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Tag Archives: Death

Old ‘Tom’s’ Funeral

12 Thursday May 2016

Posted by Heather Irwin in All Posts, Seeking Life Now

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Adventure, Death, Discovery, Farming, Funeral, Memory, Reflection, Stories, Writing

She climbed-up the hay bale with little difficulty and perched on top of it. She looked-out over the farm and realized that she loved this place with every fiber of her being. The farm had been an anchor to her tumultuous life and had provided stability and safety to her from the moment she had arrived.

Let us also not forget about adventure.

Since arriving on the farm she had lived a wondrous life full of new experiences, challenges, growth and adventure.

She conducted her first funeral on this farm when she found an old, male, cat dead in a field and determined that he deserved a more fitting departure than just rotting alone in a field.

It was a gloomy spring day and the ground was still partially frozen. She had been out wandering around, listening to the “Counting Crows” and reflecting on how perfectly the music suited the colours in the sky when she had come-upon the cat carcass.

It seemed sad to her that something that once had life in it, that moved, hunted, ate, played, slept and felt, was now just lying there lifeless and, if she hadn’t found it, forgotten.

Upon deciding that she would give the cat a proper burial, she trudged back to the house to fetch a shovel, a Bible and a hymn book. Having collected these items, she bundled herself up, gathered a couple of dogs to sit with her to pay homage and headed back to the spot where the cat carcass lay.

As she dug a hole in the frozen ground, she had to teach the dogs that the carcass wasn’t a play-toy. Once she had convinced them all to just sit still beside her quietly, she commenced the memorial service.

She opened: “Friends, we have gathered here today to say goodbye to…” and she realized that she didn’t know the cat’s name.

“Tom.” The name suited him nicely, she thought.

“Life is short and for poor, ‘Tom’, it was too short. I will miss him.” She stopped here and cried a little bit. It’s not that she was particularly close to ‘Tom’ or knew him well, death itself was sad and she couldn’t help but be touched by its presence.

“We think about all those who knew him and loved him most”, she continued. “We pray that they will find comfort at this time.”

And, looking at the dogs who were known to, sometimes, terrorize the cats, she added “And you must all do your part to help them at this time. Be nice to the cats, it’s a tough day for them.”

Sammy, the dominant male Samoyed looked up at her with, what seemed to be, a guilty but resigned look of agreement.

“Now, I will read Psalm 23…”

As she read, she paused dramatically to give all those in attendance time to reflect on the words and how they pertained to the life of dear, old, ‘Tom’.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…” She stopped reading again to observe all that existed around her. Taking a deep breath of the farm fresh air her eyes settled on the cattle which were slowly moving around the field to the right of her.

It is grey and dreary right now, life seems to be moving in slow motion, but soon these fields will be green and teeming with life.

She realized she had wandered-off to her own thoughts and that the dogs were sitting there, patiently, waiting for the Psalm to continue.

She went on.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” and now she was sobbing.

The shadow of death. It sounds so cold and lonely. I hate to think that ‘Tom’ was afraid and alone, passing through the shadows. What a terrible way to be. I hope that I never have to experience that kind of fear. People do every day. Lord, how horribly sad.

And now, she came to notice that a couple of the more compassionate dogs had snuggled in closer to her, aware that she had been crying. Belle, the most gentle Old English Sheepdog that you could ever meet, had come up and rested her head in the young girl’s lap.

“I’m sorry, everyone” she stated. And giving them each a hug she added: “I will never let you die alone.”

She finished reading the song and then declared: “Now, as I lower the body into the ground, join with me in singing ‘Amazing Grace’.”

When she had finished the song she picked up a handful of dust and scattered it over the cat carcass proclaiming: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Enjoy your final resting place, ‘Tom’. We love you.” And with that, she covered him up with the earth.

She took several steps backwards and sat down. She was exhausted.

Death is tiring.

She turned her Walkman on again and exhausted, she lay back onto the frozen ground, staring into the sky and felt her body became heavy as she drifted into dreamland.

“When I think of heaven
Deliver me in a black-winged bird
I think of dying
Lay me down in a field of flame and heather
Render up my body into the burning heart of God
In the belly of a black-winged bird”  (“Rain King”-Counting Crows)

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Death

06 Sunday Mar 2016

Posted by Heather Irwin in All Posts, Seeking Life Now

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Death, Dignity, Honour, life, Memory

*

As I sat there staring at the dead body on the floor in front of me, I began to think that maybe, just maybe, life and death weren’t really that important after all.
—————————————————————-

It was a bright blue, sunny, yet cold, Sunday afternoon when the pastor of the church I was attending approached me saying that she needed me to go to a woman’s house who had just lost her father and was very upset. I was a young, uneducated, untrained 24 year old, but I loved people and was always willing to help when needed.

As I drove to the woman’s house, gazing up occasionally at the clear, blue sky, I thought about how to best support someone who was grieving.

In my mind I pictured cups of tea and a lot of listening.

But, no amount of self talk on the way over was going to prepare me for what happened next.

When I arrived at the apartment building I found that the front door hadn’t been closed properly and I let myself in.

I walked up a few steps and about halfway down a bland hallway when I found the number I had been given.

I knocked on the door and as a woman opened it, the first thing that gripped me was the pungent smell of a place that had not been cleaned for several years.

The second thing I noticed was the clutter. This woman was a hoarder which was, clearly, why the place smelled like rotting food.

As my eyes quickly scanned the contents of the room, what I observed next would take my breath away and send my head into a spin.

There, in the middle of the living room floor, lay a body.

Lifeless. Cold. Face up. Dead.

Running around the body was a young girl, 8 years old, hair in pig-tails, playing with her dolls and occasionally jumping over Grandpa as if it was a normal day at home.

I spent the next 4 hours just sitting there, keeping a sort of vigil, over his dead body.

About an hour in I almost vomited as I watched a cockroach crawl up the left ear of the man, circle as if it was contemplating entering his lobe, eventually deciding to give-up, crawl straight over his cheeks, onto his nose and down the other side of his head.

I didn’t draw attention to it hoping that the man’s daughter hadn’t noticed. I felt embarrassed that it had happened and ashamed that I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t want to highlight the fact that I was in shock, terrified and had no idea what the hell I was doing.  I just wanted it to go away. Far, far away.

After I had been there for 2 hours, the Police arrived and suggested that the woman find a sheet with which to cover Grandpa. The woman, thankfully, obliged.

After the police left it would be another 2 hours before the coroner would come.

While I sat there I began to feel like it was all normal and there was nothing unusual about the situation. Maybe it was. After all, what, apart from birth, is more normal than death? It is one thing we all, eventually, experience.

The little girl continued to play, stopping occasionally for a snack or drink. The woman seemed to forget the body was there as she buzzed about, offering me tea and gossiping about a bunch of people in her building that I didn’t know.

‘So, this is what happens when you die’, I thought to myself. ‘Someone has to wait around for hours, police come, sheets are used, bugs climb around, people get bored and eventually your body is dragged off.’

There seemed to be very little dignity or honour for this man who was a father and a grandfather, who once had thoughts, dreams, hopes and fears.

Surely there was more to death than this?

This event that happened, almost 11 years ago to the day, has always been a struggle for me. There is something about the situation that continues to bother me and still picks away at my brain.

Maybe this is why when a woman was run-over by a dump truck right outside my window at work this week, I found myself unable to leave my office until her body had been removed.

I wanted to honour her. To honour life. And, maybe even more importantly, to honour death.

This woman was well-known in our area for being on the streets and I couldn’t help but think that there might be no one who really missed her.

I refused to let her be swept away and forgotten.

And so, like I did many years ago for that old man, I sat there keeping vigil over her dead body. I watched through my office window, staring at that orange tarp, as police and special investigators circled around her doing their work.

As the crime scene photographer took pictures from this angle then that, I thought about her, wondered about her life and mourned for her death.

I watched as the police and coroner walked around trying to figure out the best way to remove her body from beneath the truck.

There can be little dignity or honour in death.

But, shouldn’t it be the most dignified, honourable moment of life?
It is the final act, the last chapter.

Everything we have written across our lives up to that moment will come to a sort of, completion, whether it be glorious or tragic, when we breathe our last breath.

But, is that really where the story ends?

Many years ago that old man had changed my life forever as I sat with him staring my own inadequacies in the face. And this woman, who lay beneath the dump truck on Friday, has also changed me.

Part of their story continues with me.

He who has gone,
so we but cherish his memory,
abides with us, more potent, nay,
more present than the living man.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry-

*

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