Can Dignity Be Put In A Box?

“Cremation requires a box.” said our funeral arranger.

“You mean the urn.” My brother said.

“No, the cremation of the body requires a box.”

“So… the deceased, who didn’t want to be put in a box, hence the cremation, must still be in a box?” I asked.

“Yes, state law requires the body be cremated in a containment vessel.”

“So casket burial requires one box. But cremation requires two boxes?” I confirmed.

“Well, yes.”

Neither the funeral arranger nor my brother seemed to see the humor in it.

Mom would have.

Home hospice care meant mom could spend her last months comfortable in familiar surroundings, with family, rather than in a hospital room with prodding strangers and beeping machines.

Home hospice care also means family carries a lot of the day to day care.

Mom’s hospice nurse surprised my brother and me during one afternoon visit with a “Well, we’ll have to give her an enema.”

While my brother and I rolled mom onto her side, holding her hand and holding her in position, the nurse probed and wiped feces onto the protective bed mat. Mom groaned in the indignity.

Standard covid masks offer no protection from that kind of smell. But my go to in awkward situations is usually humor and, since I was the only one not wearing a mask, I said, “This’ll teach me for not wearing a mask.”

The nurse dead panned why a mask would help and my brother just ignored my joke.

I thought I heard mom chuckle a little.

A couple of years ago, just after dad’s funeral, my brother and I had the funeral conversation again with mom. She was clear in her wish — cremation, not a casket. “I don’t need to take up that much space or cost. I don’t want any fuss over me. And I’d hate to feel boxed in and claustrophobic.” She’d said.

Claustrophobia trumps pyrophobia.

Some days saw several hospice carers coming in and out of the house. Mom was being sponge bathed when yet another lady arrived, wearing nurse’s garb. I waved her on in as she nodded and made a beeline towards mom’s bed.

A moment later, this woman wailed and burst into tears. She rushed back towards me, crying, hollering “Oh no! I’m too late! I’m too late!”

I looked past her to mom’s bed, wondering what this woman was on about. Seeing mom’s hospital bed laid flat, mom half naked with her eyes closed, not moving while her carer, in full PPE, wiped down her body — I realised how it looked.

Standing alone in the middle of this scene, my brother and his partner consoling this poor friend to my left while mom lay to my right, her carer continuing on, doing her professional duty, I thought, ‘Oh, c’mon, this is funny.’

Mom would have thought so, if she’d been conscious.

Days after she left us, a bookmark fell to the floor as I packed up her bedside table.

“She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.” — Proverbs 31:25

Dignity is important. It means being valued for what you are, what you believe in, and how you live your life. ‘Treat others the way you’d like to be treated.’ It’s an age-old refrain, but for good reason. It sums up the essence of dignity.

We sat with the funeral arranger one last time, my brother and I.

“I understand you’ve decided on an urn?” the arranger asked.

“We have.” We’d both agreed on a beautiful, leadlight box that held the colours mom always loved.

“It’s a beautiful urn.” She said. “Just know that, because it is leadlight, glass, we suggest a casing box as your mother’s urn will be interred in-ground.”

“That’s fine.” We agreed.

If mom only knew.

“Okay, and last, have you decided on a containment vessel for the cremation?” the arranger asked.

“A cardboard box just feels wrong.” My brother and I said.

“Well, ‘The Dignified’ vessel is our most popular, at $395.” The arranger said.

‘Can’t I just stand at the furnace and toss money in with the body?’ I thought, though I held my tongue.

From the look on the brochure, ‘The Dignified’ vessel’s only difference seemed to be a heavier-duty cardboard and a cheap pillow.

We decided on the next vessel up the list.

You can’t buy dignity.

We received mom’s remains at the mortuary chapel. We would bring her home one last time until the funeral. We took a moment in silence to sit with mom in the chapel when I noticed the clasp and hinges on the lid of the urn.

“Surely, the urn isn’t openable. Is it?” I whispered.

I pressed upwards on the latch and lifted the lid of the leadlight urn. The candle light streaming through the glass was beautiful, but we were a little horrified at the same time.

For there, inside the urn, were mom’s remains in yet another box. White cardboard with a white ribbon.

In the end, my claustrophobic mother, who didn’t want to be placed in a box, ended up in a box. Her remains and the ashes of that box then interred for eternity in three additional boxes.

Sorry mom.

But through it all, in our final days together, I hope you felt the love, care and dignity we tried our best to share and give back to you, as you had always given to us.

Somewhere, I hope you’re smiling and laughing.