Unexpected Ministries of a Funeral Home

When my husband and I finally had time to hold Isabella and look at her both during and after photographs, I struggled with something I never would have expected and that embarrassed me. I did not think my daughter was beautiful. Looking at her face, I could see almost nothing of myself or my husband. She had my toes and detached earlobes, but that was about all I could identify of us. It was so difficult to look at my daughter that we covered part of her face while we each held her. 

Even now, I rarely look at the photos of Isabella's face taken shortly after she died. It should not have been a surprise that her appearance in death was so startling. She had received several blood transfusions that bloated her skin, she had been intubated since birth causing her lip to take on an unnatural shape, and by the time we were called down to the NICU, she had been receiving chest compressions for at least 15 minutes. Of course her face and body would reflect these interventions.

While holding her, the only aspect of her that I could fully recognize and say, "yes, this is my daughter," was her back. During the last several weeks of pregnancy, she managed to wedge her hands in my pelvis, her feet under my ribs, and thrust her back against my protruding belly. I spent hours rubbing her back where it stuck out, nudging her to move over, and simply enjoying the feel of my daughter growing within me, even though uncomfortable. When I held her in a small room near the NICU and felt her back under my hand, I could finally say, "I know you. You are mine. That was your back I felt."

Since it was difficult to look at her face, we looked at her hands and feet. They were perfect. Exquisitely formed. Complete. Tiny, yet larger than I pictured. I felt the shape of her back, her solid weight, and relished just holding my daughter in my arms. 

The first time I looked at our daughter and recognized her as ours was in the funeral home. We had been told by our bereavement doula that we could see Isabella and hold her as many times as we wanted, for as long as we wanted. While I wanted to see her again, I was incredibly anxious at the prospect of seeing her. I still struggled with the idea that her own mother did not think she was beautiful. 

As soon as we opened the door of the viewing room and looked at her, I recognized her as ours. The mortician who prepared her body, Heather, did an amazing job allowing us to see what Isabella looked like beneath the trauma surrounding her death. She was beautiful. And she looked like us. She had my husband's delightfully soft hair, my nose and lips, my hairline, his long feet. We spent over an hour staring at her face, memorizing her features, looking at the marvelous combination of our traits. We called our families to join us so they could see and hold her as well. 

We were able to meet Heather and thank her for giving us the chance to see what Isabella looked like. 

I will never know the color of her eyes or hear her cry, but I am grateful to have some comforting visual memories. (Allowing for the fact that these memories were formed in a funeral home that we never expected nor wanted to be part of her story. They are good memories.)

In addition to the ministry of letting us see our daughter's features, almost all funeral homes in our area provide services to families who lose an infant for free. Because we chose to have a service at the funeral home and an escorted procession to the cemetery, there were additional costs. However, families would be able to bury their children for only the opening and closing fees at a cemetery. That is a tremendous gift to grieving families. (We did not chose the cemetery associated with the funeral home because we wanted her to be buried at the one walking distance to my parents' house.)

All of the staff we interacted with were amazing. We met with the funeral director in my hospital room the Monday after Isabella died. She was sensitive, efficient, explained things as many times as we needed, and was accessible. 

The funeral home also took casts of her hands and feet using a kit from our bereavement doula. They have checked in with us several times since the funeral and also offer free grief counseling. No one ever wants to bury their child. Yet for the parents that have to walk this road, having a compassionate funeral home is a blessing. Since I'd had limited interactions previously with funeral homes, I had no idea that their jobs, both seen and unseen, are truly a gift to those who grieve.