Open Casket

Mom had some requests for the visitation.  “I want to wear the pink top – the one I wore to Emily’s wedding.” She looked at her hands, badly bruised from the IVs, “And I want them to cover these spots somehow.”  Mom knew what would happen.  There would be an open casket. People would walk past to view the body – her body.

She was self-conscious, I suppose, but not as I expected. Mom was a private person, shunning attention, particularly in a vulnerable state. So yes, she was self-conscious about the impending visitation, but not much. She had requests, but didn’t seem all that invested in them. No repetitive sentences, no belaboring – just matter-of-fact and direct, “Bury me in the pink top.”

In one way, her whole dying process was business-like. Her requests, though heartfelt, were efficient; picking out scripture and hymns, insisting that
an invitation to faith in Christ be issued at her funeral. She sternly implored us, her children and grandchildren. “Don’t fight when I’m gone.” But, as the hours passed, mom was clearly looking past the business of last affairs.

I’d heard about this phenomenon. When people know they are dying, they begin to disconnect from this life. Sometimes they speak less and pull inward. Their eyes focus faraway and they say seemingly random sentences, “Your daddy was a good man.” “The silver platters go to the grandchildren.” “Noah.”  “I’m dying.”

In her sleep, Mom pulled at her clothes and tried to remove the O2 monitor on her finger. The night before she moved to Hospice, she somehow managed to yank the med port out of her chest. To me, her behaviors were saying, ‘I won’t be needing these’. I’d heard about this, but always suspected that it was a way for the family to rationalize the loss. Witnessing it changed my mind. My mom, my ‘don’t-talk-about-dying-because-it-means-you’re-dying’ mom, was making ready. She was looking past the open casket.

She became newly tolerant of the whole viewing thing. Tolerant in a ‘if that’s what you need’ kinda of way. Self-consciousness was no longer a priority to her. Where she was going, she didn’t need it. It was almost like leaving for college. In high school, you wear your Monogram Jacket every chance you get. But after a couple of campus visits, you decide not to take it with you. You hang it in the closet and never wear it again. Mom was leaving and checking her insecurity at the door.

So at the visitation, I walked past the open casket. I saw my mom wearing the pink top, the one she wore at my daughter’s wedding. Her hair had been done. People said to me, “She looks good.”

At one time, those words would have mattered a lot to her. But they sound oddly humorous to her now.

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