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Though I do not remember him alive, I have that image of him lying in the casket etched in my consciousness forever. Â I was only about four; however, I shall never forget my mother lifting me "so that I could see him." Â It traumatized me.
Then when I was nine, my maternal grandmother died.  She had uterine cancer and suffered terribly before passing away.  We lived in fear of the phone call that she had suffered another hemorrhage.
I can recall my mother saying those last months of her life, Â "I wish she could just die."
When she finally did, I was completely unprepared for my mother's and her four sisters' (my beloved aunts) reaction at her service. Â As they sat weeping copiously, I remember thinking,
"Why are they crying?" Â They wanted her to die."
Those two experiences left their imprint on my soul, and I hated the thought of anyone dying, much less having to view their body. Â Just the thought of it gave me nightmares.
From that point forward, I refused to attend a funeral.  Then, when I was a Senior in highschool  one of my classmate's father died suddenly from a heart attack.  Since my entire class was going as a group, I had no choice but to attend.
But, as we passed by his casket, I turned my head away, so that I would not have to view his body.
However, when I was 22, my father died, also from a heart attack. Â Since he had a heart condition, Â we always knew that he could die; but, somehow, we--or, at least I--never really thought that he would pass so soon at only Age 50.
Mother, my two brothers and I selected his casket and vault. Â I will never forget that moment as we were about to walk into the selection room where the caskets were...all three of us broke down. Â My mother looked at us and said, Â "Kids, we have to do this, so let's just get it over with."
At that moment, if I could have given a million dollars to be somewhere else, I would have.Â
I also thought  the director played on my mother's grief, directing her to the more expensive caskets and vaults.  Since we could afford the best, at least he was not taking money from our pockets.  And mother selected the best.  I just didn't like how the funeral director manipulated her.
Later that day, when we went in to view him,  which I vehemently did not want to do but knew I had to,  I was so shocked.  The spark, the spirit was no longer there.  That body lying there was not my dad. Â
He had crossed the threshold and was somewhere on the other side. Â My mother wanted me to touch him--why I don't know. Â I didn't need to "touch him" to know that he was dead.
I tell these stories not only because they are part of who I am but also because they became a part of the fabric of how I approached my new job in a funeral home. Â
More on that later.
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