Explaining death (Part 4): Suicide

I received a phone call one morning telling me that a good friend of mine had died the day before last. I was told it was a suicide. There was silence on the phone. I had known this man since my high school days. We hung out on the bleachers watching football together. We partied together. We travelled together. We have many close friends together. We attended each other’s wedding. And now he’s dead. “Are you still there?” the caller asked.

My daughter also knows my departed friend. Every year, he’d wish her a happy birthday. And every Christmas, he’d provide us with VIP passes for the Santa Clause Parade.  She’s known him since she was little, clown suit and all from his volunteering at the annual parade. It was very much him and what he did was very much a part of our community. My daughter sensed my sadness and was aware of my muted reactions. She asked me what is going to happen. Unlike my previous discussion with her about death of a neighbor, her pet or even tragedies in the news, this one hit home. I replied, “We’re going to celebrate his life; how he left wasn’t nearly as important as how he had lived.”

A funeral is not for the dead, it’s for the living. I was one of the last to leave the service with the family. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but feel the love and communion that lingered still in the now empty room. My friend’s presence never felt stronger. This is what I want my daughter to take away from a funeral.

As much as death is an on-going discussion with my daughter, in this case, it was important for me to talk it out and explain the process that I was going through when someone close dies. I needed to do this partly because I wanted to be supportive to the family of one of my oldest friends and partly articulating it would help me to be organized with the enormity of undertaking at hand.  While much of the work lain with the family, I was asked to attend the cremation. I was asked to categorize, sort, donate and dispose of his personal effects at home. The task of dealing with the estate fell on other friends who had legal background. And a small circle of us were involved in the communications, wake and funeral.

It was at this point, I asked if my daughter would be interested in attending the funeral. She was hesitant at first and didn’t know what to expect. She asked who will be there. I sensed her apprehension and inquired if she wants me to ask if other children will be there. Specifically the other kids she usually attends the Santa Clause Parade with. My daughter’s reaction to the funeral was based on mine. Her comfort level was vastly influenced by me, also. For my daughter, I told her to expect all sorts of people expressing sadness and happiness. There will be many tears. But there will also be much laughter, too. But no one there would be expressing anything other than love for the person they knew.

The funeral took place on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. It was warm and bright. The non-denominational service was beautifully chaired by a life-cycle celebrant. Speakers were carefully selected to express briefly and endearingly an aspect of our friend’s life. People cried as much as they had laughed. There was no parade across the casket—just an urn and walls filled with pictures and memorabilia. Because it was a cremation, my daughter had more questions about the urn and who got to keep it. She also recognized most of the kids in attendance. After the formal service, we all adjourned to afternoon tea. Many friends from high school and university got caught up after years, perhaps decades, of absence. It was a celebration of the life of our familiar friend and the lives we have lived and the paths we have crossed. There were just as many greetings, smiles and laughter in the room as one would expect at a wedding celebration. This is what I wanted my daughter to see: a funeral is not for the dead, it’s for the living.

By late, late afternoon, I was one of the last to leave the service with the family. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but feel the love and communion that lingered still in the now empty room. My friend’s presence never felt stronger. This is what I want my daughter to take away from a funeral.