The Mortician's Son by Brad McClain

Brad and Frank--Brad's the one in the purple shirt

My thanks to Brad McClain, the Mortician's Son, for this week's Window Over the Sink. I know many of you saw this essay on Facebook. I hope you'll read it again--it's worth the time. Brad is a kind and compassionate soul. He plays piano and organ beautifully. He's also funny, an excellent pet dad, and...did I mention funny? He has a good heart and I am proud to know him. - Liz

I was five or six years old when I met Emma. She lived at Miller’s Merry Manor in Peru. She had a family, but few came to visit her. My dad had known her for years, and she lived most of her widowed life alone. My dad would visit her in her room at the nursing home when he’d go to see his mother, and I began to enjoy the visits to the nursing home to visit Emma and some others that my dad had introduced me to. I don’t remember the content of those visits, but I remember seeing the eyes brighten of anybody I went to visit. I remember smiles…some with teeth, and some without. I remember feeling good when I left. Sometimes I had a cookie in my hand, sometimes my ears had just heard a story from “way back when,” and sometimes, I just had the memory of having held the hand of someone who was dying and remembering the feeling of that warm hand…and then a cooler hand…and then a cold hand.

 
Nettie was also in the nursing home, and while she wouldn’t visit with family, she did with the six-year- old Bradley. She was mad at her family because they put her in the home, but while they never heard her voice when they would visit, they could stand outside her door and hear her tell me stories. I would sit and would hold her hand. As death grew closer and she was no longer able to speak, I would pat her frail hand just so she knew I was there, even though she wasn’t able to grasp mine any longer. My last memory was walking up to her casket and patting her cold hand one last time. Nobody commented on that when I was a child, but I know now that those interactions would ultimately help with my career as I got older.

 
I remember the day of Emma’s visitation. My friend and I were outside riding bikes around the funeral home and down the road and back while very few cars trickled in and out of the funeral home parking lot. Visitation was only two hours long that night, but there wasn’t the usual traffic coming and going. After the last car left, I came inside. I sat on the couch in the front of the funeral home and asked my dad why nobody came. Sadly, the story was that “Emma didn’t have anything left that anybody wanted.” He told me how they had even raced to the nursing home to see if they could grab anything from her room.

She had given my dad her wedding ring before her death because she knew that was all she would have left to bury her. On our last visit to the nursing home, she had told my dad to bring the TV home for me. That was special. It wasn’t big, but it was color, and the TV I had at the time was black and white (don’t speak of my age…) 

That year was also my first year in 4-H livestock, and the proceeds from the sale of Amos, my Poland China pig, helped me purchase piano lessons…and the TV remote for that TV since the original had been lost at the nursing home.

In our conversation, I realized that nobody would be at the funeral the next day for Emma. There was nobody to even carry her casket to the graveyard. I asked my dad, “Can I stay home tomorrow and help carry Emma’s casket.” My father kept me home that day, and seven of us sat in the funeral home and prayed for Emma and said goodbye. The seven included my parents, myself, the minister and his wife, one of our staff, and one other person. 

She had nothing left that anybody wanted, but what she left this world was my memory of her. My memory of my visits, the memory of her smile, and the memory of being able to say that she might have died alone in this world, but she wasn’t buried alone. There were people who cared. She was loved. She is remembered. The TV, well used, now resides in a landfill. The ring is in a jewelry box. The memories are treasured forever.

 

Dorothy

I was contacted by someone at a nursing home to come visit a resident who needed help planning her final resting place. When I met Dorothy, her voice was difficult to understand. Even after asking her to repeat things many times, I couldn't’ always make out what she was saying. But she made one thing very clear. She wanted to be buried at Mt. Hope Cemetery in Logansport where her son had been laid to rest. She didn’t want to be cremated. These were her simple instructions.

 
Over the past six years, I have visited Dorothy in the nursing home a few times. When we had someone who died and the family didn’t want flowers, I would take her a bouquet. Always purple, her favorite color. When someone had clothing to donate, Dorothy would get new outfits. She’d get a visit when I’d drop them off. And no matter the time of day when work called me to Hickory Creek in Peru, I would peek my head in her room to see if she was awake and tell her hello.

 
I don’t think that Dorothy had any visits over the last six years from anybody other than nursing home staff and me. I know she had family, but we were never able to track anybody down. She wanted a visit so much, but that didn’t seem to happen. I don’t know what had happened over the years to distance her from the family, but that didn’t matter. To me, she had smiles and a sparkle in her eyes to welcome me into her room.

The childhood memories of going to visit my friends in the nursing home seem to mean so much more to me now. Not because I remember their content, but more because I realize how much that time meant for someone else. My parents were the root of that. They were the ones who taught me the value of relationships with people and how that value far surpasses any monetary compensation. They taught me that people are the thing in this world that mean the most. Period. End of story.

Tomorrow, I will bury Dorothy in a lavender casket and a purple outfit. She will be laid to rest at 2:00 tomorrow afternoon (Wednesday, May 17, 2023) at Mt. Hope Cemetery in Logansport, most likely absent of any family since we weren’t able to contact anyone. There won't be flowers. There won't be a procession. There will just be a few people from the nursing home and my staff that come together to pray for her and to say goodbye. I will say a few words, and even shed a few tears…just as I am as I write this. I’m not sure if these tears are for Dorothy or for the gratitude I have for my parents. They were my heroes, and even though they are gone, they continue to bless me daily.

 
Tomorrow, I will give thanks for the life of Dorothy. I didn’t get to know her well, but I got to experience her smiles and see the joy when something purple would show up in her room. So, tomorrow, I’ll be wearing purple. I’ll admit, I could have done more and even spent more time visiting. Hindsight is 20/20 and guilt is real. 

Tomorrow, I won't leave the cemetery with a lot of money in my pocket, nor a used TV, nor any possession of Dorothy's; however, I'll leave with something more valuable. The memories of making someone's day and the memory of her smiles Hopefully, I never find myself in the position of knowing a lost and forgotten person again, but if given the chance, I can assure you I’ll give them some of my time.

Thank you, Dorothy. Thank you, Emma. Thank you, Nettie. Thank you, Barb, for introducing me to Dorothy, and thank you, Mom and Dad for making me realize how important these people would be in my life.

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I want to thank my friends Barb Townsend, Mike Downham, and Lisa Miller Downham and my staff for taking the time today to help remember Dorothy.

Today, we made certain a life mattered. We made sure that Dorothy was remembered, and that her life meant something.

I was moved to tears when some of my friends showed up today for the service, but I was blown over when Judy Winegardner Davis arrived at the funeral home this morning with purple flowers for Dorothy. Thank you!!! Dorothy had purple flowers, and that was perfect.

Rest in Peace, Dorothy.

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Once again, thanks to Brad for the wonderful post. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.