The case for a Rehearsal Funeral
Our society gives us permission to grieve, but leaves little room to simply celebrate
It was perfect.
We rented a beachhouse, right off Balboa Island, one of Jane’s favorite walks.
The decor – coastal spa, with the kind of aqua-colored accessories she bought for everyone..
The food – her favorite lemon poundcake (from a box mix), linguine (with the worst jar sauce,) and the most basic, grocery store cheese-and-crackers tray, the kind sold long before most people knew the word “charcuterie”.
Nearly all of Jane’s nieces and nephews, plus her siblings flew in from the East Coast.
The playlist was all of her favorite, ‘70s dance songs.
But Jane is dead.
“If only we did this when she was alive,” I lamented. “This is exactly what she would’ve wanted.”
This should’ve been her 80th birthday party. Or an anniversary celebration. Or anything.
“But it’s so easy to find excuses not to do this,” one of the cousins said. “It’s never easy to just come.”
He’s right. I can’t imagine it would all happen – the spouses going solo at home with the little kids all weekend, the brother cashing in all his hotel points to house everyone, the grandson skipping school to dive into the surf with grandma, the boyfriend overcoming his hatred of flying to do the cross-country haul – if she were still alive.
But say the word “funeral” and everyone packs a bag without hesitation. Everyone understands.
Work’s cool with it. Your boss passes on her condolences.
The teachers all nod and say “I’m so sorry” and tell you not to worry, the kid will make up all the assignments when he gets back.
(As I’m writing this, school administrator sends his bereavement excuse around the school.)
Even a few of the airlines offer a bereavement fare, taking a rare pass at screwing you over.
Once your loved one croaks, you get a break.
But take the kids out of school to see a living grandparent? Here comes the form letter scolding you: “Family vacations are not excused absences.”
My mother-in-law Jane died just before Christmas, after being in a coma for more than a year.
She was having dental surgery and stopped breathing while under sedation. She never woke up.
We had nearly 14 months to wallow in regret. We knew she was gone, a breathing cadaver being tended by nurses around the clock. Most of us – including her siblings – flew across the country several times to visit her, talking to her, stroking her hands, putting balm on her cracked lips.
But when she started going downhill in December, was hospitalized and died, we all realized we had each harbored some totally unreasonable, tiny hope that she’d wake up. Or maybe it was a macabre comfort that her breathing, unresponsive, useless body was still with us.
My husband was in California when his mom died.
And we all lost it – 14 months of pent-up grief finally released. Ugly cries. Anger. Schedules quickly rearranged to gather.
The brother-in-law organized a gorgeous memorial service at a posh, Newport Beach resort with wedding-level elegance (and price).
White napkins, flowers, roasted beet and citrus salad with agave mint dressing, a guitarist with Whiskey-a-go-go hair and a thick leather wrist cuff.
It was something comfortable for her Orange Country crowd – the women (and men) with the Botoxed faces, brows unable to express the grief they were trying to summon.
Jane’s grandsons gave her beautiful tributes.
So we decided to hold another event that was a tribute to her blue collar, Long Island roots.
We rented the top floor of a beach duplex and invited her family and closest friends to kick off their shoes and eat the uninspired food she served in her home (“I don’t consider myself a cook, I’m more like an assembler,” she said, whenever I asked if she’d like to take cooking lessons with me).
We pretended like she was there – running the whole thing, delighted that the grand-nephew loved to play in the sand for hours, that the Ohio brother boarded an electric dinghy for a harbor cruise, that the sister and her boyfriend, community theater actors in New York, sang Beach Boys songs on the water.
Remember when everyone got sick of Mari Kondo and embraced Swedish Death Cleaning?
What if we get better at throwing Death Parties – pre-funerals – when they’re all still alive?
Sure, the 90th and 100th birthdays get some love. But how often are they in a nursing home community room, more sad than celebratory? Maybe we could’ve even summoned everyone for her 80th.
But I know it would’ve been a stretch to pull together. More importantly, the instant reverence that schools, work and support systems grant as soon as you say “funeral” would’ve been nowhere.
Maybe we just rebrand these gatherings.
Pre-Death Fete? Before-Bereavement Bash? Rehearsal Funeral?
(Got any ideas?)