with breathing difficulties. A trip to her
doctor resulted in a diagnoses of a respiratory infection for which she was
prescribed antibiotics and told to rest for a few days. Within two days her
condition had worsened drastically. She was talking incoherently, evidence of
hypoxia, and could hardly breathe. Her family called 911 and she was taken to a
local hospital where she was diagnosed with pneumonia in both lungs. She was
placed in the ICU, put on IV medications and oxygen.
About 3:00 AM the following morning
her condition worsened again and she was placed into a drug induced coma and
put on a respirator to help her breathe. Over the next 14 days, in spite of the
best efforts of her doctors, her condition gradually deteriorated and her
organs began to shut down. She began to look as if she had gained about 100
pounds due to the introduction of large amounts of IV fluids. On Saturday,
March 3, 2007 at approximately 9:30 AM, she passed away with her family at her
side. She never regained consciousness.
Her father stood at her bedside with tears streaming down, heart
shattered, helpless, hopeless, feeling totally numb and so alone. Mad at the
doctors for not being able to save his baby, though he knew they had done all
they could. Mad at God for taking her
way too soon, but mostly mad at himself for not being able to protect her as a
daddy is supposed to do. You see, I know all this because this girl was my
beautiful daughter, Felicity.
At that moment I found myself in a very foreign position. After helping
others through the death of loved ones, I suddenly I found myself on the other side of a situation I had been
involved with a thousand times before. Confused and in shock I began to
understand what all those families were feeling when they came to me for help.
There was never any question in my mind. It was not a case of whether I wanted to see her; I had to see her, to hold her hand, and
tell her goodbye. I asked a trusted friend who was an experienced embalmer to
take care of my baby and please do everything he could to make this possible.
When the day of her visitation and funeral came, I was emotionally and
physically drained. My embalmer friend put his arm around me and walked me to
the casket, holding onto me and giving me support that was absolutely
invaluable. I could feel his compassion and concern though he didn’t say a
word.
I have to tell you that at the visitation I really don’t remember much
other than she looked beautiful. No traces of the edema, no tubes, no wires,
remained to mar her lovely face. Through the pain of grief, I realized that my
friend had given me a gift that no amount of money could have adequately
compensated him for; he gave me my daughter back so that I could tell her how
much I love her one last time to tell her goodbye.
My ex-wife Mary, Felicity’s mother, had a very different experience. A
well-meaning but misinformed “friend” decided to be helpful and give her a
handful of Xanax tablets the morning of the visitation to help her “cope”. Not
realizing what a powerful effect these drugs can have, she took them thinking
they would someone help her face this nightmare that no parent should have to
face. Unfortunately, the effects were so pronounced that she sat half
conscience throughout and could barely even stay awake. For all intents and
purposes, she missed the whole thing. In the days and weeks that followed she grieved
to the point that she could no longer work. She would set for hours upon hours
watching the memorial video and sorting through Felicity’s pictures and various
personal items. Over the course of a year she went from 165 pounds to around 95
pounds. I could see that she was suffering from complicated grief brought on by
never being able to say goodbye. The last memory she had of our daughter was
the lifeless, edematous body with the wires and tubes at the hospital.
In November of 2009, Mary died from an intentional overdose of the same
pills that had robbed her of the healing experience that had meant so much to
me. I truly believe that she died from the grief of a broken heart vastly
complicated by never being able to say goodbye. If these two extremes that I
have personally experienced in my own life don’t sufficiently tell the story of
the value of viewing, I don’t know what possibly could.
What we do as embalmers is a calling
of the highest order. When a family entrusts us with the last part on earth of
someone they love, it is an awesome honor and responsibility. We sometimes
perform our tasks not thinking of the incredible emotional and spiritual impact
our work carries. I can tell you with no doubt whatsoever that had my embalmer
friend not been able to do the incredible work he did; I would likely not be
here today. Embalmers are the only people who can make that experience for
families possible and my friend performed flawlessly. I am forever in his debt.
In the months that followed my
daughter’s death I began to realize that one of the biggest problems with our
profession is that too much of the time, we have lost sight of what those who
come to us truly need. When people needed true concern, compassion, and to be
educated on the true value of embalming and viewing the body, we gave them
pretty boxes, boxes with seals, boxes for boxes, memory drawers, every manner
of trinket, and, of course, celebrations of life where the body need not be
there to spoil the party atmosphere.
When the going got tough, too many in our profession just did as they
were told and obediently closed the lid; no attempt to educate. Instead of an
alternative to burial, we have allowed cremation to become an alternative to
bother, with no, or at the most, an anemic attempt to teach the reasons why
people have had funerals since the beginning of time. Where does this leave
those who come to us for expertise and help? As Thomas Lynch so eloquently put
it, “you can pay the bartender, you can pay the shrink, or you can pay the
undertaker. Either way the dead will
exact their pound of emotional flesh from the living”.
With all the positives that I
experienced from viewing, even in the face of the most horrible instance of my
life, I know the true value of what only a skilled embalmer can offer. We must
hold ourselves, our colleagues and our profession to a higher standard. The
days of mortuary school being the completion of our formal embalming and
restorative art education must come to an end. Constant learning and skills
improvement must be a lifelong journey. We cannot afford, and most importantly,
the families we serve cannot emotionally afford, anything less than our very
best.