Better Call Cathy . . . by
10
(13 Stories)

Prompted By Final Farewell

Loading Share Buttons...

/ Stories

"As soon as your brother passes," Cathy said, "you call me up, and I’ll take good care of him." I’d noticed that the hospice people also talked in a matter-of-fact way about his death. “When he passes, you’ll have to do x and y,” they’d say, as if he were going on a two-week vacation. It was strangely comforting, as if this were the natural next step and not something to be dreaded.

 

On February 11, 2020, I became my brother Bill’s guardian. He didn’t know that, in a matter of minutes, a court formally took away his civil rights, and his younger sister, namely me, was now responsible for his every need. I had already been ordered to place him in a locked facility, and I’d found a clean, spacious, dorm-like residence for Alzheimer’s patients—in a farming community in the middle of nowhere. I was supposed to return to the court on April 9 with a statement of Bill’s assets and a proposed budget, but  the Plague shut everything down. However, his assets wouldn’t last two years, so I was faced with the need to sell our rental home to buy him some time, and eventually transfer him to a Medicaid facility. The social worker who was helping me said that if she had a choice between a Medicaid facility and death, she would choose death.

As I went over and over his bank statements during the lockdown, waking up at 3 a.m. worrying about him, I kept wishing there was some way I could keep him at his current home for the rest of his life. Well, the Monkey’s Paw must have heard my wish because on May 29, after a five-week struggle with what must have been COVID, Bill died.

However, I don’t want to write a sad story of saying good-bye to him, because his send-off was actually quite . . . I’m still not sure how to characterize it, so I will just write.

When Bill was transferred to hospice care at his residence, the nurse told me that it would be easier if I made the arrangements in advance. “Better call Cathy,” she advised. Actually, Cathy probably ran the only funeral home in this tiny town. When I called her up, a loud, cheery voice shouted, “Hel-l-l-o-o! I’m driving, but I’ll put you on speaker. The bodies can’t hear me. Ha!” I explained that my brother, who was near death, had expressed his desire to be cremated but that I didn’t want a funeral, given the COVID situation, and she said, “Then you’ll want our basic cremation package. It includes pickup and delivery, all the prep and paperwork, four death certificates . . . and you get to choose from five colors of your basic urn. I prefer stainless steel myself! Ha! Of course, if you want to watch, that’ll be extra. Ha ha ha!”

We talked for a while until she had to go, because she did indeed have several bodies in the back of her truck. “Gotta get ’em inside. So as soon as your brother passes, you call me up, and I’ll take good care of him. You just go to my website, fill out the forms, and you’ll be all set.” I’d noticed that the hospice people also talked in a matter-of-fact way about his death. “When he passes, you’ll have to do x and y,” they’d say, as if he were going on a two-week vacation. It was strangely comforting, as if this were the natural next step, and not something to be dreaded.

When I got home, I filled out the forms, which was extremely creepy, because I had to fill in “Name of deceased” for someone who was still alive. When I got to the price list, I mentioned offhandedly to my kids that for $300, one could “witness” the cremation, and to my horror, my son James said, “Yeah, let’s do it!” And my daughter Julia chimed in, “Yeah! Let’s watch!” At first I said no way, but they were like two little kids who wanted money for the ice cream man, so after pestering me for a while, I figured, well, we’d avoided the expense of an actual funeral, so I paid the $300. Bill died on a Friday, and when I called Cathy, she said, “So you’re going to witness, are you? Then you better come by Sunday morning, when he still looks good.”

The funeral home itself was in a small one-story strip mall, surrounded by fields. The front door led into a standard kitchen area, with round tables and junk food snacks, and in the back room, there were rows of chairs, a podium, and a place for a coffin.

“Well, hello, there,” Cathy greeted us, and she was just as I’d expected—tall, buxom, with short, unstylish hair, and casual Western clothing. “Here, let’s go see Bill,” she said, and she led us into a quiet room where he was laid out wearing his favorite Hawaiian shirt and draw-string pants (which we’d tied tight when he lived with us, so he couldn’t pee all over the house). What was startling was how good he looked. His face was clean-shaven, unlined, handsome, and even young-looking. Cathy came over and remarked, “I had a hard time with that jaw of his. I had to work on it for three hours.”

“It was out of place, wasn’t it,” I said.

“Sure was.”

That was the saddest moment of the day, because he’d had such terrible TMJ due to his misaligned jaw that he’d had constant headaches for the previous five years, and no one in the medical, dental, or orthodontic field was able to put that jaw back in place. “I should have called you five years ago,” I said glumly.

“Well, I have to go greet some people in the other room, but what was Bill’s favorite music?” James piped up, “He was a mobile DJ, and one of his most requested songs was ‘Hoochie Coochie Coo,’ by Taj Mahal.” Cathy found the song on Spotify, and she left us in that solemn room with: “They’re swirling in the kitchen / I know she’ll get a licking / For doing the hoochie coochie coo. . .” Playing in a continuous loop.

After at least 30 minutes of that music, Cathy returned.  “So,” she said, “as part of witnessing, you get to turn on the oven, and you get to put him inside. Let me show you.” We went into the large storeroom at the very back, which had ordinary fluorescent lights, lots of windows, and a loading dock, not some dark, secret, somber place. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves against one wall, piled high with urns, and a scratched, beat-up coffin over at the side—the rental—for funerals that would be followed by cremation. In the middle of the room,  there were two long ovens. “I just finished up with a lady in that one, but since you paid, you get the one with the window.”

“Now,” she said to James, “ as soon as we get him into the oven, you flip this switch to turn it on. It’ll take about an hour to get up to 1800 degrees, but when the temperature is hot enough, you can release the flame. And watch.”

Bill was still in the quiet room, lying on a long piece of cardboard with a large plastic sheet tucked around him on a standard gurney.

“Here,” she said, “you all can wheel him now.” So we carefully guided him on his very last journey. Cathy positioned a metal plank with rollers next to the oven door, the kind you see in airports for rolling luggage down to the baggage handlers, and we  carefully transferred him from the gurney onto the rollers. Once he was in place, Cathy lifted the plastic sheet over the entire body, including his final urine bag and catheter. She explained that they usually burn the urine bag along with the body so they don’t have to deal with it as medical waste.

“And see this?” She held up a coin. “This is his number. I programmed it into the oven, and I’ll put this coin in with him. It won’t burn, and it’ll make sure you take home the right body. Ha!”

She opened the maw of the oven, long enough for the tallest NBA player, and slowly we rolled Bill in. “I’m about to buy another oven…for pets,” Cathy remarked. “Although I have to do some moving around. I want to get the one big enough for horses.”

After Bill was in his final resting place, the door was closed, and the switch was flipped, we had an hour to wait. But Cathy said, “Say, do you want to see what happens? Here I just finished up with this lady.”

She opened the other oven, the one without the window, and inside, there were small piles of sand and bone fragments arranged in the basic shape of a human, kind of like what you’d find at an archaeological dig.

“Now, this is only the first step,” Cathy explained. “As you can see, there are a lot of chunks. To get a smooth uniform texture, you need to put all this through the grinder.” Then she pulled out what looked like an ordinary janitor’s broom and started sweeping the organized piles into a deep pocket at the front end of the oven. “I need to get it all,” she called out, sweeping vigorously as clouds of dust billowed in the air and got on her clothes and in her hair. Even though she had swept up the visible ash, she actually crawled partway into the oven with a smaller whisk broom to get the last remaining bits. When all the ashes were in the pocket and the clouds had settled, she picked up what turned out to be a plastic bag lining the pocket and carried the sack of chunks over to the grinder. It occurred to me that every one of these steps had to be invented, and all these machines and  products had to be made by someone.

“Here’s the important part,” she said. “I have to take out any metal like a knee replacement. Or”—she pulled a screw out of the ash—”something like this! I have a bunch of these in my leg from a snowmobile accident. Ha!” Then she tossed the screw into an ordinary wastebasket. “See here,” she said, then showed us her collection of knees, hips, shoulders, and screws. I marveled that the placement of one of those ordinary-looking things might have cost its owner $40,000 to install.

“It’s crucial to keep your blades sharp,” she warned as she showed us the grinder. “If they ever give you a body that’s got chunks, then you know they didn’t sharpen their blades.”

She poured the lady into the top of the grinder, kind of the way you pour coffee beans into a store grinder, turned on the machine, and smiled at the sound of the whirring. “Hear how smooth? I keep those blades sharp.” After about ten minutes, the whirring stopped, she put the plastic bag next to a chute, and again like ground coffee, she opened up the chute and ground human poured into the plastic bag. Before she closed it up, she pulled out a handful and said, “Mm. See that?” Then she let the uniform grains fall slowly through her fingers back into the bag. “No chunks. That’s how your brother will be, too.”

She closed the bag with a fancy twist-tie, then found the urn the family had ordered and put the remains inside. “Busy week,” Cathy commented, nodding toward a hallway. We turned our heads and saw three other bodies lined up on gurneys, covered in sheets. Perhaps those families hadn’t paid the $300 to get a nicely groomed body and a window seat.

As we still waited, she said that it was a treat for her to talk to people like this. “After all, most of the time, the only people I get to talk to are them. Ha!” She motioned with her head over to the line-up. “I talk to them a lot. They’re my customers, you know. I talked to your brother as I was fixing his jaw, and I told him, ‘I want you to look your best. They’re coming to see you on Sunday.’ I actually got up early this morning and worked on his jaw some more, so I could get his jaw just right.”

After an hour had passed, the oven timer binged, and Cathy finally turned “Hoochie Coochie Coo” off. James flipped the next switch to release the flame into the interior of the oven, and with a whoosh, the immolation began. My kids wanted the first look, commenting that his legs had buckled up and were now on fire. The plastic, the cardboard, his clothes, his urine bag, and finally (I guess) his skin burst into flame as the kids narrated without any distress, taking turns peering into the small window. After all, they watch Marvel and other action movies, and those things are loaded with violence. This probably also had the same level of unreality for them. While they were describing what was burning next, I recalled the documentary I’d seen about the Russian Czar and his family and how the soldiers had unsuccessfully tried to burn the bodies in a simple camp fire. All they did was basically roast the meat, and there was enough remaining DNA to eventually identify all of them, including Anastasia.

“Here’s some chairs,” Cathy said, and brought three from the other room. Together we took turns, watching my brother burn, organ by organ. Well, the kids almost of the watching while I took an occasional peek. After a while, Julia and I went over and looked at the urns, picking out the one we liked the most. That one turned out to cost an extra $200, so we settled for the standard stainless, which looked like a huge version of a Starbucks’ coffee mug, complete with an air-tight lid.

Julia and I went home after another hour, but James stayed for the full immolation. He said he had memorized Hindu and Hare Krishna chants to recite over the body to help the soul find its way to heaven. It took about four hours, and Cathy allowed him to get take-out Chinese food, in honor of his uncle, who loved Szechuan pepper beef. James, as I’ve mentioned in other essays, has high-functioning autism, and although he was a late talker, now he never stops. I figured that those two would either hit it off or drive each other crazy. Apparently, they hit it off, and they talked about what burns first, what burns last, and after it was over, Bill was put in the grinder. When James came home, I took a breath and pried off the snug-fitting lid. There my brother was in his plastic bag, all smooth and uniform, his unburned coin included.

He was still warm.

Profile photo of Joan Matthews Joan Matthews


Characterizations: funny, moving, well written

Comments

  1. Joan, this is more than I knew or thought I would never want to know or about cremation, but I thank you.

    When my cousin Rick died he was cremated, an unusual choice in our family. His sister Kathy asked me to help spread his ashes in the lovely garden of their late mother’s Rochester, NY church.

    I wouldn’t say no to Kathy altho I thought cremation was barbaric and was spooked by the idea of handling Rick’s cremated remains. But I was surprised to find myself feeling comforted as I sprinkled his ashes among the beautiful flowers.

    I wrote a Retro story called My Cousin Rick about this brave man who had suffered with a debilitating mental illness all his life.

    I felt Rick was now at peace.

    • Thanks, Dana. I just went back and read your touching story about Rick. I found it utterly heartbreaking to leave a loved on the other side of a locked door. Even if it is the right place for the person, it’s still wrenching. I can imagine what his parent went through.

      I, too, thought cremation was barbaric, and I almost didn’t write my story because of cremation’s evil past and its association with truly despicable people. However, when my brother was lucid and we were discussing what we wanted, he very definitely said he wanted to be cremated. So I followed his wishes. I personally want to be enclosed in the mushroom suit. You get zipped up with special man-eating mushrooms, they digest you in a few months, pull out your toxins, and turn you into healthy soil, which can then be returned to the earth. My kids know my wishes, and I hope they can be as matter-of-fact about my death as they were about their uncle’s.

  2. Suzy says:

    Joan, I love this story! I checked the boxes for both “funny” and “moving,” because it was both. And it was because I knew you had this story that we created the prompt, which has turned out to be a great choice!

    Both of my parents were cremated (even though it is contrary to Jewish law), but I wasn’t there, and I don’t even know what became of their ashes. It was wonderful to read your very clear and detailed account of the process. Thank you so much! And thank you for reminding me of The Monkey’s Paw too.

    Also, I think your kids are great! I thank them for persuading you to do it!

    • Thanks, Suzy! As you know, I couldn’t decide if I even wanted to write about cremation. I didn’t know that it is contrary to Jewish law, which makes it seem even worse. However, I tried to capture the spirit of someone who deals with death every day of the week and is still happy and cheerful. She made it seem, I don’t know, natural and okay. It’s only now that every so often I stop to think, “Oh my God! We watched all that!” But I’ll tell my kids that you agree with their decision. And thanks for finding the typos!

  3. Thanx Joan, yes Rick’s story was heartbreaking but I was glad to learn he had friends and had some joy in his life, and thankfully compassionate caretakers.

    And I too was guardian of a disabled sibling, in my case my sister Laurie as she battled end-stage MS. I wrote about her too in a Retro story called Take Care of Your Sister.

    Life can be cruel, you’ve been a wonderful sister Joan.

  4. Betsy Pfau says:

    Joan, you write with such clarity about a difficult topic. Cathy is such a rare character and you’ve captured her so perfectly. I can understand how James would be fascinated by the process and you were so accommodating to him.

    Your love and tenderness for your brother shines through. I’ve heard about the Medicare dilemma from other friends, so I’m glad your prayers were answered. This was heartbreaking, gruesome, funny and fascinating, all mixed together. Quite a feat.

    • Thanks, Betsy! It was really hard to put the experience of Cathy into words. As the saying goes, you had to have been there. Julia will often say, “Do you remember when Cathy jumped into the oven with her broom?” Even though she didn’t actually jump, we have kind of made her larger than life.

      My brother was only 73, but on some level, I wondered whether he just didn’t want to live in confinement. The place was wonderful, with lots of outdoor walking and sitting areas, but it was still a lock-up, and he valued his freedom. Maybe he made a choice when he left.

      • Betsy Pfau says:

        Cathy had taken on a vivid life in your telling of her, Joan. And it sounds like Bill was in the right place and knew when to let go.

        Your Featured photo looks like a Dondero graduation photo. I am having my 50th reunion – over Zoom – this weekend, so we have spent a lot time in our yearbook and made our yearbook photos our Profile photos on Facebook for the week. So sweet to see those familiar faces from long ago. And if you read my story, you will see a photo that includes Patti, John and Bud Kaufman, so a few Dondero faces for you.

        • You’re right! It’s Bill’s senior photo. Dondero Class of 1965. When he passed away, I posted that photo on the “I attended Dondero in the 1960s” website and received over 100 comments, some from people sharing touching anecdotes about him. Like Suzy said, I wish he had been around to read them all. Have fun at your reunion! We had a “Re-Zoom-ion” (John’s invented term) instead of our 70th birthday party this year, but it was still fun. Great photo of the wedding!

          • Betsy Pfau says:

            My brother graduated from Dondero in ’65. I used to pour over his yearbook. I think Patti had a brother in that class too. It must have been marvelous to see all the comments from his classmates who still remembered him so fondly.

            I like John’s invented term. Our Re-Zoom-ion looks like it will be fun too.

  5. Marian says:

    A tragi-comic tale if there ever was one, Joan, and totally amazing. I’m glad you were able to follow Bill’s wishes. As I wrote in my story, my father was cremated and the ashes scattered a lot later (the Neptune people kept them until we were ready). We also had the option of witnessing, but the crematorium was in a bad part of town and my mother, brother, and I didn’t have the fortitude of your kids. I learned so much, emotionally, from your story, thank you.

    • Thanks, Marian. I can hardly believe that we actually did that. Is it common for people to witness the cremation of their loved ones? I wondered how many people chose that option. I would never have peeked in that window if my kids hadn’t been there.

  6. John Shutkin says:

    What an amazing story, Joan! As noted, you write about it all in such a cleared-eyed way, and yet it must have been so difficult both to experience and to write. Neither my brother nor I wanted to get involved in my mother’s cremation; just give us the ashes in urn, please, when you’re done. I may now have to re-think this.

    Cathy is, in her own way, a real saint-on-earth — to Bill, you and your son. But all credit to you for capturing her so perfectly. A real tour de force.

    This was like no other story I read on this prompt — with no disrespect intended to my fellow writers; thank you so much for being brave enough to write it and share it with us.

    • Thanks, John. I actually spent a lot of time thinking about how I could write the story without seeming callous, and I’m glad you recognize Cathy for the gem that she is. I guess if you put the remains of 5-10 people into the grinder each week, it all in a day’s work. But you did the right thing by not watching your mother’s cremation. It really was like a hell-fire, and I won’t do it again.

  7. Laurie Levy says:

    Joan, your story took my breath away. Like your kids, I was mesmerized by the incredibly detailed account of your brother’s cremation. Along with the details, I felt the pain your must have experienced deciding to place him in an institution and the love you had for him despite all of the challenges. Cathy was quite a character. She could be the star of a book or television series like Six Feet Under. Despite her quirky personality, she cared for her people and took great pride in work. Amazing final farewell.

    • Thanks, Laurie! When Julia and I got home, we immediately checked YouTube for any cremation videos. (Crazy, I know, but we were still in that alternate reality.) We found a few from Italy, but not with all the dust and details. I was thinking of suggesting to Cathy that she create her own videos, complete with the brooms, the grinder, and the waste basket full of hips, knees, and shoulders. I suppose if you deal with death multiple times a day, you have to adopt an upbeat attitude, or your own mind will sink “Six Feet Under.”

  8. This is truly an enthralling tale and I congratulate you for helping to de-stigmatize something that most of us have heard of but usually avoid trying to fully comprehend or see. To me, the two elements that make this piece so readable in spite of the “ooh” factor are (a) the spirited dialogue, punctuated by Cathy’s mantra of putting “ha” at the end of her statements; (b) the down to earth and vivid descriptions,; for example, “the kind you see in airports for rolling luggage down to the baggage handlers,…” On a separate note, I think it’s wonderful to show so clearly the strength of someone on the spectrum–that he can deal with the intricacies of this process without projecting any kind of stigma or the “ooh” factor that many of us experience. Applause, Joan.

    • Thanks, Dale! I wondered whether Cathy might have been on the spectrum, given her speech quirks and the matter-of-fact way she narrated what was happening. Living with a high-functioning son has never been dull, and I’ve learned a lot about perception and “theory of mind” from him (although according to one expert, he’s not supposed to have it).

Leave a Reply