Fury Bailey - Personal Injury - Wrongful Death Attorneys

SAYING GOOD-BYE: A FATHER'S CREMATION

By William S. Bailey

I was raised a Roman Catholic, but turned my back on all Western organized religion in college, after years of rote memorization of capsulized theology in the Baltimore cathechism, e.g., "Who made us?", "God made us." After years of regular church attendance orchestrated by my mother, I found very little to keep me in the Catholic fold as I entered adult life. As I looked back, it had been a joyless endeavor which had only worsened all my childhood fears. It had brought neither comfort or meaning into my life.

While still as spiritual as I ever was, in fact much more so, there is no longer a convenient place for me to lodge this part of me. A sudden existential chill came over me when I realized that I did not have a church or an organized institutional set of religious beliefs to call upon when my father died in November, 1995. Suddenly, I found myself reaching back in time, hoping to reclaim some measure of the long discarded "I'm going to heaven when I die" certainty that I once possessed as a child. If there was ever a time that I wanted to believe in life after death, it was now. I desperately wanted to believe that I would see my father again some day in some variation of the heaven that had been a regular part of my nightly prayers. Perhaps this belief could be resurrected in my hour of need. But it couldn't.

Around 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday evening, November 29, 1995 , I sat in the office of my law partner Steve Fury. It was a happy occasion, we had just recently concluded some extended unpleasant litigation with our former law firm. This burden lifted, we had a very pleasant free ranging conversation about our futures, how much longer would we continue to do this work, what other things might we do. I discussed my desire to teach high school and write. We discussed Steve's dream of living in other countries and work at some point, just as he and his wife, Nancy, had done in a refugee camp in Thailand in the late 1980's. Steve said, "I love to travel, but not in the usual American sort of way. Within a week of being in Paris a few months ago, I had eaten in all the fancy restaurants I could tolerate. But actually living in a place for a time is a fascinating prospect." Then I went home to make a 6:30 p.m. tennis game with my son Rob.

Upon our return at 7:45 p.m., my daughter, Mimy, opened the side entry door to the garage and stuck her head out with a quizzical look on her face, "Uncle Jim's on the phone and he sounds . . . well, weird. He didn't even say "Hi" like he usually does, but only "Is your father home?" in an ultra serious way." As soon as this hit the air, I knew what had happened. The telephone call that I had long feared, but knew would ultimately come, was waiting for me. Dad was dead. It was supremely ironic as I sat in Steve's office and talked so hopefully about the future, my father had abruptly collapsed and was breathing his last in the place he loved most, his garden. He went out the way we all hoped for when our time comes, suddenly, painlessly. Dad never knew what hit him, just like Vito Correleone's sudden heart attack in the garden in the movie, The Godfather .

When I finished with my brother, I immediately called my parents' home in San Diego . A police officer answered. I told him who I was and asked to speak with my mother. She was remarkably calm. "I was on the phone with Carmen Howe for a long time. When I got off, I didn't hear your father walking around like he always does in the early evening. I knew something was wrong. I found him collapsed in a heap on the walkway in back. I called 911 and they told me to try and get him on his back and administer CPR. I tried, but he was tangled up in too much of a knot. I knew that it was too late." Though she is a sensitive person, there is a very strong center to her. Mom had vigilantly watched his health for years fearing the day that would finally come. Eight years younger than Dad, she knew that he would be the first to go, but wanted to delay this day of reckoning for as long as possible. I promised her that I would be on the next plane to San Diego the following morning.

The morning I arrived, it was a clear, warm sunny day in the low 80's. Quite unheard of at home in Seattle for this time of year. This first day was a blur. The lawyer in me wanted to immediately assess the state of their finances, notify the bank and attend the myriad of business details that accompany a death. I got out my familiar yellow pad and made a list of their monthly obligations as well as their assets. Typical for women of her generation, Mom did not have more than a few remote clues to the state of their finances. Dad did it all and that's the way he wanted it, to be in control. The problem with this is that most women outlive their husbands and face a rude shock when death abruptly dumps all the business details in their lap.

The next morning, I went to the funeral home in the adjoining town of Poway , California . A friend of my father's had recently died and the funeral service had taken place here. My mother had remembered dropping Dad off in front of this mortuary to pay his respects. Now when pressed by the authorities as to where she wanted my father's body taken, this was the only funeral home she could think of. In truth, it was about as good as any.

As I walked through the neo-colonial entry into the mortuary business office that morning, I was unsettled by the thought of dad's body back in the refrigeration unit. Intuitively, I know that I would not be at peace until his cremation was completed. I saw his name in erasable pen up on the white laminate board on the front wall -- a grim census of the current occupants in the back room. Somehow it didn't seem possible to me that he was really there, now reduced to a lifeless body. My mind was working overtime to make this out to be a bad dream. But I knew it wasn't. I shifted into my "business is business" lawyer mode and started to make the necessary arrangements with the pleasant, but taut faced young woman in a well-tailored black business suit who had been assigned to us from the pool of mortuary attendants. She wasn't exactly Morticia Adams, but levity was not her strong suit -- serious business, this. Humor is the Bailey way of dealing with difficult or unpleasant situations, but I would get no help on this front. I guess there isn't exactly a "lighter side of" funerals vein of folk humor to tap into.

I soon found out that the usual procedure for cremations is to use the mortuary as a pass through -- the body goes off to the crematorium and the ashes come back the next day, just like any other quick turnaround merchandise delivery. I promised myself at the outset that I would not delegate the cremation of my father's body to intermediaries any more than I had to. But I couldn't exactly build a funeral pyre in the back yard and do it all myself, even if I'd wanted to. For one thing, the minuscule yard of my parents townhouse was not nearly big enough and their gated community neighbors would have responded with outrage if I'd even tried a do-it yourself cremation. But at the same time, I would find a way to participate, to be there as I knew Dad would want me to be. I had been mentally conditioning myself for these moments, like an Olympic athlete in training, ever since Dad's serious heart attack in 1977. Fate was kind and had given me an 18 year reprieve, the best 18 years Dad and I could have ever dreamed of. In classical magical thinking, I kept thinking that it would go on forever if I kept scheduling special father-son events on the horizon to look forward to. I had recently completed the arrangements for a "guys go to Yosemite " trip for the spring of 1996, with my father, my brothers and my son.

Dad's active, alert presence fostered the illusion he would live forever. He flat but hated any sign of giving in to the aging process. He made it a point to continue to step lively, give a firm handshake and be his usual lively self in any social situation. He constantly wrote down new words he came across and added them to his working vocabulary, his way of keeping his mind in peak form. He frequently used squeeze type grip strengtheners to make sure his hands stayed strong. Dad frequently stated, with his characteristic chuckle, "I always tell my doctor whenever I see him, my goal is to wear out evenly." In fact, he'd just had a complete physical and was given a very optimistic report on his longevity. Though he was 82 years old and many of his close friends from growing up were already dead, we all bought into the idea that Dad was invulnerable.

The mortuary attendant finished her discrete sales pitch, explaining the laundry list of options I had. A major policy decision to be made was on the kind of cremation container -- cardboard or wood. This was an easy one for Robert Bailey's son. A true child of depression era scarcity, Dad hated to waste anything, particularly building materials. Whenever we moved to a new city in the 1950's and 1960's when I was a child, as a result of his rising business career, he insisted on bringing along his hoarded supply of scrap wood that was his first resort for the building projects he did regularly on weekends -- his own form of work therapy. He would not have approved of burning up so much good quality finish lumber in a cremation coffin -- cardboard would be just fine.

I saw myself take out my Mastercard and hand it to the attendant to pay for the funeral services I had just chosen. Never before had the extent of the range of goods and services that can be purchased on a credit card in America been as manifest to me as it was now. My father's funeral was now added to the list of possibilities, along with car stereos, living room furniture and fashion accessories. I paid $125 extra for a "witness cremation" up at the crematorium in Lake Elsinore , California , one hour to the north of us. This was the chance for personal participation that I had been looking for. The attendant handed me a glossy full-color brochure from the cremation company, all done in the florid, stylized fashion of the funeral industry. Vivid purple iris' were around the edges. However, this brochure had also a slightly high-tech slant, a photo showing two vaguely scientific young men in white lab coats in the "shop area" of the crematorium, pushing controls in a high-tech mode. It was vaguely reminiscent of a small manufacturing plant. But at the same time, this high-tech slant was balanced with the usual "there at your time of need" mortician's sentiments. With a somewhat bizarre twist, there was another photo in the background of the shop area displaying a poster of the Abraham Lincoln statute at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington , D.C. The poster of Honest Abe was in turn flanked by two out of place potted palms that would have looked more at home in a fern bar than a cremation plant.

Four days later, my two brothers and I would take a long journey of the soul up to this place in Lake Elsinore , California with our date in destiny, to be with Dad's body during its last moments in the form that we have known it for so long. I was obsessed with the thought of wanting to see Dad one last time, for a multiplicity of reasons. One, to accept the finality of his death. Ever since arriving at my parent's home in San Diego , I expected to hear his brisk measured stride clipping through the hallway, his deep rich baritone voice vibrating the walls and the windows with its resonance. I wanted to think he had just gone out for the many errands he was so fond of, always looking for an excuse to get into his treasured 1985 red Chrysler convertible. Surely he would be right back. But I knew better.

As a child, I'd always thought open casket ceremonies were ghoulish. But now I understood for the first time that they were also necessary. The loss of a loved one promotes some heavy duty denial. The only thing that cuts through this is the sight of the waxy looking, motionless body, "Yes, it's true, the unthinkable has happened. He's dead." My paranoia was such that I also wanted to make sure the ashes we ended up with were truly Dad's and not somebody else's. Maybe it's just a part of the cynicism that comes with the territory of being a lawyer, but I never trust anybody else to do the job right. I monitor so many failures in our society in my work.

I also wanted to say good-bye to dad. In some sense, I saw myself as his emissary. He was such a man of high standards and deep spirituality, I wanted there to be some cremation ceremony that reflected this. But what ceremony would it be? I had absolutely no idea. I would just have to wing it and hope for the best. This was going to be a tough job here, our destination being a crematorium located in a gleaming green glass exterior California office park. This wasn't happening on the banks of the Ganges River , or any other time tested sacred space.

My sister-in-law, Annie, warned me not to look at Dad after she heard me openly ruminate about my dilemma, "Do I take one last look or not?" With her usual diplomacy, she presented a number of persuasive reasons why this might not be a good idea. His face may have struck the ground when he fell, which would cause it to be deformed in some unsightly way. There was also the possibility that since his body had been untouched by the mortician's art and its "natural" makeup, his face may have contorted in a grotesque manner after rigor mortis had set in. After death, eyes can remain open in an eternal stare, with the mouth twisted and lips pulled back to reveal the front teeth. Annie's soothing compassionate voice was a life line. She gave me a way out if I wanted it, "The last look is important. This is the image of your father that you will carry with you for the rest of your days. I don't advise you to look at him." Good advice, but for some reason, I didn't want to follow it.

All the way up to Lake Elsinore in our white four-door airport rental car, I could feel myself winding up tighter and tighter in the back seat. My brothers, Jim and Rob, were chatting between themselves about the current issues in their respective businesses in the front. Jim, as usual, was the wheel man. I was left to stew in my thoughts. This was a classic approach -- avoid dilemma for me. I felt that I had to look at Dad, but perhaps it was a mistake. I just didn't know. You only go through this once in a lifetime. There is very little way you can prepare yourself for it. This is beyond the simplistic, cookbook "1-2-3" rules of self-help books on what to do in a personal crisis.

As we turned off the freeway at Lake Elsinore , I immediately began scanning the skyline for the ominous crematorium landmark of towering chimneys. Somehow I couldn't shake the image of Nazi concentration camps. It was a fixed association in my mind.

We were still blocks away according to the map on the brochure, and nothing more was to be seen than the ubiquitous signs of tacky California urban sprawl, fast food restaurants, car lots with flapping plastic pennants, auto specialty shops -- tires, mufflers and parts. The mortuary attendant had told me two days before, "It's in an office park, look for three chimneys." We made the last turn shown on the brochure. Surprisingly, we were faced with a newer office park with a Coldwell Banker "For Lease" sign conspicuous at the entrance. The three chimneys came into view -- sheet metal and unobtrusive -- no Auschwitz brick smoke stack.

We parked and walked on the blacktop toward the entrance. "Well, this is it," I heard myself say, surprised that I was still capable of speaking a word at this point. My skin was as tightly stretched over my body as Liberace's face after one of his plastic surgery jobs. Only this was from nerves, not a scalpel.

From all appearances, we were just going on a routine shopping errand -- three middle age men getting out of a non-descript white Ford walking toward an office park building. The banality of this setting was strangely reassuring.

We walked into a small entry which was largely filled with a vast gurgling fish tank. A teenage girl in a Disneyland T-shirt with Mickey Mouse on front had a plastic spray bottle of Windex and paper towels in her hand. She was on her knees rubbing the bottom part of the glass on the fish tank. She turned awkwardly and said quickly, "Oh, I think he's in there," pointing through an open aluminum framed passageway door into the next waiting area. Soon I realized that this was not a place that had many visitors, at least live ones. There was no choreographed reception routine in place.

A clean cut, dark-haired man, of about 35 years old, in Eddie Bauer type casual clothes emerged from a small storage area. "Hi, I just put some coffee on. You must be the Baileys. I am Adam." Given our mission, I was immediately struck by the irony in his names as well as the appropriateness of it. I was reminded also that this was no Auschwitz , as Adam was clearly no Eichmann prototype. I shook his hand, declined the coffee and introduced myself and my brothers. Even if I drank coffee, which I don't, I didn't need any more stimulation at this point. My body was already speeding at maximum warp -- any further stimulation would probably cause it to explode. "No thanks, but I would like a glass of water." Adam was as pleasant as a Nordstrom sales person, but without the focused "What can I help you buy" intensity. His casual khaki pants, plaid shirt and tennis shoes confirmed the obvious, they didn't get too many visitors here. No need to resort to the somber version of prom night formal wear favored by the funeral home industry.

I grounded myself in the situation by asking Adam all kinds of questions about the technical details of the cremation operation. Once again, I was thankful for the professional skills that being a lawyer gives, providing a way to find a toe-hold in this terrifying situation. When in doubt, what does a lawyer do? Ask questions. Adam was patient and respectful in giving answers. He said, "When my turn comes, God will look to how I've treated those who have passed on before me. I will be judged for this." I was comforted by his apparent sense of duty and sincerity.

Both my brothers largely deferred to my lead at this point and listened. At my request, we ended up getting a "tour" of the facilities. He outlined the protocol for us -- the bodies are brought from the funeral homes, cremated and the subsequent ash deliveries occur, usually with no direct intervention by family members. A metal tag with the body has to match the number on the metal tag with the urn for the ashes. All the ashes and bits of bone which remain are blown to the end of the cremation chamber with an air hose and then shoveled out like a fireplace. All the remains are put in what is an industrial type blender to grind the "product" down to a uniform dust.

Adam obviously wanted to be supportive in any way he could. It was ironic that my brother, Jim, as a manufacturer of pottery kilns for commercial operations, beheld three cremation chambers that were similar in all basic respects to the kilns he manufactures for a living.

When my preliminary questioning in the outer lobby and our subsequent tour of the shop area was through, I asked Adam if he would mind lifting the lid of the cardboard box that contained my father's body so that he could see what his face looked like. To be an advance scout. He was agreeable to this request. He took a motorized gurney with a power lift through a freezer door at the back of the shop area. I could see long cardboard boxes on metal industrial shelves through the partially opened door. Apparently, the box with Dad's body was on the second shelf up from the floor. From 30 feet away, I could only see the very end of the box when the lid slide back. It remained off for about five seconds and then gently placed on the box by Adam's unseen hand. He then slid the box onto the battery powered lift. There was the constant hum of the fan from the cremation chambers in the background. Two other cremations were in progress.

Here it was, the moment of truth, the cardboard box with my father's body in it was being pushed toward me, out into the middle of the shop area. This was the moment that I had feared for so long. I could see the name Robert Bailey on the upper end. I was displeased with this as he was always so proud of his name, "Robert W. Bailey, Jr." Brother Jim noticed this and later added the initial "W" in the middle and the "Jr." at the end. (All three Bailey boys inherited their father's passion for detail.)

Adam gave his scouting report to me, "He's turned a little bit to his side. There is some color in his cheeks. There's a little bit of blood coming out of his nose, not much. More or less, he looks like he's asleep. He looks okay." I trusted Adam and felt relieved that I would be able to look at Dad after all and say good-bye to him as I had wanted to do. Annie's prophecy about this being a horrible event was not likely to be fulfilled. Adam pushed the gurney/lift from the cavernous shop area into the much smaller room with the first cremation chamber, used for "witness" procedures. Jim and Rob waited outside, they didn't want to look at dad, but were relieved that I was.

I knew I didn't want to kiss Dad good-bye, because his body would be cold. One of the things about him was his incredible warmth. I did not want the last temperature sensation of him to be that of lifeless refrigerated flesh. But seeing him was another matter, this I wanted and needed to do. Adam slid back the top to the cardboard box at my request. I was two feet away. There he was, it really was Dad. He had an opaque white plastic sort of shroud wrapped around him. His head was turned to his left. However, immediately I was struck by how peaceful he looked, even though his face had been unaltered by any mortician's touch. In the end, his spirit had surrendered gently. If this was not so, it would have been visible, as his last expression was frozen forever on his face. I started to talk to him, telling him how much I loved him, how much I would always love him, thanking him for all the things of value he passed along to me. I promised that, in turn, I would continue to try to pass along those same qualities to my own children and do my best to uphold the Bailey name that he was always so proud of.

Suddenly, I felt someone pull up alongside me. It was my brother Jim. He put his arm around me. He had looked at my face through the doorway and seen my initial anxiety melt away, with a relaxation of not only the muscles in my face, but my entire body. A sure signal that it was okay to come in and join me.

Jim too started to talk to Dad. Rob elected to remain outside, watching us through the open double doorway, with both metal industrial fire doors wedged at a 90 degree angle. After about 10 minutes, Jim and I were done with all we had to say while looking at Dad. Adam put the lid back on the box and Rob came in and joined us. We put all of our hands on top of each others on the box lid, right over where Dad's heart was underneath. We all started to talk to him in turn. Jim took out his felt tipped pen and wrote "Quid Clarus Astris," our supposed family motto from the Bailey code of arms, giving Dad one last playful swipe based on the family honor "pep talk" we got from him every morning before we went to school. "Remember the family motto boys, Quit Clarus Astris. Be sure to do all good and no bad in school today." I then asked Jim for the pen and wrote below the motto on the box lid, "I will always love you, Pop." I passed the pen on to Rob, who wrote, "Your spirit will always be with us." We three sons continued to talk to Dad and one another for about a half an hour. Then we were ready for the cremation to begin. Adam asked us if we wanted to handle the container with Dad's body and push it into the cremation chamber ourselves. We said "Yes", and were appreciative of his offer. He opened the galvanized metal chamber door and a blast of intense heat immediately hit our faces. As we pushed in the box containing his body, I said, "Good-bye Dad. Don't be afraid, it's okay. Please do all you can to watch over all of us and our families. We will always love you." The door shut and Adam pushed several buttons on the control panel. Shortly thereafter, I could see the digital readout move steadily higher up to its final temperature of 1,650 degrees Fahrenheit.

The three sons stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms around each other, three feet away from the cremation chamber. We gave out our strongest thoughts of love for Dad and all he was to us. After about half an hour, the heat and lack of fresh air started to get to me. In addition, I was now complete with this process. I turned to my brothers and excused myself, "I need to go sit down for a few minutes in the lobby." Rob and Jim went in to the waiting room with me. I sunk into the squishy corduroy upholstery of the couch, feeling much relived. I tried to call Mom at home to tell her everything was okay, but there was no answer.

I came to this place in Lake Elsinore , California several hours before, full of fear and doubt. Yet, somehow, it had all worked out. We had not only given Dad the send off that he deserved, but also had been there for each other. Never was I more grateful to have two brothers to stand with and join me in this difficult journey. As we walked out to the parking lot, arm in arm, I looked up at the deep blue cloudless sky of a perfect Southern California November afternoon and felt Dad's presence. He had been lost to me in one form, but now I would learn how to find him in other ways. Something I will continue to do until it is, at last, my turn to join him in death's embrace.

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