Dear Mom,
When I die, I want the party you never got. I want music and dancing and a true celebration. You requested a party. You never got it. I want it.
I also know, it’s not that simple.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about funerals and the mourning process in general. My personal experience with funerals is, well, dark. Even before yours, funerals in my memory are best forgotten. I didn’t go to Grandma Ida’s; you wanted me to hang back with the even younger kids. Plus I kind of remember you thinking I, at nearly nine, was too young. Though I had already been to one before that, so who knows. But the ones I’ll never forget, as much as I might want to, took place later. Your parents both died during spring break. One year apart from each other. Eight grade and freshman year. I know it was that time of year because our plans were cancelled, and I wasn’t that happy about it. I also wasn’t happy to binge eat another shiva buffet. Because, let’s face it, starving myself wasn’t really an option while living in a house full of egg salad and tuna salad and bagels and lox and smoked fish and all the other delicious deli sides that come with the shiva platter.
Those funerals, like most of the ones I’ve attended for people who passed in their later years, were pretty standard. We went to the burial site. The rabbi spoke words that he prepared about a person he’d never met. We all watched as the coffin lowered (this is the part when I cry no matter who is in the coffin), and we all threw dirt on top as we said our final goodbyes.
Paul’s was different. Paul’s was tragic. Paul’s funeral was a packed house of people who all cared for him. Speeches that came from the heart. Tears that poured out of every eye. A casket that was opened only for the immediate family. Lucky us. I never stopped crying that day. Each person who walked by us to shake our hand and share their condolences must have left slightly worried about the sixteen-year-old who was falling apart in front of them after losing her brother. I’m sure we sat shiva for him, but I don’t remember it at all.
Funerals in my experience are so very sad.
Recently, I attended a funeral that gave me a new perspective of what this moment could look like. This was a celebration of life. This was a ceremony that took place over a month after the death happened. A month after the raw emotions of grief and loss began. A month where time passed. A month where feelings were processed. And a month later, I believe, mourners were able to reflect on a beautiful life rather than simmer in the darkness of a traumatic loss only a day or two after.
I started to wonder what those funerals would have been like if we had time. If we didn’t say our final goodbyes to Paul immediately. If we had a few weeks before speaking about you. What if we had time to adjust to our new normal before gathering? Could it have possibly created space for us to remember the good times? Could we have been able to dance and laugh as you wished?
Now, I recognize that in Judaism we bury, and we mourn, and we sit shiva immediately. I know there are reasons for this. Reasons that are tradition and reasons that make a lot of sense to me. Not necessarily reasons that are tied to my own personal beliefs surrounding life and death, but I do recognize the significance and also the symbolism of going through the grieving and funeral process as soon as possible.
Still, when I die, I think I’d prefer time. I’d prefer for my loved ones to have time alone to process and grow and come out of the darkness before getting together to make speeches and read eulogies and inevitably say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I wish we had waited. I wish we had processed enough that when it came time, we could have only celebrated your life while giving you what you asked for. Instead, I got up in front of a packed funeral home to recite a speech that was written in total tunnel vision and sadness. Words that appeared out of a fog and found their way on a paper. It was the worst week of my life in many ways, and I had no business thinking those words, much less sharing them with people who were also mourning your loss.
When I die. I’d rather have a party. With the best music. Everyone on their feet. I want laughter. I want joy. I want people to remember the good times and smile together. I don’t want people to be broken.
But also, I understand that it’s not that simple. You can’t just request your loved ones celebrate. Sometimes your loved ones won’t feel like celebrating. Sometimes your loved ones are still grieving. No matter how much time has passed.
I also fully recognize that the circumstances surrounding death greatly influence the way people need to mourn. I know there is a difference between losing someone at 101 and losing someone at 67. I know that sudden death is different from prolonged death. Both are tragic. Both are devastating. Both are unique as well. I guess that’s what I’m getting at here. Our responses to death and grief are unique. Like our very DNA. No two people grieve identically. So how can I tell my family how they should mourn my loss?
When you died, it was awful. We knew it was coming. No surprise there. But still, it was messy and ugly and so amazingly sad. The hospice. The slow death. The denial that it was really happening. The questioning of why now. After so many years of surviving. Why was the tumor back? Why could nothing fix it this time? You were gone and we were fractured. You wanted a party. We needed a funeral. You wanted dancing and music. We needed tears and silence. You wanted us to come together as a family. We needed to fight. You didn’t know what we’d need. We didn’t either. And I now know that there really is no way to plan for such a day. There can be an outline. Bullet points. But the emotions of the living will ultimately dictate the experience.
Funerals are not for the dead. Funerals can’t really be planned by the dead. We can put in all the requests we want, but at the end of life, it’s the living who are still standing. It’s the living who need the funeral.
And sometimes, the living need to wear black and cry and say hurtful things to one another out of anger that they don’t mean. Sometimes people need to drink too much or run away or not show up. Sometimes people need to argue over who needs to grieve harder and who has the most right to grieve. Sometimes people need to be a little shitty to the other surviving mourners because it feels good in the moment to distract oneself from the pain of loss.
When I die, I think I really just want my loved ones to do what’s best for them in the moment. I don’t plan on being buried. So, there will be no need for a ceremony at the cemetery. There will really be no need for a funeral home at all. Depending on the weather that week, my loved ones could gather in a park and say some words. None of the specifics matter too much to me. They can wear black if they feel the need or they can wear colorful clothes they are most comfortable in. They can laugh or they can cry. None of this can possibly be demanded by me.
If I am super lucky, I will know my death is approaching. I will be able to help guide my loved ones. To give them permission to grieve how they wish in the moment. But if tragedy strikes and I die suddenly. If I die young. Then who am I to tell my loved ones how to mourn? It’s not really about me at all. Is it?
In a way, isn’t this all about compassion? Allowing space for the living to make their own decisions? To understand that everyone has different needs. To recognize that even the darkest most depressing funerals are sometimes necessary. That there are reasons people have been doing it like this for centuries? That waiting can prolong the entire process.
When I die. I hope my kids aren’t devastated. When I die. I wish my family can find peace. When I die. I pray that my loved ones don’t argue or fight or bicker. I want them to come together in their pain. To find compassion for one another. To understand that their grief may feel different. Bigger. More pronounced. But it’s all valid. No matter how long each of them knew me. No matter the relationship. They all have a right to their version of grief.
When I die, I hope with all my soul that it’s a tiny bit easier on my kids than it was for me when you died. That’s really all I want. For them to not suffer. For them to not drown in despair. For them to strengthen their relationships around their grief. And if none of that happens, that’s OK too. Because I fully understand that I can’t force the living to feel a certain way in loss.
Still, I hope they can lean into music and dancing and laughter.
I hope there is space for joy when I die.
I love you, Mom.
Love,
Rachel