Funeral

The whole family went to the funeral today. It was a tough one even though I did not know the deceased. But perhaps I knew half of him. I dread funerals because they bring back too many difficult memories.

We hit the road for my in-law's house fairly early, had a light breakfast there served up by my sister-in-law and her daughter, then went to the funeral home in Newago. There was a lot of waiting for the funeral to begin, but it didn't seem to take too long. It was difficult to look at the pictures of the deceased because he, Robert Davis, was the twin brother of my father-in-law, Richard. For my children, it was very much like looking at their grandpa, and the thought of him dying made them cry. Like grandpa, Robert loved his dogs. One of the things they said at the funeral was that he took his dogs everywhere, and places that would ordinarily bar dogs didn't have a problem with him bringing his inside.

During the service the minister offered people a chance to get up and say a few words. Grandpa got up, and was able to say very little without bursting into tears. But he said enough. It was like a part of him dying, his twin, the person he had shared the womb with. He said it would have been easier to handle, easier to take if Robert had gotten sick and died, "But not like this!"

Near the end of October Robert had left the house to walk over to the neighbors. He never made it. Three weeks later his body was discovered by hunters, in a swampy area, in the water, about a quarter mile away from the house. Despite the searching that had taken place after he went missing, he was not found. No one knows why he wound up there, why he would walk into the woods. Senseless.

I dread funerals because they remind me of my own father's death. He died twice. The first time was in our house, when the heart attack struck, and I watched him collapse before my eyes. The paramedics got his heart pumping again, but I saw the display, and it was not the heartbeat of a man who would be coming back. It was the longest night of my life lying there, knowing my dad was finished, knowing that we would have to let him go, knowing that I would have to make the decision to take the machines away. His body kept going for 4 more days. I read to him from the Bible. Over those days his body faded. That last day I told him it was OK for him to go, that everyone was together, that we were ready. His best friend was with him a few hours later when he breathed his last.

We didn't have anyone come up to say anything at my dad's funeral, because I wrote the eulogy and delivered it, in addition to the words from our pastor. My father was a veteran, so he had the flag ceremony and the rifle-fire salute. Robert did, too. It was very moving to watch them unfold the flag, then refold it, and present it to his children. Later in the day his kids gave the flag to his twin brother.

I will never know how it feels to lose an identical twin. I am a twin myself with my sister Karen, but we were never mistaken for each other even when we tiny babies. Losing your twin brother puts a hole in your soul that's different from the typical loss. But Richard, when it is his time to go, has something my own father never had--the opportunity to know all of his grandchildren, to watch them grow up, to be loved by them. My father died half a year before I would meet his future daughter-in-law.

I don't know, nor much care, how others view the afterlife. I can't help thinking that even while they were shocking his body and getting his heart to beat, however weakly once again, that he was standing there in the room with me. I picture him shining, young and vital, perhaps wanting to shake my shoulder, to tell me to stop the effort. "Jeff, you don't have to do that. There is a place prepared for me, and it's time for me to go there." I think he does know his grandchildren, that he watches us and knows what we're doing, knows their names, appreciates it when I take them to visit his grave.

I hurt right now. I will always hurt after funerals with the renewal of sad memories. But I wouldn't have it any other way.