She was the first person I had ever transferred from the medical examiner’s office. A young woman not much older than I, she had been found deceased at a homeless encampment in the woods of Missouri. Her father and sister were already at the funeral home making arrangements as I returned, so I unloaded the stretcher carrying her from the van at the back of the building. They did not want to see her. Years of difficult choices and coping mechanisms had slowly pushed them apart, and the pain of that distance was still very present, even in death. Perhaps more so.
When I unzipped her vibrant blue body bag, she was looking upward, though through and past me. Her eyeliner from her left eye was smeared onto her cheekbone, and her mascara ran messy. Her mouth rested slightly open; the corners curled as if she were about to tell me all of the beauty she witnessed in her final breath of life. Twigs and leaves were tangled in her unkempt hair, and the air around her was stale for having been sealed with her deceased body for several days. A thin plastic bag containing the clothes she had been wearing when she was found was carefully tucked between her legs.
I bathed her, removed her leftover makeup, gently removed the twigs and leaves, dutifully treated and combed every snarl from her hair, and then quietly reapplied eyeliner and mascara – hoping if I ever met her in the afterlife, she might thank me for the small kindness. When she was ready, we offered again for her father and sister to see her, and again they refused – though hesitantly this time. They simply did not have the capacity to do so in their grief, though perhaps desperately wanted to, yet were extremely grateful when they heard of how lovingly her body was cared for regardless.
They did request to have her bag of clothing that came with her from the medical examiner though. Hesitancy overwhelmed me because I knew these articles of clothing were often soiled or cut and can be unpleasant for families to experience. I told them I would check first and let them know what condition the items were in so they would not be shocked when they opened the bag.
Back in the prep room with her, I carefully untwisted the plastic bag and held my breath, expecting that the unpleasant smell from earlier might have been a byproduct of soiled clothing. When I finally had it opened and saw that her clothes were clean, I breathed in. It was the most beautiful, sweetest smell that emanated from that bag, of which remains engrained in my memory still to this day. It was her smell. It was simply her.
For a split moment I stood there breathing in the essence of the young woman lying in front of me, the one her family had been searching for through years of distance and grief. I then quickly re-twisted the bag to keep her scent from escaping any further. When I brought it to them, I said, almost without thinking, “They smell just like her,” as if I had known her personally. They both looked up and smiled at me, and I saw a glimmer of relief in their eyes.
Standing beside her that day, I was reminded that the work I was doing was not new. In fact, it is one of the oldest acts of care humans have ever performed. For most of human history, caring for the dead was not the work of professionals though. It was just something families and communities did themselves. When someone died, loved ones gently washed their body, dressed them in familiar clothing, and kept watch beside them in the home. These acts were expressions of love, respect, and responsibility as simple but meaningful ways of honoring a life and acknowledging death as a natural part of it.
Over time, communities grew and medical practices advanced – cue the development of hospitals and medical facilities becoming places one goes to die rather than in their own bed at home. This care gradually shifted into the hands of trained professionals, and funeral directors and embalmers became the people entrusted with this work. Yet the heart of it has never changed. At its core, funeral service continues the same tradition that families once carried out themselves: caring for someone, one last time, with dignity and respect.
Caring for the dead is a privilege, and one that I’ve held dear to me as I’ve navigated my career as a funeral director and embalmer. There is a quote by the hospital chaplain, J. S. Park, that I try to carry with me when serving families: “I will hear you as if you are the only one. I am here for you so you may know you are not the only one.” This quotation allows me to treat each person and family as if they are my own, so they get my best work, which ultimately, feels like an act of love.
I believe we can find meaning where we choose to create it. With each body I've cared for, I ritually begin by working the rigor out of their wrists. When I place my palm against theirs and press the wrist back, the natural anatomy of the hand causes their fingers to curl slightly around and press on the back of my hand. In that small moment, I imagine it as their permission. A quiet acknowledgment that I may begin the work of restoring them with respect so their family and friends can find some measure of peace when they see them again. Or perhaps peace in knowing they were cared for if they are unable to bring themselves to see them again. I do this especially because most of the people I care for are strangers. I can only learn about them from the people who come to claim their care, whether that be at the arrangement meeting, or by those that allow their grief to lead them to say goodbye at a final viewing or service.
And sometimes, I do care for my very own. Two grandmothers in fact, several elderly family friends, and a very close friend that could no longer bear the weight of his world. It was with Joe, my dear friend, in which caring for him made me put the privilege I felt everyday caring for strangers into words; to actually name it as a privilege.
Joe was always curious about my work and never missed the chance to make a joke about it. So, when the time came to care for his body, I knew it had to be me. Even though grief swelled in me, I knew it would have meant the world to him to know that someone who loved him was caring for him in death. Wouldn’t we all?
In death, his body sustained trauma that required reconstruction and restoration alongside his embalming. Now, because I had the privilege of knowing him in life, I knew he always looked sharp – perfectly straight beard lines, manicured nails, and pride in all the details. I worked meticulously on him; clearing every discoloration and restoring every bit of trauma so his mother and sister couldn’t imagine him looking anything other than himself as they knew him. Death was not kind to his body, but I knew I could reverse the tangible markings of it as my final gift to him.
That time I spent with his body was a gift to me as well. One that I didn’t know I needed in my grief, and I still have no words for my gratitude in which the stars aligned, and I was able to go do this final act of care. Had I not been in this profession, I would not have been able to, and I fully honor that acknowledgment and name it as privilege.
Initially his mother was hesitant to see him. But what prepares a parent to see their child in this state knowing it was of their own choice? Nothing. Though she dutifully went into the room where his body laid in his cremation container anyways. Mothers persist in this manner.
After some time, she came out and searched for me, grabbed my hand, and brought me into his viewing room with her alone and shut the door behind us. She sat me down next to her in front of him lying in state and took my hands in hers. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she told me that her faith had always taught her that the body does not matter after death, that it is the soul that is important. She solemnly admitted that belief is what had made her hesitant to see him at first.
“But screw that,” she said defiantly through her tears. “This is my baby boy here, and I will always love his precious body.” She stood up and leaned over him, wrapping him in a full embrace and covering his face with endless kisses and tears.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she leaned back to look at me, though still tightly holding onto his shoulders. “I did need time with his body. I didn’t know that I did.” I will never forget this moment with her. She kept thanking me for caring for him, and I kept thanking her for allowing me to.
That experience led me to wonder how many other families could benefit from caring for their own dead - from experiencing this privilege that is no longer the norm in the United States. Why should only professionals receive this sacred gift?
Working with pediatric deaths has impulsively pushed me to challenge this idea by finding ways to allow parents, siblings, and loved ones to participate in their own rituals of care with the body. In recent years, I have worked closely with a local hospice in a way that is somewhat unusual for a funeral director. When this hospice begins caring for a child, they introduce me as part of their circle of care. It allows families to meet me early in the process, long before the moment when they must say goodbye. I believe meeting with these families early is important, if only for the simple reason that when the time comes, they will not have to hand their child’s body over to a stranger. Death will be met with a familiar presence, someone who has already been walking beside them through this experience.
I am well aware of the privilege of caring for another person’s child, and the gravity of that responsibility. I never take it for granted. Whenever possible, I try to place that privilege back into the hands of the families who are grieving. For one family in particular, with encouragement, two parents were able to bathe their youngest child, who had tragically died unexpectedly, at the funeral home . Also with encouragement, they had a photographer capture those melancholy but holy moments as they held the weight of the finality of their daughter’s death in their gentle, soapy hands. The most intimate photograph of two parents I have ever seen came from that film reel. In an experience that had taken so much control away from them, they were given a small moment to reclaim it. And they did.
That is the quiet privilege of being a funeral director. We are entrusted not only with the care of a body, but with the fragile space that exists between a life that has ended and the people who must continue living without it. In that space, we carry a responsibility that is both practical and deeply human.
We stand beside those grieving as they face something that feels impossible, helping them move closer to the reality of death with gentleness rather than fear. Sometimes that means preparing a body so a mother can hold her son one last time. Sometimes it means stepping back so a family can bathe their child, or simply grabbing an arm in yours to give someone the courage to walk into a room.
To be invited into these moments is an extraordinary trust. It is a privilege to care for someone who can no longer care for themselves, and to guide the living through those first fragile steps of their grief.
