My Final Act of Love

With death being the only guarantee in this world, it has always perplexed me that our society detaches itself so completely from the dying process. This detachment makes sense, however, when you realize that aging and death have become institutionalized. Hospitals and nursing homes take over end-of-life care, and funeral homes handle the deceased. It has become such a common norm that many people don't realize they have the right to choose a different path.

With every loss I experienced growing up, the same routine transpired: a loved one was taken away and either cremated—never to be seen in their physical form again—or embalmed for a viewing, followed by a burial. Even at the viewings, the surrounding energy always fed into sadness and fear.

In my last blog, I spoke about viewing my Nana’s body at the funeral home when I was a teenager. I wasn’t granted the opportunity to see her right after she passed; instead, I had to wait until she was embalmed and made up by a mortician. I remember thinking how, despite their best efforts, she didn't look like the Nana I always knew.

Years later, I was able to advocate for myself when my Grampy passed away. My father was doing what he thought was right by trying to shield me from seeing the freshly deceased body, but in my mind, avoiding him wasn't an option. I had to say goodbye before he was altered by embalming or cremation. My soul needed that closure. As it turned out, my two-and-a-half-year-old son needed it, too.

This led me to reflect on how deeply flawed our societal approach to death really is. What is truly more frightening if you stop to think about it? Consider it from a child’s perspective: a loved one is dying, but the adults leave you at home because they assume children can't handle it. The person is just suddenly gone, vanished into thin air, and all the adults are grieving. Is that mysterious disappearance truly less traumatizing than standing beside each other through the natural process of death?

I understand that final decisions are typically made by those closest to the deceased. I had no say after my Nana, Grammy, or Grampy died because I was a great-grandchild and a grandchild. Their spouses or children held the power to decide how their bodies were handled. While I was able to advocate to see my Grampy immediately after he passed because I was physically nearby, I didn't feel I had a voice beyond that.

With August, it was a completely different story. I was his person, and I was going to have a say and a hand in everything. This was my child. I conceived him, grew his precious little body inside mine, birthed him, and cared for him every single second of his life. There was no way in hell I was not going to see him all the way through his departure from this world.

As I’ve written before, August required a mandatory autopsy. Once death was declared, I wasn't allowed to hold him or touch his body. My older son, Alrik, had to say goodbye to his baby brother while August was still in a soiled diaper with an intubation tube coming out of his mouth. For most people, a jarring image like that is the final memory they get of their loved one, and the death industry actively encourages it.

Once the autopsy was complete, the Medical Examiner prepared to release August to a funeral home. Wanting to manage the process myself, I began calling local businesses while we waited. I explained to one representative that my child had passed, that we planned a celebration of life on our farm at a later date, and that all I needed was a price for cremation and the ability to wash and dress him beforehand.

The representative quoted me $10,000. He clearly wasn't listening. He was just trying to upsell the most expensive package possible to a grieving mother. When I reiterated my specific wishes, he attempted to sell me a $6,000 package, continuing to push items I didn't want while scoffing at my request to wash and dress my son. I was absolutely appalled. Here I was, navigating a parent's worst nightmare, and this man was trying to profit off my agony.

I called my best friend Rae the moment I hung up. She immediately swooped in, made the right calls, and ensured I got exactly what I needed: the ability to wash and dress my son in preparation for cremation; a small, intimate ceremony where immediate family could shower August and his casket with flowers, trinkets, and love; and the right to accompany him into the crematorium to oversee the process.

I remember some friends and family members were taken aback by my desire to wash his body. One friend even called and begged me to reconsider—out of love, I know—worrying I wouldn't be able to emotionally handle the sight of a post-autopsy body. But in my mind, the autopsy was the exact reason I had to do it. I needed to see that he was properly cleaned, especially after the hospital forced me to leave him in a soiled diaper. I needed to be the last person to touch his body, ensuring he was held with love after being violated so deeply by the medical process.

Was it easy to wash and dress my son's body? Absolutely not. It was the hardest act of love I have ever performed in my life—yet, in my mind, there was simply no other option.

While it was the most difficult thing I have ever endured, it was also one of the most profoundly beautiful. We played all of August's favorite songs while we washed him. I gently wiped away the marks left by the autopsy and cleaned the incision on his chest. I brushed his golden hair and saved a few precious locks. I made molds of his tiny hands and feet, which Rae later cast into keepsakes. Then, I transferred him into his cremation casket and tucked him in one final time. I was the last person to touch my baby, and my heart and soul needed that.

The truth is though, if it weren’t for my friend Rae, I might have lost that opportunity for necessary closure in the haze of my grief. I easily could have been swayed by the well-meaning concerns of loved ones or worn down by the dismissive scoffing of that funeral home director. I will forever be thankful to her for standing in the gap, advocating for my wishes while I navigated the most devastating experience of my life.

We live in a society that teaches us to look away from death, outsourcing our grief to professionals because we are told it is safer or easier. But as I found with both my Grampy and my sweet August, leaning into the discomfort and choosing a non-traditional path can be where the deepest healing hides. It can also be one of the greatest acts of love a person can perform. Please know that you are not bound to the institutional norm. You have the right to advocate for yourself, to question the system, and to handle your loved one's departure in whatever way brings your heart peace. Don't be afraid to rewrite the rules of goodbye. Remember that you have the right to choose what path you take to guide your loved one to their final resting place.

Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul, and its the only thing that I know. - Ed Sheeran Photograph