Cremation

About 12 years ago, Nancy called and out of the blue she said, “I want to be cremated.” We had never previously spoken about her mortality so I was taken aback. It was a welcome discussion, but jolting to me without warning. My default response to life is humor so I immediately responded, “You mean right now?” “No,” she said, “when I die.” “OK mom, this is a really important conversation. I’m glad we are beginning it. One request: please give me a little warning before leaping into intense topics like this in the future.” 

I asked her why her sudden (to me) desire to be cremated. She said that some idiots had vandalized a Jewish Cemetery in the Chicago area. They spray painted swastikas on headstones and had also kicked over some headstones. So she didn’t want to be buried beneath a vulnerable headstone. 

I certainly agreed that the vandalism was offensive. I asked if I could ask her a couple of questions that came to mind. She replied, “Yes.”

My first question was, “You do know that you will be dead in the ground below the headstone, don’t you?” She said she realized that, but that she still wanted to be cremated. I had another comment. “If I was a vandal and was attacked and haunted by an avenging Jewish harpy I would never pick up another can of spray paint again. You would get your revenge.” I wasn’t trying to talk her out of cremation, just trying to fully understand her motivation. She said she appreciated my levity but that she was still set on cremation. 

She asked if I was OK with cremation. “Yes, I am, if that’s what you want. You do have to ask your daughter her opinion. But I am fine with it.”

“Really?” she asked. 

“Yes, really, Mom.”

“Really?” she asked again. 

“Yes, really, Mom,” I repeated.

“Really?” she asked a third time. 

“Mom, remember the avenging, haunting Jewish harpy. I don’t want you flying over me, haunting me if I don’t cremate you. So, yes, I will see to it that you are cremated.”

By the way, you may have questions about my mother and I discussing death and not employing euphemisms such as “passing.” I came of age avidly reading Lenny Bruce. So I am not a fan of euphemisms because they so often sanitize and weaken language and worse, our experiences are similarly whitewashed and drained of passion. 

So when Nancy said, “Joe, when I die I will die. I am not taking a test nor am I urinating. So I will not ‘pass,’ I will die.”

That clarity and bravery were two of the many things that I loved about her.

When I reminded her about Lenny Bruce talking about euphemism she laughed merrily.

"The fact is that you and I have had such bad early training that the worst sound in the world to all of us is when the toilet flush noise finishes before you do. I never could go over to your house and say: 'Excuse me, where's the toilet?' 

I have to get hung up with the facade of:

'Where's the little boys room?'

'Oh, you mean the tinkle-dinkle, ha-ha room?' Where they just have scented sachets and cough drops and pastels?'

'Yeah. I wanna shit in the cough drop box!'

'Oh, awright.' 

- Lenny Bruce

I realized how difficult it must be for my mother to talk about her eventual death I thought about how to make it easier for her. I knew how much she loved the great French singer Edith Piaf. Edith is buried in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Visitors bring flowers to adorn her grave each day.

I told Nancy that I would carry some of her ashes to the grave and place them there. She was very touched. Later, as I thought about my offer, and told friends they discouraged me from transporting a baggie of gray powder. My old hippie appearance would set off alarms and the baggie of her ashes could be confiscated as being drugs. I decided to mix her ashes into some clay or Sculpy and sculpt some roses out of the mixture. The roses would not arouse any suspicion and make the gesture successful. She was even more touched when I told her about the modification in the plans.

4/19/21

I have half of her ashes. I will sculpt the roses soon.