“It’s time to call cemeteries,” my father said tiredly.
My sister Naomi had stopped treatment for her cancer, and her health was declining rapidly. For three years, I’d guided her through planning a green burial, knowing this day would come. Nevertheless, I trembled.
I suppose every tactical operation begins with self-doubt; I couldn’t say how I’d transcend grief. Grief is unpredictable, particular to the person, the circumstances and community—in Naomi’s case, her husband and two small children, her family and friends.
Naomi and I began when she and husband Andy were still swimming in college debt. A $10,000 funeral was unthinkable then. Our church was establishing a burial society and cemetery for natural burial, so I floated the possibility that she could be buried there. There were a few green cemeteries in the U.S. She preferred somewhere closer to Maryland, but first, we needed to fill out her end-of-life plans.
Naomi and I started with Chanel Reynolds’ GYST checklist before settling on a free account on Everplans. Andy wasn’t ready to join the conversation yet; he hoped she’d beat this. But she wanted to be realistic and to lighten his load when the time came. Her only requirement was that I pivot with Andy should he choose another burial plan.
“Naturally,” I said.
After Dad’s call, I phoned Bill, a woodworker in our congregation who had built the casket for a parishioner named Billy. I then packed up for Maryland to finalize arrangements. I had a long to-do list: Contact cemeteries to find one with space for an unembalmed body. Learn from whom I’d obtain the death certificate and burial permit. Check in with siblings who said they’d help with Naomi’s body. Silently I thanked the supportive funeral professionals and friends who’d trained me—and I prayed for the emotional stamina to compartmentalize my grief.
Within two weeks, Bill called to let me know the casket was done. Would I like to look it over? I knew it would be excellent workmanship, but sanguine Bill wanted reassurance. I sent my husband, and Bill toured him through his workshop. My husband quickly assured him of our gratitude for his workmanship.
Billy’s death just months before Naomi’s compounded the grief but also showed me I had the know-how to undertake for my sister. When Billy died, I talked my husband through, relying on Mark Harris’ book, “Grave Matters: A Journey Through the Modern Funeral Industry to a Natural Way of Burial.”
“We might not be able to have a viewing or avoid embalming,” I warned.
The autopsy would delay the service and might change Billy’s appearance. Also, because we lived in Indiana, a licensed funeral director is required just to be present at burial.
Throughout 2017 I leaned on what I’d learned from Atul Gawande on mortality and Thomas Lynch on helpful funeral directors. I shared YouTube videos from the Canadian Integrative Network for Death Education and Alternatives to help everyone understand the rubrics of care. I packed the preparation kits using what I learned in Mark Barna’s book, “A Christian Ending.”
Reasons for a green burial
I once thought embalming was always part of burial. Little did I know that simple shrouding, casketing, spirit houses, cremation – among other customs – were more ubiquitous. Little did I know we rinse blood into the drain to embalm and bury 827,060 gallons of toxic embalming fluid (used only to make a viewing possible), 90,272 tons of steel, 2,700 tons of copper and bronze, along with 30 million board feet of hardwood and 1.6 million tons of reinforced concrete burial vaults in the U.S. annually. None of this improves public health and safety.
Note: Cremation fails the “green” standard as well. It is equivalent to a 500-mile drive that releases 400 kilograms of CO2 in the atmosphere.
Love in action
Naomi died at home on Nov. 4, 2017. We spent the last hours of her life around her bed singing and looking at pictures. We eased her discomfort and tracked her stages of dying. We midwifed her together, counting the seconds between her breaths.
When she breathed her last, we took our time crying and clinging to each other before calling for the hospice nurse. She gave me the death certificate and burial permit, which are needed for interment. We helped Andy choose her favorite dress, socks and scarf, then began the final intimate act of love. We wiped her body with antibiotic cleanser, used rice bags to close her eyelids and mouth, then anointed her with frankincense and myrrh, which help with preservation. We dressed her, washed and blew out her hair, packed dry ice in the casket and put on cosmetics.
It’s hard to take back a job from the undertakers, especially because we sometimes associate death with uncleanness. Yet, removing Naomi’s ostomy and trach and observing the initial changes that happen after death was far less messy than I worried. Mostly the work gave me an outlet for my restless sadness.
Naomi didn’t want flowers, but I couldn’t imagine a burial without them. So I bought bouquets of fall flowers and cut red maple branches from a tree. I arranged them in a basket and covered her coffin with them. At the graveside, the kids dug into the arrangement like it was a cake.
I had my fears about what everyone thought of her unconventional choice, but most comments affirmed it had been beautiful and healing. It was what Naomi desired—an experience that helped Andy and her kids.
It also gave many of us an emotional release, a final physical expression of our devotion.