I was riding to a funeral with my parents on Highway 32 in our 1965 white Ford station wagon. My father was driving and attempted to pass a car when suddenly another vehicle pulled out in front of us. It was a close call. I recall my dad laying on the horn, yelling at the driver, “You darn fool!” and my mother responding, “Relax, Fred! We already have one funeral to attend!”
A few days earlier, when I had arrived home from school, just a few days before Thanksgiving in 1967, my mom informed me somberly, “Artie has died. He was on his bike delivering newspapers and was hit by a car.” I was in the eighth grade, just thirteen years old.
Artie was a friend a few years older than me, probably fifteen. We were not close but had mutual friends through church. He and I attended our youth group gatherings together. His family had recently moved from Chico, California, where we lived, to Medford, Oregon. I had looked up to Artie because of his leadership skills; and, most of all, because he was friendly to me.
My mom asked if I wanted to attend his graveyard service in Orland. “Why is it in Orland?” I asked. Her reply had to do with his family’s origin and ownership of some cemetery plots.
A plot? What does that mean? Why not? A chance to get out of classes for half a day!
I was also curious; I’d never been to a funeral or memorial service before, so I shrugged and said yes.
When I reflect on that day, I realize that my decision would leave a lasting impact and help turn me into someone who, later in life, would aid others in pain.
The first thing I noticed at Artie’s funeral was a large group of adults from our church standing around his casket. It was a deep blue color with brass handles.
Do caskets come in different colors? Why is it blue? What does Artie’s body look like? Is it bad? Why am I thinking this?
If I remember correctly, I was the only youth at the service. I felt out of place as though I didn’t belong there. The ambulance that had transported Artie’s casket was parked under towering oak trees rustling in the autumn breeze.
Why an ambulance and not a hearse? Ambulances take people to hospitals, not cemeteries.
Dry leaves were scattered on the cemetery lawn, and I tried to tiptoe around, fearing that stepping on them would interrupt the sacred gathering. A large leaf stuck to my shoe because of the tree sap and trailed behind me. As I tried to pry it loose with my other foot, I slipped and fell onto the damp ground in front of the funeral party. My mother raised her brows and pursed her lips with a disapproving exhale. My father, too, looked at me, but stifled a smile.
As our pastor began his eulogy, Artie’s father started shaking his head, staring at the ground. His mother and two sisters began wailing in agony. I looked up at my parents, searching for their reactions, but did not see any emotion. I desperately tried to contain my own. At thirteen, I had no clue how to offer comfort and felt that any effort from me would be awkward and invade the sacred privacy of Artie’s family members.
Gosh, his sisters are hurting. I’ve always wanted to tell them they are gorgeous. How old are they? Maybe sixteen or seventeen? I bet they have boyfriends. Lucky dudes. Don’t think that right now!
Our pastor stood next to Artie’s casket, reading from the Bible without emotion, like a voice from a GPS giving directions, while the four family members wailed in anguish, all at different decibels in a strange harmony.
What can I say to them? Would I cry like that if one of my brothers died? Even if they are a pain? Come on, Pastor Johnson! Go put your Bible down and hug them. Do something! Why did I agree to come here?
I stood to the side as all the adults at the funeral offered condolences to Artie’s family. I recall his father saying, “Artie was growing like a weed. We were so proud of him. Just a few weeks ago, he told us he was thinking of going into the ministry.”
The following day, I was back in school solving math equations and climbing a rope in my physical education class, preoccupied with trying to process the level of grief I had witnessed less than 24 hours before. I could not.
Throughout my life, I have thought about that day. It was the first time I had seen anguish at such intensity. At thirteen, while I suspected that the world was not always safe, Vietnam and the race riots seemed far away from Chico. Something had changed. Suddenly, it wasn’t watching scary movies or sharing ghost stories with my brothers at night that frightened me. It was grasping the reality that riding a bike while delivering newspapers could lead someone to their death. It hit me like a brick.
Although my impression was that the people at the graveside service were cold, aloof, and helpless at relieving the pain felt by Artie’s family, I assume that they tried to comfort them as best they knew how. But I could not process the sorrow that left me vulnerable as I saw adults grieving. What I had experienced at the funeral was backward. Adults comfort their children in pain. How was I supposed to console adults?
Now, at sixty-seven, after a career as an oncology nurse and a grief support group facilitator, I too, have experienced the loss of loved ones. The truisms and clichés we all use have struck me, as was the case in 1967. We still struggle with the right words to express support to those who have lost someone. I’m ready to listen if anyone knows the right words to say to offer comfort. There aren’t any from a recipe or guidebook, and I wish there were.
After I lost my wife to cancer, a well-meaning person told me, “You are lucky you had her in your life as long as you did.” I was gracious and thanked them, but inside I was reeling. Easy for you to say! You get to go home to your spouse! Or they’d say, “You should celebrate her life and be happy about where she is now.” Wow! Okay! I’ll do some cartwheels in the parking lot!
The most empathetic, accurate observation shared with me at my wife’s memorial service was, “Dave, I don’t know what to say. This really sucks for you! I’m sorry.” It was to the point, and yes, losing someone sucks. I have found that simply having someone at my side while I’ve grieved has been helpful, knowing they are with me. Crying with me is okay, too. But enlightened platitudes masked as proclamations of wisdom are not beneficial.
Sometimes, words from a child or young teen can be very heartfelt, unpretentious. What if I had been transparent with Artie’s parents and sisters; told them I looked up to him and that he was friendly to me? What if I had said that losing him was so unfair, then hugged, stood next to, and cried with them? I like to think they would have been comforted, as I was with my loss.
David Aust, of Chico California, has worked as a registered nurse in the field of oncology for over 25 years. Along with his medical work, David has been involved with facilitating grief support groups – something which he has found quite meaningful. He also plays the trumpet and finds running cathartic.