The Human Side of Heartbreak

By Wayne Bethard

Sooner or later, everyone meets the undertaker---that final contact with the hereafter. His mere mention sends chills up the spine; the image is always there, hidden on the back walls of our minds: a tall, hunkered figure, gaunt and pale of face, cold hands, black suit, deep voice. Stories about him hold a morose sense of fascination, yet aside from this morbid image, pun intended, undertaking has long been a reverent livelihood practiced by gifted people who handle grief by choice, a profession that deals daily with intense emotions surrounded by sorrow.
There is awesome power in our need to ‘story.’ From our stories flows true and abiding love of family and life. As we tell our tales, we heal ourselves. Relating love-filled memories has purpose to our life and death experiences---searching for wholeness among fractured parts, exposing our pasts and gaining direction, learning how a lost love influences the present and the future. The emotional fulfillment of ‘story’ creates awareness that helps heal not only the physical realm, but also the spiritual realm of loss. Funeral directors, the truest of grief counselors, the guardians of our hearts, listen and understand those they serve. Having watched his sons companion the hurting of others makes, Wayne Bethard has compiled a wonderful collection of stories, essays and tales that exemplify this highly respected profession as reported and told by the truest masters of sorrow, the very ones who bridge that disturbing abyss between death and life. The Human Side of Heartbreak is one of those seldom seen pieces of literature that not only puts those who deal with death in a different light; it changes your whole outlook on life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Bethard
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466092181

Wayne Bethard

A pharmacist by trade, Wayne Bethard is the truest of drugstore cowboys. A graduate of the University of Texas, he resides, practices, and writes out of his home in Longview, Texas.

Book preview

Preface

Sooner or later, everyone meets the undertaker—our final contact with the hereafter. Undertakers are a much-misunderstood part of society. His mere mention sends chills up the spine; the image lies hidden on the back walls of our minds: a tall, hunkered figure, gaunt and pale of face, cold hands, black suit, deep voice. Stories about him hold a morose sense of fascination, yet aside from this morbid image, pun intended, undertaking has long been a reverent livelihood practiced by gifted people who handle grief by choice, a profession dealing daily with intense emotions surrounded by sorrow.

The depressing environment in which they practice brings out a more human and lively attitude than one might expect. Funeral directing is a calling no different from preaching the gospel, or teaching the written word, and serves just as important a role to society. I hope by telling these stories here, the image of these wonderful people will be changed, or at least properly adjusted.

There is awesome power in story telling. Our need to ‘story’ comes easy. From them flows true and abiding love of family and life. As we tell our tales, we heal ourselves. Relating love-filled memories has purpose to our life and death experiences—searching for wholeness among fractured parts, exposing our pasts and gaining direction, learning how a lost love influences the present and the future. The emotional fulfillment of ‘story’ creates awareness that helps heal not only the physical realm, but also the spiritual realm of loss. Funeral directors, the truest of grief counselors, listen and understand those they serve. Watching as my sons companion the hurting of others makes me proud.

The following stories, tales, and tongue-in-cheek experiences are examples of this highly respected profession as reported or told by the truest masters of sorrow, the ones who bridge a disturbing abyss between death and life. Sit back now and enjoy The Human Side of Heartbreak.

Acknowledgements

A special thanks goes out to all the funeral directors, funeral home secretaries, cemetery grounds caretakers, preachers, teachers, and their spouses who took the time to phone, email, tell or send me written notes or copies of the stories related herein. A special thanks goes to my son, Jeff, who took on the burden of listening to me while away the hours reading these stories for his input, and to the others who took the time out of their busy days to help with this project. A special tribute to Ginnie Bivona who issued me this challenge, to the DFW Writers Workshop for listening, critiquing and helping resurrect this piece into something worthwhile; heavens knows they’ve served as pallbearers to many dead pieces of my writing. This book would not have come about without their help.

Be cognizant as you read what follows that simply telling can change a story, and mere repetition can alter facts. Case in point is the old game where several people are placed in a line and the person on one-end whispers a story in an ear. By the time it reaches the last in line, the story has changed dramatically. A monster called time that lives in our clocks and devours our thoughts can also amend memories. Save for where specifically noted, these stories were perceived and received as having been true, at least at one point in their original telling. In any event, true to the word or not, they were all related to me by people in the funeral profession.

A good cry or a good laugh, like a good steak, or a good day, are all the same to someone who spends their idle time pecking out twenty six little letters from an alphabet to make words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters and volumes compiling something significant to say, or a better way to say what someone has already said. Time and again when I handed out the rough drafts of these stories to funeral directors to read or respond to, I fielded statements like, this happened to a funeral director friend of mine, or Boy, you nailed that one. It’s as if you were there with me when it took place, or Dad, this happens all the time, or I’ve experienced this several times in my practice, but this the best version yet."

In most cases here, I have taken the literary leeway of re-writing the stories, some of which have been tendered by time and may even be regarded as urban legend. Many began as a few sentences written on scratch paper or a napkin and passed to me at meetings, some were submitted as a carefully constructed paragraph or two, some as completely intact stories that required little more than a good edit; some were recounted trough lengthy discussions related over the phone or a cup of coffee or in all out interviews. Unless so noted, the names have been changed to protect the bereaved.

Some tales here fall into the fictionally confusing realm referred to as creative non-fiction—literarily enhanced narratives based on supposedly true circumstances or personal experiences, expressions which explore all possibilities—a release of imagination in a world that agues what realities really are. There is rhyme to this reason. Many funeral directors at first agreed to send me stories, but when it came time to produce, they hedged. These true Guardians of our Hearts feared the telling of their tales might bring pain to still living families. Therefore, many of these stories have been written in short story form—short stories based on true life experiences, depicted in a manner to protect the sanctity and privacy of those involved.

This book is not the creation of an individual, but the product of a highly respected profession, a healing broth specifically designed to emphasize. It was with humble impact I addressed this keyboard to relate to you the following. I’ll pause here to issue a warning, more of a caution perhaps—some of these narratives may be hazardous to your heart.

Wayne Bethard

There is a startling moment

in time when the ultimate adage says

‘the only thing in the world…is you’.

Part I

Born to Serve

Frankly, people don’t like funerals. Many rank them with root canals, pelvic and prostate exams: The dreaded pop of those rubber gloves and, Scoot to the end of the table please, or bend over, this might be a little uncomfortable, still beats a funeral.

No amount of advertising by thin and scantily clad models or tanned hunks with stomachs like washboards can make a funeral more marketable. Most people regard these ceremonies with held breaths and forlorn reluctance. There are, however, members of society who have learned their chosen livelihoods depend on caring for the dead as a means to better serve the living.

The Pediatric Code

The hospital sat silent, as if someone somewhere had downshifted the day from hectic to smooth. The only sounds were the occasional muffled voice, the sporadic squeak of a rubber soled shoe on fresh waxed tile, and the swish of an ancient air conditioner coming on. Outside, the forlorn moan of a Texas winter wind fluttered the windows. Even the pharmacy was quiet this night.

I returned from re-setting an IV pain pump on the second floor and took a seat to enter some doctor’s orders on the computer when my beeper went off—a code in ER. The phone rang. The head nurse’s voice came over loud and clear alerting me what was coming. I grabbed the pediatric code box and hurried to Trauma Room 1.

In computerized gait, everyone assumed position, some tearing open this and laying out that. The doctor entered, walked to the sink, washed his hands and put on a pair of rubber gloves. What we got? he said and turned to face the room.

Eighteen month old found in bed not moving. Unknown etiology. They’re rolling him in now.

The door banged open and in charged three uniformed men pushing a gurney. Down time not known, one called out and went on, Four Epi and one Atropine— Broslow dosed. Grandmother found him lying motionless and not breathing.

Cease CPR, please, the doctor said as he studied the mobile monitor one EMT carried in and sat on a table. Continue please. The doctor turned to me, Another Epi.

Yes Sir, I replied.

Having raised three boys of my own, as I stood there opening the box and pulling the dose up in a syringe, I couldn’t help but imagine one of my babies lying there, his tiny arms folded at his sides, fingers curled, palms up, little pot belly, a pamper with a picture of Barney on the tabs. I handed the syringe to the nurse and cringed when they stuck the needles into his tiny arm, and started running a gruesome looking breathing tube down his throat. For what seemed an eternity the trauma team worked, and worked, and worked. Finally the doctor straightened his back, Cease CPR please. And he stared at the monitors. The deep breath he took made us all do the same. He looked at everyone in the room in sequence. Anyone got any ideas. Anything at all?

No one answered. The doctor swallowed hard, and let his gaze rise to the big clock above the door. Okay…TOD nine-fifty-three. Thanks for your help guys. Are the parents here? And he and the head nurse left the room.

No one else moved or left the room. We all stood stared at that tiny body lying motionless. I’ll never forget those cute his little toes.

It took me a while to get over this one, if you can say I ever did. I went back to the pharmacy and in a stupor of sadness restocked the pediatric code box we keep in the pharmacy and the one we keep in the trauma room. In a daze, I entered a few more physicians’ orders into the computer before heading out to return the trauma room box to its place on the crash cart. Re-supply box in hand, I entered in time to see a man in a gray suit standing beside a narrow ornate gurney. He had a small red velvet blanket unfolded on it and was leaning over the child. I paused and watched. Like a mother picking up a sleeping infant, the Funeral Director lifted the little boy and placed him centered in the velvet. Meticulously, he folded and delicately tucked each corner then picked up the bundle and cradled it in the fold of his arm. What made a lump form in my throat was when he bounced it ever-so-gently as if trying to help it sleep, and he smiled, not at me but down at the baby. When he realized I was in the room his smile died by degrees then came back, and he nodded. He never placed the child on the gurney. He simply carried him cradled in one arm as if he was still alive, and pushed the gurney ahead of him.

You could have heard a pin drop during his walk down an Emergency Room hallway lined with nurses and doctors staring through watery eyes. No one smiled, no one spoke, no one moved, they just watched a very special person carry a very special package into the darkness.

I hope I never have to go through such again, but it sure gave me, and a lot of other health professionals, a proud and healthier respect for funeral directors.

A Hell’s Angel

I am proud of having two sons graduate from The Dallas Institute of Funeral Services. Both have become responsible members of society. What father could ask for more? My youngest son, Chris, finished his education in Dallas and took a post in Kerrville, Texas. They say when New Yorkers who leave their home state get old and retire they go back to New York to die. Old Californians are said to go to Florida. Old Texans go to Kerrville. I had hoped Chris would stay in Kerrville long enough for me to retire, but you can never forecast what your children will do next. He took a position at a funeral home in Grand Saline, Texas, moved, fell in love, married, and gave me another precious daughter-in-law, and later two wonderful grandkids.

One afternoon, he called me aside to tell me he’d decided to get out of the funeral business. I hadn’t even finished paying for his education at the Dallas Institute. Why? I asked.

Dad, the work is okay. I simply can’t take the twenty-four hour call anymore. I never get any sleep.

What are you going to do? You’ve got to work. You’ve got two kids to raise.

I’ve signed up for the police academy.

Jeesus! I thought, but didn’t’ say it. Sometimes you are better off keeping your opinions to yourself. You can imagine how I felt.

I’ll have to admit though he did look good in a uniform, but he looked good in a dark suit too. Anyway, one Saturday afternoon Chris and his family, and Jeff, my middle son, and his family came over for dinner. We finished our meal and had migrated to the den. Chris and Jeff were laughing when I sat down. Chris was telling a story about how two of his senior officers had set him up during training. A call came in from a local man in town that a neighbor hadn’t been seen in several days. The neighbor died of natural causes and was found lying in his bed, dead. He had been there several days. Naturally, the experienced officers called on the ‘rookie’ to go in and evaluate the scene. The sight and smell of decomposing human flesh can make even the strongest at heart heave. To make things worse, rats had eaten parts of the dead man’s fingers and feet. Chris waltzed inside and came back out apparently none affected. The smiles on both senior officers’ faces faded by degrees. That didn’t bother you? One asked.

Chris replied, A few hours in the lab and I could have him ‘open casket’ presentable.

Neither officer knew Chris was a licensed mortician.

I always enjoy sitting and listening to my son’s tell stories. Chris finished and Jeff told one, then Chris told us about previously arresting a young woman, for what I don’t recall, but I learned Chris found out on the way to the jail she recently lost a baby to natural causes. By the time they arrived at the courthouse square, she was in tears and turned to thank Chris for listening. He smiled and hugged her before he booked her.

A few weeks later a call came in pertaining to a disturbance at a local bar. Chris and his partner responded.

Longview, Texas is, or used to be, home base of motorcycle group of known renown. Their leader was a powerful man, a godfather figure so to speak, who Chris was told about in training to be very cautious of. When he and his partner arrived on the scene, they wove in and out of several dozen Harleys parked near the door, and they walked inside. Chris’s more experienced partner hesitated at the door and whispered, We should have called for backup.

Immediately, a mass of bare-armed, tattooed and scar-faced men surrounded them. Chris walked to the bar and turned to survey the approaching crowd when from behind the bar came a woman’s excited voice.

Hello Chris. He turned to see the woman he had arrested earlier in the month. She hurried around the bar and greeted him with a hug. Her face was all smiles. What brings you out here?

A complaint about too much noise, he replied. His partner had backed up to the bar and stood now hand on pistol eyeing the crowd, a rowdy looking group who from the scowls on their faces wouldn’t have burped at devouring two puny police officers. It was then every eye in the place turned to a door opening behind the bar. The place went silent.

Chris looked around to see a man who he guessed to be near forty approaching with long hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing a tee shirt. He walked to Chris and said, What’s the problem officer?

The woman ran her hand around Chris’s arm. This is Chris, the officer I told you about, she said.

Chris cleared his throat to say, We got a complaint of a noise disturbance and came to check it out.

The man nodded to the woman and walked to a low stage. The room went silent. These officers say we’re making too much noise, the man said with authority, and disturbing the neighbors. Everyone quiet down. The man’s face was firm, his features serious. He turned to Chris. It’s taken care of officer. Thanks for coming. And he turned and went back through the door closing it behind him.

The crowd opened allowing Chris and his partner a clear view of the door. As he walked away, Chris glanced back over his shoulder to the woman.

You doing okay? He asked.

Yes, she said, Thanks again.

On the way to the patrol car, Chris’s partner whispered. "I