MORE Six Feet

DOWN UNDER

More Stories from a New Zealand Funeral Director

By

Chris Mann

Cover Photograph : Brian (Bill) Allen

Copyright 2011

All rights reserved.

Except for the purpose of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher.

To my wife and children, who have put up with my

strange working hours over the years.

To my former employer and colleagues,

thank you for the friendship and the memories.

To all readers of Six Feet DOWN UNDER

who wanted a sequel – this is for you.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction: The journey so far

Foreword

Chapter One:  Pomp and Circumstance

Chapter Two:  Fatal Crash

Chapter Three: Murphy’s Law

Chapter Four: Doctors, Mortuary and Jewellery

Chapter Five:  Questions and Answers (Part One)

Chapter Six:  Questions and Answers (Part Two)

Chapter Seven: Grief and Children

Chapter Eight: A Funeral Director’s Life

Chapter Nine: Removals: A mixture

Chapter Ten: Was That a Hearse?

Chapter Eleven: Bits and Pieces

Chapter Twelve: Without Warning

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to give thanks to all those who gave their times or services either directly or indirectly that enabled this project to run smoothly, and special mention is made to Kerrianne, Roger, Kate, John, David, and a special thank you goes to Bill Allen, Steve Braunias, Suzanne North, Dave MacManus and the team at ‘The Copy Press.’

Also, thanks to everyone who purchased a copy of ‘Six Feet DOWN UNDER’ and for all your support and words of encouragement.  Thank you also to the proprietors of independent bookstores throughout New Zealand who supported me and stocked my book before its success.

Finally, a big thank you to the kind folk at TVNZ whose decision it was to publically ‘air my book’ on two separate occasions in 2010 and in doing so, generated interest and sales.  Special thanks to interviewers and those whom I had regular contact with over this period of time, namely Hugh Hughes, Cara Darvill, Alison Pugh and Paul Henry.    

INTRODUCTION:

The journey so far

I still find it hard to believe I wrote and published my first book ‘Six Feet DOWN UNDER.’  For a guy who never passed the School Certificate English Exam, I guess this is an achievement in itself.  When I decided I was going to write a book, I looked into the pros and cons of self publishing versus being published by a publishing company.  After exploring both options, I decided to self-publish the book.  This was mainly because of the subject matter.  I wasn’t too sure initially, how the book would be received by the general public.  After all, to my knowledge no book of this nature had ever been printed before in New Zealand.  By self-publishing, I could release my book slowly – testing the market so to speak.  Obviously if there was going to be any sort of ‘hue and cry’ I could review it.  Whereas having the book published by a publisher, the minimum print run is usually 3500 copies and that is a lot of books ‘out there’ if there was to be a problem.  However, I didn’t have to worry, my book was well received and many compliments followed. 

I wanted an eye-catching cover.  I wanted people to pick the book up off the shelves and look at it.  The cover photo I wanted was one I saw on the internet – Mourners looking into an open grave.  I contacted the source (in India) and obtained permission for the photo I had seen to be used on the cover of my book.  However, the photo could not be used with clarity, due to the limited number of pixels per inch associated with an internet image.  The company who gave me permission could not locate the original photo, so the only option left open to me was to change the cover design or replicate the photo.  I decided on the latter.  I contacted a police photographer friend, Bill, and asked if he would be prepared to get into a grave and take a photo of mourners looking into it.  Bill was initially surprised at the request, but he enjoys the diversity and challenges that photography allows and accepted my request to be involved.  After speaking to a cemetery manager (and convincing him I wasn’t mad), an agreement was reached.  On the day of the photo-shoot I gathered around a grave with friends and family.  The result of that day is the photo which appears on the cover of Six Feet DOWN UNDER. Interestingly enough, many people have asked if the ‘cloud’ in the photo was photo-shopped.  It wasn’t, it just happened to be passing by as the photo was taken. 

I was pleased with the end result, my cover design and the format.  Overall self publishing went very well; there was only one set back.  The first few hundred copies printed did have some grammatical errors which were not picked up – despite me employing and paying an editor handsomely to do so.  Thankfully, these errors were picked up by vigilant friends and readers and were subsequently corrected in future print runs (the beauty of self-publishing).  However, I am genuinely embarrassed and I apologise to those of you who purchased one of the earlier copies. Despite this minor setback, the process of self publishing and marketing went very smoothly indeed. I was grateful to individuals who purchased my book and spread the word through friends, family and online chat forums (that includes you Bianca).  I was also extremely elated with independent bookstores that originally supported me.  These stores were subsequently rewarded for their support when I appeared on television with my book.  The TV programme 20/20, ran a segment on embalming and the funeral industry which aired on TV One on the 29th April 2010.  Six Feet DOWN UNDER and I were featured during this segment and sales picked up and demand rose.  Naturally, stores that already had my book stocked were able to meet customer demand.  Several more stores came on board and began stocking my book.  However, it was my appearance on TV One on the ‘Breakfast’ show when I was interviewed by Paul Henry on the 18th August 2010 that really sent sales soaring.  I was inundated with phone-calls and e-mail requests from individuals and from bookshops all over the country that had customers waiting.  Unfortunately, I had underestimated the popularity of morning TV, and as a result I temporally ran out of stock.  This created a bit of a panic, but my printer ‘The Copy Press’ in Nelson were able to meet my demands.  Large book chains became interested and began stocking my book too. I must say, it was very pleasing to see my book on shelves throughout the country.

Not long after I published ‘Six Feet DOWN UNDER’ people were asking for the next instalment.  I had never planned on writing another book about my experiences; it was always going to be just the one.  However, the requests kept coming.  Personally, I didn’t think I had enough memories to write another book.  After all, I felt as though I had struggled to get enough memories out of my brain to complete the first one.  I guess I was wrong.  I began tapping away at the computer, not really sure if I had enough, but the stories kept coming – albeit very slowly at times.  Interestingly, apart from ‘my story’ people wanted to know more about the myths and misconceptions of the funeral industry that I touched on in Chapter Six of ‘Six Feet DOWN UNDER.’  Proof of this was when I started a question and answer session on an online chat forum midway through 2010.  In this forum, I started a thread titled ‘Ask a funeral director a question.’  The response was amazing.  There were so many genuine questions about the funeral industry, people really wanted to know more.  The questions and my subsequent answers on the site went on for several weeks until, it covered some 30 pages or 1500 posts.  When I started that thread, some joked that I was intending on writing another book and I was using the thread as research.  I can honestly say this was not the case.  The thread was originally started in the hope that I would generate a bit of interest in the book I had written and to pick up a few extra sales, which it did.  However, because of the constant requests to write another book and the additional questions raised by so many, I decided to write a follow-up. 

In this book, I have answered 50 of the more common questions raised throughout the forum.   However, this book will not be a complete exposé of the funeral industry revealing all the secrets of the trade.  I am not that type of person.  There are some things I have chosen not to write about, nor have I gone into in-depth detail about all procedures used.  I still respect the funeral industry, the people who work within it, the deceased, family members and their friends.  This book is not a ‘guts and glory’ type of book.  If you want intimate knowledge of practises and procedures then I am sure you can search these out online.  In this book I have answered common questions in layman’s terms.  I am not a registered embalmer, nor was I an embalmer.  However, on many occasions, I assisted during embalming.   I often did minor preservation work myself, cavity treatments, suturing of wounds, washing and dressing the deceased and getting them ready for viewing .  I do not profess to know everything, and the answers I give to questions are the opinions and understandings of someone who has worked ‘behind the scenes’ albeit eight years ago now.  

Of note, the cover design for this book needed to follow a similar theme to that of the previous one.  There are only two main options for bodily disposal, burial and cremation.  I have already covered the burial theme (looking up from a grave), so I decided on the cremation theme, the view from inside a cremator looking out.  (Ring, ring, “Hi Bill, I have got another unusual job for you.....”)

Finally, I have not written this book to upset anyone, or to glorify anyone’s passing.  I have written the book because of a genuine desire to educate and inform those who have an interest in this area, and to satisfy those who wanted to read MORE.

To see footage of the 20/20 interview mentioned above go to:

http://tvnz.co.nz/20-20-news/meet-man-six-feet-down-under-11-14-video-3501904/video

and the Breakfast interview, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZxyNpmKNJo

FOREWORD

Before he joined the New Zealand Police, Chris worked as a funeral director. Both careers have brought him into close contact with suffering, grief, and frailty.  And so in More Six Feet Down Under, he writes about murders: “I remember looking into the victim’s eyes and wondering what he had seen.”  He writes about suicides: “The male had tied a long rope around his neck, and the other end he had tied around a tree. He jumped off a cliff…”  He writes about the sad but expected death of the elderly, and about the shattering and unimaginable death of children. He writes about his experiences as the person he is - a steady character with a professional detachment and a necessary sense of humour. He tells us how he felt about a doctor who checked for vital signs by examining an accident victim’s severed head. He tells us in his straightforward manner about how 15 cats survived in a house where their reclusive owner lay dead for over a week. He tells us a lot of stories. Chris ambles along throughout the book as a kind of tour guide, eager to answer questions about the funeral trade, on hand to describe such things as burials at sea or reveal how long it takes for a body to burn (about two hours). He’s sensitive, but never sentimental. He’s detailed in his observations, but never ghoulish. More Six Feet Under is a fascinating insight into death in New Zealand.

Steve Braunias

July 2011

“Columnist Metro Magazine”

Chapter One:

Pomp and Circumstance

I like looking back at old black and white photos of early funeral processions winding their way through city streets or cemeteries in days gone by.  A horse drawn carriage would transport the coffin of the deceased.  The carriage would be shiny and black, with white tassels draped within its windows.  On the horse’s head would be large regal feathers and shining regalia.  At the front of the horse would be the Minister and Undertaker, walking in unison side by side.  The Undertaker, dressed in black with his top hat looking stoic and refined. The funeral procession would contain hundreds of mourners, usually men, suited-up, walking solemnly behind.  Those were the days of ultimate funeral respect.  People would dress in their finest attire and would speak in hushed tones.  Funerals would often be lavish ceremonies, honouring the dead. 

Consequently, I really enjoyed the small amount of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ associated with some modern day funerals.  That is, extravagant ceremonies, themes or vast number of attendees.  In my opinion, the bigger the funeral is the better.  Obviously having a bigger funeral added to the stress of my duties as a funeral director, and the extra possibly of something going wrong, but I enjoyed being a part of the spectacle. 

Before any funeral, I always liked putting on my three piece suit, consisting of a black waist coat and jacket, with pin-striped trousers.  I likened it to an actor putting on a costume before a play.  At the funeral, I enjoyed being ‘out front’ and having my every move watched by the eyes of curious congregation members.  I saw the funeral as my stage and even though I was acutely aware I was not the main centre of attention, I enjoyed being a part of the ceremony and playing my part.  Accordingly, like an actor I played my part professionally as the audience would expect, with grace and dignity. Also, like all good actors I strived to make everything proceed smoothly and this included making no errors.  In saying that, my role was not just an act.  I was genuinely interested in my profession, I had compassion for the families, respect for the deceased and a genuine desire to help.

As well as funerals, I also enjoyed funeral processions that created a bit of a spectacle, a bit like those early photos.  I revelled in leading large funeral corteges to the cemetery followed by hundreds of mourners.  Sometimes, the deceased’s procession would be themed to their own interests and would be followed by a cavalcade of bikes, or vintage cars or company vehicles all bearing the same insignia.  I enjoyed the curious gazes of onlookers walking the streets or driving by in their cars, marvelling at such a wondrous sight: as we cruised along with our headlights illuminated.  Just like the old time photos, I enjoyed the lavishness of it all.  On a few occasions while driving these processions I would pass an elderly gentleman waiting on a street corner.  This gentleman would tip his hat or remove it completely, clutching it to his chest.  I greatly enjoyed seeing this gesture, and this personal moment of reverence and respect from days-gone-by was never lost on me. 

At some funerals, the family of the deceased would decide to pay a ‘little extra’ for the Rolls Royce hearse, which was on offer from the firm I worked for.  The vehicle was manufactured in the late 1940’s, and personally, I loved driving this hearse.  Obviously it was an eye catching vehicle painted black, with headlights like dinner plates and a raised bier in the back making the casket visible for all to see.  It was a vehicle that I could easily associate with pomp and circumstance, and for me this added to the appeal of driving it.  A vehicle of that size and appearance is often associated with royalty.  As I drove this vehicle, people in the street would often stop and stare.  I loved the attention it, and I received, but more importantly this hearse added to the spectacle of a fitting tribute, a grand funeral, something almost nostalgic. 

A funeral I conducted in 1999 contained a certain amount of pomp and circumstance, and it was not because of the vehicles present, but the attendees.  The funeral was for my mum’s ‘Aunty Betty.’ Betty was the sister of mum’s mother, my Nan.  Betty’s funeral was held in the same Catholic Church in Ellerslie as my Nan’s.  I was an altar boy at this church at my Nan’s funeral in 1980, and I conducted my Grand-father’s funeral there as a funeral director in 1989.  So I already had a bit of history with this church, as well as services I had attended with my Nan as a young fella. 

Betty’s son is a Catholic priest, consequently she knew a lot of priests and was well respected by them.  Betty’s Requiem Mass was officiated by a large number of the clergy.  Apart from a full church of mourners, there were 35 priests and 2 bishops at the altar taking an active part in the service, including Betty's own son.  Being a Catholic myself, I really enjoyed the officialdom associated with such a funeral.  It certainly felt like a momentous occasion having that many clergy officiating at the service. However, the Requiem Mass was also a fitting tribute to a well loved woman, and a tireless worker within the church and its community.

Military funerals are also ceremonies that can contain their share of pomp and circumstance.  That is, having a large number of military personnel present, marching in unison, following official protocols handed down throughout the years.  A lone bugler would play the last post and reveille, and the flag which adorned the casket would be removed in sharp, crisp like movements and folded by personal present. At some of these services there would be riflemen who would offer a salute to the deceased by way of discharging their weapons into the air. 

I can recall on several occasions driving a hearse from an air force base after a funeral.  Often I was required to drive via the runway, doing a loop around strategically parked military planes.  Then I would drive through a guard of military personnel, lined up forming their guard of honour.  They would be dressed in their pressed uniforms, complemented with white gloves.  As I drove my hearse slowly through the ranks, their white gloved hands would salute their fallen comrade one by one, creating a rippling wave.  The sight of these white gloves was seen from the corner of my eyes as I passed through the centre of the procession.  As a civilian, this was a fantastic sight to see and something of which I was proud to be a part.      

Another thing I enjoyed about some funerals was the different location.  Sure, it is nice to have a traditional funeral in a large stone church with towering columns, statues and a granite altar.  However, some of the most memorable funerals I attended have been in some beautiful outdoor locations.  Funerals in native bush beside a flowing stream, on a pier overlooking the water at a boat club, under large overhanging trees or in private gardens at the rear of someone’s property are examples.  Obviously funerals of this type are weather dependant, but they are very memorable if they can be done.  They are usually themed according to the deceased person’s likes or interests.  This makes the funeral so much more personal and memorable and they are a fitting tribute from the loved ones left behind.

People are usually appreciative of what their funeral director has done for them.  Often I was thanked at the conclusion of a service, sometimes I was thanked publically during the service.  However, I always enjoyed getting cards and letters from people who were very happy with the service I had provided.  Obviously I was just doing my job, but everyone likes to be acknowledged or appreciated for work well done.  I liked the fact that someone had thought about me after the service and took time out of their day to write.

With most funerals you never really know who is going to attend.  This is another aspect of funeral directing I greatly enjoyed as well.  Over the years I caught up with many of my relatives, friends and acquaintances at funerals.  I have also spotted and spoken with old school friends who I had not seen for nearly 20 years.  I am one of those people who can remember most people I went to school with, or those students who attended a few years either side of my year.  Celebrities also came to funerals and at times it was interesting to see who attended.  Over the years I saw a plethora of famous faces from television actors and hosts, through to politicians and entertainers.  At one funeral I even had a band member from the ‘Little River Band’ play a musical piece during the refection time as a tribute.   

Having different musical instruments played during a funeral can also be a fitting tribute.  For example, most of us have attended a Returned Serviceman’s funeral, having the ‘Last Post’ played by a bugler is very poignant.  Over the years I have had an assortment of musical instruments and bands playing their own tribute at a funeral.  One of my personal favourites at a funeral is the Scottish Bagpipes.  I loved leading a casket and pallbearers either into or out of a service accompanied by a lone piper.  The sound of this musical instrument literally reverberates through your body.  It would give me goosebumps as we walked, and in my opinion its sound and presence added to the emotions of the service while offering a small piece of pomp and circumstance.  Actually, as I write about bagpipes, I am reminded of a time when I saw someone practising them in an unusual location.  One night I was driving back from a funeral home in Whangarei, where I had just uplifted a person who needed returning to Auckland.  Somewhere on State Highway One between Warkworth and Orewa, I passed a lone piper standing at the end of his rural driveway.  He was merrily playing away his bagpipes, oblivious to the traffic whizzing by.  I laughed as my headlights briefly illuminated him and I passed at 100 kmph, and from what I heard he was belting out a pretty good tune.  I guess he was playing there, away from his house to avoid upsetting his family who had possibly had enough of his practising!

While I am on the subject of music, I might as well mention singing.  Now I do not see myself as a fantastic singer, but I can certainly keep a tune and sing at a decent volume.  I was in the school choir in my Intermediate years, but that is it as far as anything serious is concerned.  However, I have always enjoyed singing at church and hymns are a personal favourite.  Naturally, this included singing hymns at funerals.  Often for funerals, family members picked hymns the deceased person loved in order for them to be sung as part of the service.  Unfortunately though, not all members at funerals are regular church attendees, so at times the singing could be a little sparse.  Naturally, I would do my part down at the back of the chapel or church, singing to the best of my ability in an attempt to bolster the congregational volume.  I certainly wasn’t loud or grandstanding, but I contributed in the belief I was assisting the meeker singers or encouraging those who wanted to sing a little louder. 

Once I was at a funeral in a large Catholic church.  The service had started with an opening hymn.  The priest was at the back of the church and as the singing commenced, he began his slow walk up the aisle towards the altar.  I was happily singing away off the service sheet, when I noticed the priest had only walked about two metres and stopped.  I continued singing, along with the members of the congregation when the priest walked backwards towards me.  When he reached me he turned his head to the side and spoke in a hushed tone out the side of his mouth.  “Are you Catholic?” he enquired.  “Yes I am,” I proudly replied.  The priest obviously had ‘a good ear’ for a well sung hymn.  He nodded his head and said, “Very good, very good.”  He then moved away and continued his walk down the aisle.  A wry smile moved across my face and I continued singing, though this time with a lot more pride.

Jeffery, one of my colleagues told me that he never sung at funerals.  His reason was because it was not his business to get involved in the commemorations of the service.  I disagreed.  The main reason I sung at funerals is because it can be very embarrassing to only have a few members at the funeral doing their best to carry the hymn.  Also, at times it was often just the immediate family doing a majority of the singing, and emotionally it can be draining for them.  Other attendees were often silent because they were not regular church goers and were not familiar with the hymns, or if they were they weren’t used to singing in public.  

There was a celebrant we used on occasions who would stop the hymn after a few lines if the congregational volume was not strong enough to her liking.  She would say, “Now come on, we can do better than that.  Let’s use our best singing voices and make this a grand tribute.”  Secretly, I would cringe down the back of the chapel whenever she did this.  I could understand where she was coming from, and it may have been applicable for kids at a Sunday school, but I didn’t think it was appropriate at funerals.  However, to her credit, on occasions it did work well and the singing greatly improved.

There was also an organist that our company used on occasions who made it obvious she did not approve of poor singing performances of funeral attendees.  If the volume was not to her liking, she would roll her eyes and let out a loud sigh, or shake her head and tut-tut as she played.  I greatly disapproved of her ‘obvious’ public display of disgust.  Consequently, because of this I never used her services unless she was specifically requested.

I have arranged hundreds of funerals for men who served their country during World War I and World War II.  It was always a fitting tribute to have the New Zealand flag or Union Jack flag draped over their casket.  Often I would liaise with our florists to make sure the casket spray of flowers matched the flag, shades of red, white and blue.  The family would be proud, seeing their father’s or grandfather’s casket adorned in these tributes.  The playing of ‘The Last Post and Reveille’ is another moving and fitting honour to the servicemen.  Sometimes this tribute would be played by a bugler, other times it would be a recorded piece played by tape or CD.  Most of these men belong to the Returned Services Association, and a representative would dutifully attend the service to recite The Ode during the tribute.  For the representatives this was never a chore or a burden, it was a tribute to their fallen comrade.  I used to feel sorry for these representatives, as sometimes their services would be called upon several times a week.  Due to the age of returned servicemen their ranks were getting smaller and smaller every day.  Many of the funeral attendees were RSA members themselves, and their attendance at so many funerals was a constant reminder of their own mortality.

However, on some occasions the deceased was not a member of the Returned Services Association, but their family still wanted a representative to come and recite The Ode, and to have The Last Post played. Obviously this was the deceased’s right, after all, they too had fought for their country.  Despite this, at times I would struggle to find someone who was prepared to come to the funeral and pay the tribute.  Because the deceased was not a member, sometimes I would have to ring several RSA clubs before I could find anyone who was prepared to do it.  I would speak to the president, I would speak to the secretary, and I would speak to the welfare officer, each offering their own excuse or suggesting another club.  It was frustrating, and after each rejection I felt like muttering ‘Least we forget,’ to the person declining me.  ‘Least we forget,’ are poignant words used in The Ode, and in my opinion I felt as though these men had already been forgotten, just because they weren’t a member.  However, eventually I would find someone who would happily oblige, taking time out of their day to honour not just a stranger, but a brother of the battlefield.   

While I experienced a wide variety of funerals which had an element of pomp and circumstance, or different themes, there was one type of funeral that I never got to achieve in my career: a burial at sea.  Being buried at sea is not very common these days, but one particular year our firm was required for three sea-burials in a short space of time.  My colleague Jeffrey was the funeral director who was fortunate enough to accompany not one, but all three of these burials. 

The majority of people who are buried at sea nowadays are ex-seamen.  Either they spent time in the merchant navy, served on ships during the war or were sailors in later life resulting in a passion for the sea.  There are certain requirements which need to be met in order to be buried out at sea.  The most important requirement is where the casket is placed in the sea.  Obviously, you can’t just go dropping it over the side of a boat anywhere.  There a certain areas – mapped as burial areas.  More often than not these areas are where trawlers are banned.  After all, you wouldn’t want a trawler dredging up a casket with Uncle Frank’s remains in it!  The areas where trawlers are banned are usually around power and telecommunication cables which enter the country.  More often than not, the caskets to be buried at sea are usually deposited in these areas.  In order to get the casket down to this area, it is weighted down with weights inside and numerous holes are drilled in the side and base of the casket.  This allows the casket to quickly fill with sea water and this, along with the added weight allows for a quick submergence.  Naturally, these holes will also assist small sea-life to enter the casket speeding up the decomposition process.

There are two main ways of getting a casket to these burial areas, which are numerous nautical miles out to sea.  The first is by helicopter.  The casket is attached underneath.  Once over the burial site, the helicopter will hover over the water and the casket will be dropped into the ocean.  The casket will submerge quite quickly.  However, this is a least preferred option as it limits the number of family members who can attend the brief service.  The most popular method is by using a chartered boat.  The main benefit of this is family members and mourners can have a leisurely ride out to the burial site.  Often a minister or celebrant accompanies the family and a brief service will be held out at sea before the casket is lowered overboard.  Family members will then often throw floral tributes into the sea as a final mark of respect before returning to land. 

Chapter Two:

Fatal Crash

In my career as a funeral director I attended many fatal motor vehicle crashes.  Many of these crashes I wrote about in ‘Six Feet DOWN UNDER.’  It is interesting that some people refer to crashes as accidents, but in saying that, I too have been guilty of referring to them as accidents.  However, upon reflection many of them were not accidents, but very preventable crashes. Unfortunately, I attended far too many preventable fatal crashes in my career.  These crashes claimed the lives of many men and women, though mostly young men.  Many of the people killed would still be with us today, with a family of their own, if they had just adhered to the basics of driving.  That is: watch your speed, always wear your seat belt and don’t drink and drive.  I can fully understand why the police preach about these fundamentals of driving.  I saw the carnage for my own eyes, over and over again.  All of us have seen the graphic television ads and heard the reminders on the radio, but unfortunately, crashes continue, especially amongst our youth.  Personally, I think it is because of the ‘ten foot tall and bullet proof’ mentality that some young people have. 

For example, recently I spoke to a 22-year-old male who had three drink driving convictions against his name, and he had just been picked up drink driving for the fourth time.  This young man was two and a half times over the legal limit.  I said to him, “Why do you drink and drive?”  He replied, “Because I like to drink.”  I added, “There is nothing wrong with having a drink, but why drive?”  He replied, “Because my mates depend on me and I want them to be safe, so I drive them.”   I enquired, “Do your mates know that you have been drinking though?”  He responded, “Yeah, and they know I’m a good, safe driver, even when I’ve been drinking.”  I was not surprised at his cavalier attitude; it is typical of many young males.  He was trying to convince me that despite being over two and half times the drink drive limit, he was still a good driver.  I begged to differ.  The young man added, “I have never had a crash.”  I was beginning to get a little frustrated so I said, “I have been to so many fatal accidents, and so many of these drivers thought they were good drivers too, many of them had never crashed before either.”  The male nonchalantly replied, “Well I will never crash.”  He placed an emphasis on the word ‘never.’  So there it was, the mentality I had just referred to, that indestructible idealism, that false belief that it would never happen to him.  I couldn’t help thinking that one day his luck – if you can call it that, would run out, and his lifeless body will be removed from the wreck of his car.  I also thought, wouldn’t it be ironic if it is to be me, who will pull his body out of the car when this happens.

In my last book there were many fatal crashes I did not mention.  That is because there was nothing startling about them, they were all the same.  That is, single vehicle crashes where the male driver was killed after his car left the road.  Many of these males were killed in the early hours of the morning, nearly all had been drinking.  Several of these cars had rolled, and in many of these crashes the drivers concerned were not wearing a seat belt.  Some drivers were ejected from the somersaulting vehicle and were either stuck by their ‘pride and joy’ as it rolled, or the drivers struck an immoveable object.  Once again, all of these crashes were highly preventable.  Maybe, they had driven intoxicated before and reached their destination without incident?  Maybe, they too, thought they would never crash?

It was about 2:00 a.m. when I drove to the crash scene.  The left hand side of the car was firmly wedged under the back of a parked truck.  A mate of the driver’s, sitting in the front passenger seat had been killed instantly.  The cause of death was a massive head injury, evident by the obvious facial trauma suffered.  The driver, who was heavily intoxicated, had escaped injury, actually, without a scratch and that annoyed me.  I had attended fatal crashes like that before.  That is, crashes where a drunk driver had killed an innocent person or friend.  Extracting the bodies of drunk drivers who had killed themselves as a result of their own stupidity never really bothered me, but innocents were a different story.  I realise some of these innocents were not so innocent, in that they made the fateful decision to get into the vehicle with a drunk driver.  However, to have them killed for this split-second alcohol fuelled decision seemed extremely harsh.  In my opinion, it was the driver who drank excessively, made the decision to drive, crashed and caused carnage to persons and property who was a more deserving recipient.  If anyone was destined to be removed from the gene pool, I felt it should be the driver.

Another incident that angered me where an innocent was killed, was a fatal crash Jeffrey attended.  Jeffrey told me one morning how he had attended a fatal crash the night before where a car had crashed into a power transformer.  The driver survived the crash, but his front seat passenger was killed instantly.  However, what caused the front seat passenger to be in the car was what annoyed me.  Apparently, five minutes earlier this passenger, who I will call Steve, was sitting at home with his wife watching TV when the driver of the car called at his address.  The driver had just purchased a new car and he wanted to show Steve his new acquisition.  Steve and his wife went outside and had a look at the car.  The driver then asked Steve if he would like to go for a ride around the block in the car.  Steve declined, hugging his wife, saying they were just about to settle into bed.  However, the friend was persistent.  “We will just go down the road and back up again,” the friend pleaded.  Reluctantly, Steve accepted this and kissed his wife and said, “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”  Alas, it was not to be.  The friend drove Steve to the end of the street, which was about 800 metres away.  The driver turned the car around and roared back towards Steve’s address.  There was a moderate bend in the road, but the driver failed to negotiate this bend at the speed they were travelling.  The car left the road and crashed head-on into the power transformer.  Steve’s life ended instantly at that point.  Once again, the actions of one so stupid killed an innocent, who five minutes earlier was safe and sound in his home watching TV.

At another fatal crash, the police tried to hold back a drunk driver from getting back to his crumpled car.   His best mate was dead, and his lifeless body lay trapped in the passenger’s seat.  The driver was so intoxicated, he could not comprehend that his mate was dead.  “Where is my mate?” the driver slurred his words, and stumbled on the spot where he stood.  “He’s dead,” the police officer snapped.  The driver replied in his drunken stupor, “He’ll be okay, he’s my mate, I’ll look after him, we’re best mates, and we look out for each other.”   Frustrated, the policeman yelled back, “You’ll look after him?  You’ve bloody well killed him you fool.”  Undeterred from the last comment, the driver looked at the cop through glazed eyes and repeated, “He’s my mate.... my mate.  I’ll look after him, he’ll be okay.”  The police officer rolled his eyes and said to his partner, “What we need is a video camera, so we can record this Muppet and play it to him in the morning when he’s sober.  Then he will realise what a fool he has been.”  I tended to agree with the police officer. 

It is scenes like this that can be so frustrating.  Some people get so drunk, they cannot even rationalise what carnage they have caused.  If they are that drunk, it is no wonder they crash.  Personally, I have always had a dislike for drink drivers, and it is not because I do not drink myself.  It is because I have seen the destruction that the actions of drink drivers cause.  I have heard the screaming and wailing of despair, I have seen the tears, the grief, the anger and the pain.  I have seen the crumpled wrecks, battered bodies, the lives lost, and the families torn apart.  Also, I know of people that have been innocently driving their own cars when they have been hit by a drunk driver.  These innocent and law abiding people bear the physical scars of these crashes for life.  Some of these people need years of rehabilitation due to the injuries sustained.  Often, in a cruel twist of fate, the drunk driver suffers no injury, he has his day in court and is then free to continue his life as if nothing happened.  Unlike their victims, these drivers have no limp, or scars to remind them daily of their actions.  Personally, I believe that if a driver makes a decision to drive drunk and kills someone, they should be charged with ‘vehicular manslaughter.’  This is a charge that exists in other countries, but not currently in New Zealand law.  Obviously the penalty for this charge would be a lot greater than what is currently on offer.  In my opinion, some contributors of fatal crashes receive very lenient sentences.  An example of this is a funeral I conducted for a young woman who was in her final year of university, studying to be a nurse.  She was much loved, a caring individual who wanted a career helping people.  She was energetic, bubbly and a true friend to all who knew her.  Unfortunately, she was killed on her birthday, at the young age of 20.  She was driving on the open road when her vehicle was hit head-on.  The offending driver had been impatient, and simply pulled out from a line of traffic to overtake.  As I was the young woman’s funeral director, I followed the case with interest when it appeared in the papers when the driver was sentenced in court.  This driver pleaded guilty to his charge, lost his licence for a year and was convicted and sentenced to 200 hours community work.  Just 200 hours – for taking a life!  This driver had killed a much loved daughter and sister, and because of her career choice, she was going to be a benefit to the community.  I was disgusted at the light sentence, and I didn’t even know the young woman.  I could only imagine how her family must have felt.

At 1:30 a.m. one morning, I attended another fatal crash.  Luckily, in this instance the driver, who was drunk, had only killed himself.  He was driving down the motorway in his van and had possibly fallen asleep at the wheel.  There were no skid marks on the road, which indicated he had made no attempt to brake – he did not know what was happening.  His van drifted left, off the motorway, over rough terrain for 30 metres before it slammed into a large tree.  The force of the impact must have been incredible; it was a big solid tree, a totally immovable object.  Judging by the injuries sustained on the male driver he would have been killed instantly.  The fire service was required to cut his body from the crumpled wreck, his smashed and broken legs trapped in the twisted metal.  Beer cans and bottles littered the floor of the van.  The smell of alcohol was not only in the air, but it permeated from the blood of his injuries.  As I lifted his corpse from the wreck I was somewhat pleased the driver’s selfish actions had not affected any innocent motorists.  Despite this, it was obviously a waste of police, fire and emergency resources.  It was another drink drive fatality, another crash that should not have happened.  For the sake of a $40 taxi fare the male could have been home asleep, instead of being driven, cold and lifeless to the mortuary.

Driving out and about at night, as funeral directors often do, I was often vigilant towards drink drivers who could also be driving on the road.  Statistically, many drink drivers come home in the early hours after finishing their ‘session.’ More than once I can recall following a vehicle that was slowly drifting towards the centre line and back again.  This was a sure sign of an intoxicated driver.  I would usually ring the police communications centre and tail the driver until the police intercepted them.  Once, I followed a drink driver from the suburb of Glendowie to Queen Street in the city, waiting for police to intercept him.  Once again, this driver had been zigzagging across the road, he lacked indications at turns and he braked often for no reason.  It was midnight, a Saturday, and naturally Queen Street was full of pedestrians walking between bars on either side of the road.  As we slowly cruised up Queen Street amongst the traffic, the intoxicated driver began yahooing and yelling at the other revellers in the street.  He was obviously extremely merry, but too merry to be driving.  He was yelling so loudly, that even the police communications woman could hear him on my phone.  Luckily, he was stopped by police a few hundred metres further up the road. He blew three times the legal limit. 

However, a word of warning, if you are going to follow drunk drivers – don’t follow too close.  A colleague of mine was doing just that in one of our removal wagons one night after I had left the company.  He tailed a drunk driver for several kilometres, giving police communications a running commentary about what the driver was doing and where he was going.  My colleague was informed that police were nearly with him as he drove onto the Southern Motorway.  Unfortunately, seconds later, just past the Newmarket flyover, the intoxicated driver lost control of his car and hit the median barrier at over 100 kmph.  His car ricocheted off the barrier at speed, bounced into other lanes and collected several other cars in the process.  Other drivers had to brake and skid to avoid vehicles that had already been hit.  The result was a blocked motorway and many damaged cars. Unfortunately, my law-abiding colleague was caught up in the carnage too.  As a result, our removal wagon was written off. 

One Friday night, two mates were riding their respective motorbikes along an open stretch of road.  One rider was travelling approximately 100 metres ahead of his mate as they negotiated the twists and turns in the road ahead of them.  Occasionally the front rider would catch the headlight of the rear rider in his side mirrors as he rode, but more often than not it disappeared out of sight as he sped through the bends.  The front rider was enjoying riding through the moonless night, following the contours of the road, leaning into each bend then straightening up and accelerating again.  The destination for the riders was a holiday home at the beach.  A weekend of surfing, fishing, relaxation and cold beers awaited them.  Alas, it was not to be. 

After several minutes, the front rider realized he had not seen the headlight of his mate’s bike for a while.  He slowed his machine down, hoping his mate would soon catch up.  After another minute or two the expected headlight still evaded him, so he pulled over.  Several more minutes passed and the front rider knew something was wrong.  He turned his bike around and doubled back.  The rider made several trips up and down the road, going to and from the point where he last recalled seeing the headlight, but to no avail.  Searching for his mate in the dark night was not helped by thick native bush on both sides of the road.  Dejected, the rider rode to a friend’s house to raise the alarm and get some assistance for a search.

I was called out by the police on Saturday afternoon.  I drove my removal wagon to the point in the road where the second rider had failed to take a bend.  A police car and a rural fire engine where also present.  I parked behind the emergency vehicles and stepped out into the hot summer’s sun.  I walked to the edge of the road and looked down the bank.  Approximately 40 metres below, into a clearing in the bush I saw the police and volunteer fire brigade workers.  I clambered down the bank, and hung onto ferns and bracken as I descended, maintaining my balance on the slope, despite wearing dress shoes.  I walked towards the emergency workers, and saw the damaged motorbike lying on the ground.  One of the police officer’s greeted me, and told me the rider’s story.  The friends of the deceased rider had only discovered the bike that afternoon, despite searching through the night and all morning.  Upon finding the bike, the friends had called police, worried their mate had wandered off into the bush, injured and disorientated.  Because I was there, I knew the rider was obviously not alive.  “Where is the rider now?” I enquired.  I was surprised at the police officer’s response.  “Up there,” he replied, and pointed towards the sky.  I tilted my head back and followed the direction of the officer’s index finger.  About 30 metres up, resting on the branch of a Kauri tree was the rider.  His motionless body lay face down on a large branch, his arms and legs dangling down either side.  He looked like one of those ‘big cats’ I had seen on animal documentaries, resting in a tree in the Kalahari sun. 

The police officer explained to me how the rider had obviously failed to take the bend at speed.  His bike left the road, flew through the air and both the rider and his bike struck the tree at road height, presumably killing him instantly.  The rider’s body fell, straddling a branch as it came down.  The rider’s bike continued its journey, some 40 metres to the ground below.  The smashed headlight snuffed out the only hope the friends had of finding the bike in the dark. 

I waited while the fire crew hooked up a system of ropes and pulleys in the tree, and the unfortunate rider was eventually lowered to the ground below.  I retrieved a stretcher from my removal wagon, and once I had disrobed the rider, he was transferred onto it.  The eager firemen carried the stretcher back up the steep terrain.  When I got back to my car I looked at the road.  No skid marks were visible.  The bend must have snuck up on the hapless rider without him realizing – he was unaware of his impending doom.

It was 3:30 a.m. as the black Nissan Skyline raced along the rural road.  The sole occupant, a male driver was heading home after a night out partying.  The CD player in the car belted out the latest music as the driver negotiated the bends, and he stared at the road illuminated by his headlights, through tired and bloodshot eyes.  He was nearly home.  However fate was not on his side.  He was intoxicated, he was speeding, he was not wearing his safety belt, plus you are reading about him in my book.

On one moderate bend the car left the road, hit a ditch and somersaulted end over end.  The still night was disturbed by the sounds of the violent thud of the impact, the roar of the engine and the smashing of glass.  The vehicle became entangled in a wire fence as it rolled and stopped abruptly in an upside down position.  During the violent roll, the driver’s body had been tossed around inside the car like a rag doll.  His head struck several objects inside the car, fracturing his skull before he was ejected onto the cold grass.

It was still dark when I arrived at the scene around 6:00 a.m.  The police and serious crash investigators had completed their tasks.  I looked at the driver’s battered body which lay next to his vehicle.  I could tell by the massive head trauma he had sustained, his death would have been instantaneous.  The violence inside the car was evident as well.  Strewn throughout the car as though they had been in a washing machine were personal possessions, papers, books, CDs, tapes, coins and clothing.  More depressingly though, was blood, hair and clumps of brain matter on the back seat. 

My removal of this male was temporarily delayed as word came through that a family member had arrived at the scene cordon.  The body needed to be officially identified at some point.  The police allowed the well respected relative to come to the vehicle to complete this sombre task.  It was my job, with limited resources, to clean the face of the male and present him in a way that would be less stressful for the identifier.  Accompanied by police, an elderly gentleman came to the scene, to identify his grandson.  A white sheet covering the body was gently pulled back from the young man’s face.  Tears formed in the identifiers eyes, his lips pursed before quivering, and then a simple nod of the head confirmed his fears. 

Fatal crashes such as this and others I have mentioned in this chapter do not need to happen.  Speed, Alcohol and Seat-Belts are the BIG three that police will often target.  I can fully understand why.  Throughout my career as a funeral director, it was primarily these three reasons my services were needed.  So many crashes, so many lives wasted, so many resources, so costly to you and I, the tax payer, not to mention the devastation to family members left behind.  Thankfully the road toll in New Zealand is coming down, but we still have a long way to go.   

Chapter Three:

Murphy’s Law

Murphy’s Law is the term used to describe when things go wrong.  That is ‘If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong at the worst possible moment.’  The funeral industry is like any other industry, things can go wrong and occasionally do.  Thankfully, a majority of the time, everything goes to plan and there are no problems or delays.  However, there are odd times when Murphy’s Law rears its ugly head.  For those of you who read ‘Six Feet DOWN UNDER’ you will be familiar with my embarrassment in Chapter Twelve, when I had the biggest faux pas of my career and I buried someone in the wrong grave.  Gee, even now I can’t believe I did that.  Anyway, after people read my previous book a lot of them commented how they loved the story in Chapter Three where I saved the casket from rolling out the back of the hearse.  I am not sure why this story was loved so much?  It was a story I wasn’t even going to tell as in reality, nothing happened.  However, because of this interest, and because things can go wrong I thought I would share some of the instances I am aware of where mistakes happened or things did not go entirely to plan.

As mentioned, it was very early in my career when I saved a casket from sliding out the back of the hearse while I was driving.  I was very fortunate my quick reflexes saved myself and my company a great deal of embarrassment.  At the time I couldn’t imagine how it could have happened to anyone else, I thought it was just my bad luck, due to a combination of events.  However, I was wrong.  Not long after the incident I was telling a worker at the Purewa Crematorium about the predicament I had found myself in, when he told me about another funeral director who was not so fortunate.  The funeral director, for the sake of this story, will be called Ian.   Ian was running late for a funeral at the Purewa Crematorium.  His hearse was loaded with the casket on board and Ian was driving quickly through the streets.  As Ian rounded a corner the boot of the hearse fell open and the casket, which sits on rollers, slid out.  The casket fell onto the road, and momentum from the moving hearse, sent the casket skidding along the road before it slammed into the curb.  Ian quickly braked and then reversed the hearse back to where the casket came to rest.  A rather sheepish looking Ian exited the hearse and looked at the casket.  The damage wasn’t too bad considering what had just happened.  Luckily the casket had slid on its base which hid any major scuff marks.  However, some of the trim which tapers around the base of the casket was hanging off.  The section of the casket at the head-end was also out of alignment after it had taken the full impact from the road.  With the assistance of a passerby, Ian lifted the casket back into the hearse.  Time wise, he was too far away from work to replace the casket.  However, Ian knew of a cabinetmaker that lived nearby.  He promptly drove to the cabinetmakers address and pulled up outside, and explained his embarrassing predicament to his friend.  The cabinetmaker quickly got to work.  The trim was tacked back on, the head-section was re-nailed and a quick wipe of a polishing rag buffed away any scratches.  It wasn’t perfect, but the casket looked a darn side better than it had 15 minutes earlier.  Ian was grateful, thanked the cabinet maker and left towards Purewa.  The service was due to start in 10 minutes.

Now that should be the end of the story.  However, luck was not on Ian’s side that day.  I do not know what problem Ian had with the boot of his hearse, but when he was just two streets away from the crematorium, it opened again.  Like a very bad case of déjà vu, the casket fell from the rear of the hearse and smashed onto the road.  The casket, having received a second thunderous jolt onto the road, did not favour too well at all.  The trim which had just been lovingly repaired completely tore off.  All sections of the casket, the sides, head-end and foot-end, were twisted out of alignment, and it had sustained numerous scrapes and scratches to the surface veneer.  I can’t imagine how Ian must have felt, standing there looking at the damaged casket.  Obviously, Ian had no time to return to the cabinetmaker, no time to return to the funeral home.  He only had just enough time to make it to the funeral.

The crematorium worker told me how Ian drove up to the chapel in the hearse and explained to him his predicament.  Using a trolley, the crematorium assistant helped Ian wheel the damaged casket from the hearse into the chapel and place it on the bier.  Once in place, they twisted the wobbly casket to get the most natural looking alignment.  The trim was discarded completely and a rag was used on the veneer in a vain attempt to get the best shine out of a bad situation.  The worker then left Ian to go and tell the family what had happened before opening up the crematorium doors for the public.  I am guessing though, that Ian would have just mentioned one fall from the hearse, not two.  

Attending burials in winter is not always a pleasant task.  I have attended services where the rain has just about been horizontal, the wind is howling and the chill factor at freezing point.  If it is not raining, the ground underfoot is usually sodden with the added displeasure of freshly up-turned clay everywhere which sticks to the soles of your shoes.  This clay would stick, layer upon layer making the soles several inches thick.  This made for hazardous walking for everyone concerned as they slipped and slid around the grave.  There is also the added danger of people nearly poking your eye out with their umbrellas which are being thrashed around in the wind or turned inside out.  There was also a greater likelihood of the grave collapsing due to the instability of the ground due to the wetness.  Once, in my early days, I was assisting Dean when I saved him from falling into a grave.  Dean was walking up the side of the grave after the committal had taken place, to offer flower heads to mourners to pay their final respects.  As he walked, a portion of the side wall of the grave collapsed under his weight.  Dean lost his footing as the ground gave way beneath him.  Luckily I was standing nearby and my arm instinctively shot out and I managed to grab Dean, saving him from falling in, not to mention saving him from a great deal of embarrassment.

Another time, one of our staff was driving to a burial when he was flagged down at the entrance to the cemetery by concerned cemetery staff.  It was a wet rainy day and it had been raining for nearly a week.  My colleague was advised he could not use the grave he had booked.  Due to the wet weather, the grave had collapsed.  What added to the unpleasantness of this scenario was the deceased person in the adjoining grave had slid out of their rotting casket into the newly dug grave and was fully exposed.  Obviously the family were not informed of all that had happened, they were just told the grave had collapsed.  The family and mourners were ushered into the nearby crematorium chapel, and the committal which was to have taken place at the grave took place there.  The casket was later interred privately in the grave after the debacle was sorted out.

Once I was talking to another funeral director who told me he was at a service when a priest fell into a grave.  Apparently it was a very windy day and the casket had just been lowered into the grave.  The priest asked everyone to close their eyes and bow their heads for a prayer.  The priest then raised his hands towards the sky to begin a prayer.  However, due to the wind and the vestments he was wearing his actions turned him into a bit of a kite.  He was blown off-balance and he literally blew off his feet, and flew into the grave.  Most of the mourners did not see it happen as they had their heads bowed.  Most were alerted to his predicament after the sound of a large ‘thud’ as the poor priest landed on top of the casket. 

Speaking of winter burials, I will mention something I found intriguing while speaking to a minister from the United States of America.  This story is not comical, just one of interest.  I cannot recall which State the minister was from, but he was doing an exchange with a minister here in Auckland.  As we drove to a burial at the Purewa Cemetery he informed me that in his home town they did not have burials in winter.  The reason was because in winter it snows, the ground freezes and becomes rock hard - too hard to dig.  Consequently, anyone who wanted to be buried still had a funeral, but the caskets were stock piled until they could be buried in the spring.  Obviously this is a well known fact in parts of America and is accepted as normal, but for us in New Zealand who bury all year round it seemed a little strange.

I was speaking to a female funeral director after I published my last book, and she informed me how she broke her leg at a funeral – with everyone watching.  As the funeral director, she had walked reverently to the front of the church at the conclusion of the service.  Obviously all of the congregation’s eyes were upon her.  The funeral director approached the casket which was sitting on a trolley facing the altar.  The task was simple, turn the casket on the trolley to face the congregation ready for the pallbearers to carry it to the hearse.  This turning of the casket was an action previously performed hundreds of times by the funeral director concerned and something done thousands of times a year by funeral directors all around the country.  However, on this particular day the trolley was sitting on a shag-pile like carpet.  As the funeral director turned the casket, she was unaware that the trolley was not moving with it.  The wheels of the trolley had obviously got caught in the shag-pile, keeping the trolley perfectly still.  Unbeknown to her, the casket was merely shifting on top of the still trolley.  Unaware of her impending doom, the funeral director continued to turn the casket, believing the trolley was moving with it.  Once the casket was far enough away from the trolley, gravity began to take effect.  The funeral director, realising her imminent predicament and the embarrassment of a falling casket, quickly stuck her leg under the casket in an attempt to prevent it sliding off.  Alas, it was not to be.  The weight of the casket, and the person within it could not be stopped.  The casket fell to the floor trapping the poor funeral director’s leg underneath it, and in doing so, broke her leg in the process.  

No names will be mentioned for this next story, but suffice to say I worked with the funeral director concerned – and no, it wasn’t me.  The funeral director had completed the main part of the funeral, and the family were enjoying a cup of tea and refreshments afterwards.  While this was happening it had been arranged the funeral director would take the casket to the crematorium where the family would meet him.  There, the family would say their good-byes have a ‘private committal’ service in the crematorium chapel. While the family were socializing with their friends the funeral director did just as he had arranged.  However, upon reaching the crematorium, I guess the ‘auto-pilot’ part of his brain was turned on. Often as funeral directors, we deliver ‘no service’ or ‘back door’ caskets to the crematorium when family is not attending and the full service has been held elsewhere.  The ‘auto-pilot’ mechanism playing in the funeral directors head that day as he arrived at the crematorium was, ‘back door’ as he had done countless times before.  Instead of placing the casket in the chapel and waiting for the family, the funeral director drove to the back of the crematorium.  The crematorium assistant downstairs was expecting the casket, but was unaware that the committal service had not taken place upstairs in the chapel.  The furnace had already been heated awaiting the imminent arrival of the said casket.  To make matters worse, the funeral director offered to help the assistant ‘charge’ the casket into the furnace.  Together the assistant and the funeral director pushed the casket into the furnace and the door was closed.  The cremation was underway, and the funeral director drove away – still unaware of the mistake he had made.   The family arrived at the crematorium about 15 minutes later looking for the funeral director, and more importantly for their loved one, for the next part of the service.  The crematorium assistant upstairs at the chapel was unaware the casket had already been delivered downstairs, and it was already in the process of being cremated.  The family enquired with the assistant as to the whereabouts of the funeral director and their loved one because he should have been there.  I was at the funeral home when I took the phone call from the crematorium assistant, enquiring as to the whereabouts of the aforementioned parties.  I radioed the funeral director concerned asking where he was.  ‘I’m on the motorway, I’ll be back at base in ten minutes,” was his reply.  “Shouldn’t you be at Purewa crematorium for a committal?” I enquired. “They are on the phone looking for you,” I added.  The phone went quiet as the funeral director processed what he had done. The funeral director panicked and began to second guess himself, “Was it not a back door?” he asked.  I replied, “I don’t know, you arranged it.”  “Where is the casket?” I enquired.  The funeral director replied, “I helped them put it in the cremator.” I could tell by the tone of his voice that the ‘penny had dropped’ and he realised the embarrassing predicament he was in.  I went to the other line and told the assistant that the funeral director was returning to the crematorium and he would explain everything to the family.  As I put the phone down, I was somewhat glad I wasn’t in the funeral director’s shoes.  It would have been rather embarrassing to deliver the news to the family.  

A friend of mine was a funeral director’s assistant for a few years in his younger days.  He told me about an incident when he worked for a rival firm.  They had done a removal at a rest home and were in the process of carrying the deceased person in the stretcher back to their removal wagon.  As they carried the stretcher across the grass, a couple of elderly residents from the rest home were sitting on a park bench.  The couple watched the actions of my friend and his colleague.  The couple’s mouths were open and they looked aghast.  My friend said he noticed this and thought they were just a little shocked at seeing a fellow resident being transported away.  Obviously, being in a rest home, residents do not usually appreciate obvious reminders about their imminent demise.   It was only when my friend reached the car did he realise what must have upset the elderly audience.  My friend discovered the deceased person’s arm had slipped from the confines of the stretcher and was hanging out from under the cover.  This arm had been obviously dangling away, fully exposed and bouncing around in front of the couple as my friend and his colleague walked past them.  

One morning I was at our office making funeral arrangements with an elderly gentleman, for his wife who had passed away.  Present with the gentleman were four of his adult daughters.  I was at the point where I was noting down information required for the death certificate, that is, marriage details and the current ages of living children.  The gentleman proudly gave me the ages of his eight daughters.  I joked with him and said, “Gosh, a house full of women.”  The man laughed as did his daughters.  I then added, “I guess you never gave up trying to have a son aye?”  The good rapport I had been building with the family took a bit of a dent at that point.  I felt a bit foolish after my light-hearted comment because the man quickly replied, “Oh we had a son, but he died.”

I was about to commence a funeral at 10:00 a.m. one bleak winters morning at our funeral chapel.  The casket was in place, background music was playing softly, lighting illuminated the winter darkened chapel and heaters warmed the chilly air.  The celebrant and I greeted mourners as they sought refuge in the dry chapel, escaping the wind and rain.  However, two minutes before the service started, the music stopped and the lights went out.  We had a power cut.  We considered delaying the start of the service, but in reality, there was nothing we could do.  We couldn’t wait for the power to return, we didn’t know for how long it would be off.  In the end, the celebrant had to deliver the service in near dark conditions without the aid of the microphone.  No music could be played during the reflection time, the casket could not be lowered at the committal, and the funeral concluded in silence.  Despite this, the family loved the service and could see the irony of the situation.  Before his retirement, the deceased person had worked many years for the local power board.

At another funeral I conducted, a young speaker came up to give a eulogy to his grandmother.  He brought with him to the lectern, a prop.  This prop was a 1.5 litre bottle of fizzy raspberry drink.  During the boy’s eulogy he mentioned how he and his grandmother used to share and enjoy a glass of fizzy raspberry drink, and he held the bottle up and showed the prop to the congregation.  At the end of his eulogy he produced the bottle of drink again and said, “As a tribute to you grandma, I’m going to have a sip of this raspberry drink.”  It was a nice gesture I suppose.  However, as the youth unscrewed the cap the drink exploded.  I am not sure whether it had been shaken up at some point or whether grandma was just having a laugh.  However, bright red raspberry drink sprayed out in all directions covering the youth, the lectern and the rest of the family who were sitting in the front row.  I must say, the youth’s face went an interesting shade of red itself, and it wasn’t the drink on his face that caused it.  The carpet in our chapel also became somewhat stained from the drink and months later the reminder of his actions of that day were still there.

On another occasion, a female speaker got up to deliver her tribute during a eulogy.  The woman was obviously nervous and as a result her voice volume was not as loud as it could have been.  In saying that, I was seated down the back of the chapel and I could still hear her, so I guess the volume wasn’t too bad.  However, a couple of elderly ladies were sitting about three rows in front of me and they obviously could not hear.  I watched as the pair leaned forward and used hands cupped to their ears in a vain attempt to increase their hearing volume.  One woman faced the other grumbled in a rather loud voice, “What is she saying?”  The other woman replied just as loud, “I’m not sure Ethel, I can’t hear her.”  I cringed.  The first woman continued, “I can’t hear her either, I wish she would speak up.”  The old dears were not being obnoxious, they were just totally oblivious to the volume of their own voices and that of their surroundings.  I guess they were half deaf themselves, but their raised conversation was audible throughout most of the chapel.  There were a few sniggers from other members of the congregation who were amused at the antics of the pair.  The speaker continued to the best of her ability despite the distraction and mutterings from the back.  The elderly pair soon resigned to the fact they couldn’t hear anything.  Despite this, one of them would occasionally but in with a clearly audible, “I still can’t hear her.” 

I embarrassed myself, as well as ‘grossing out’ a couple of police officers at a police callout one morning.  A middle aged male had hung himself downstairs in the garage of his home.  I arrived at the scene and met the officers present. The male concerned had been cut down and was lying on the garage floor awaiting my arrival.  The police had completed their scene examination and were ready for me to disrobe the man and transport him to the mortuary.  I brought my stretcher into the garage and set it up next to the deceased male.  One of the police officers present was a friend of mine, Paul.  I had worked with Paul several years earlier when we both worked together at ASB Bank, prior to him joining the police. 

Helped by Paul and another officer, I began removing the clothing the male was wearing.  Unlike the police officers present, I was not wearing gloves.  This was not unusual.  More often than not I wore no gloves, unless the person was in poor condition or bodily fluids were evident.  Unbeknown to me though, this male was not wearing underwear and he had soiled himself – and I am not talking about urine.  I was in the process of removing the male’s jeans when I accidently placed my hand in a stool, which was resting somewhere in the leg area of his pants.  Embarrassed, I pulled my hand away and informed Paul and his colleagues I would have to stop what I was doing and wash my hands.  Two of the cops present were a little grossed out by my unfortunate discovery.  Paul laughed, and told me that I should be wearing gloves.  In hindsight this was good advice, but it was never usually a problem.  It was the first time something like this had happened in my career.  I began to offer excuses why I didn’t need gloves, but in reality it was pointless, considering I was standing there with faecal matter on my hand. 

I went upstairs and washed my hands thoroughly in the bathroom.  I returned to Paul and his colleagues who were obviously somewhat amused by my predicament.  Paul asked, “Are you going to wear gloves now?”  Being stoic, and not wanting to admit defeat, I replied, “No, I am aware the crap is there now, I will just avoid it.”  I returned to the male and gingerly slid down his jeans.  However, despite my best intentions, it happened again.  I felt like a complete fool, but I laughed it off.  Once again I found myself trudging back up the stairs to wash my hands.  In doing so, I had convinced the constabulary the importance of wearing gloves at sudden deaths.

Now we have all locked our keys in our car at some point in our life haven’t we?  It is inconvenient to say the least.  You ask yourself, who can I call?  Should I just break the window?  Or you spend ages with a bent coat hanger or plastic cable sliding it through the window trying to pull up the door lock.  It is very frustrating.  Yet imagine locking the keys in a hearse when a casket is still inside and the family are waiting to start the funeral.  Luckily, this scenario never presented itself to me, but I have heard of several instances where it has happened to other funeral directors.  Some of these funeral directors have reverted to smashing the window out of shear desperation – or embarrassment.  However, breaking glass is a rather costly exercise, because the replacement glass and associated freight are shipped from America.  I have heard that the bill can sometimes run into the thousands.  However, in saying that, it is not always the funeral directors fault.  I have heard of instances where the hearses had a fault and would lock themselves?  Once, I was speaking to a crematorium assistant at Purewa crematorium, and he told me that a funeral director who was there before me had just experienced this problem.  That is, the hearse had locked itself while keys were in the ignition, the casket was in the back and the service was due to start.  However, this funeral director didn’t panic.  He was obviously a bit of a smart cookie and he rang his work, and got them to ring the manufacturers of the vehicle in America.   After providing various serial numbers and confirmation details the hearse was unlocked via satellite, by the manufacturer in America.  Now that was clever! 

That being the case I always made sure the hearse keys were on me when I got out of the vehicle.  This was not because I was concerned about the vehicle locking itself, but something even more embarrassing – someone stealing it.   I had also heard of this happening before as well. Imagine the embarrassment of having pallbearers carry the casket out of a church at the end of a funeral only to discover some larrikin has decided to take your hearse for a spin.  

My wife Kerrianne’s poppa passed away in his home town of Kaitaia in 1992.  Naturally, Kerrianne and I ventured north with the rest of her family for his funeral.  I was not the funeral director on this occasion, but I knew the funeral director concerned.  I had met him on previous trips to Kaitaia in my capacity as a funeral director.  Besides, he too had attended Marcellin College in Auckland when I was there in the early 1980’s, albeit a couple of years ahead of me. 

Kerrianne’s father, Jim, had a Mitsubishi van, and on the day of the funeral I drove us all from our motel to the funeral service in this van.  Jim’s van, like a lot of vans in the late 80’s and early 90’s ran on CNG.  However, while running on CNG, this van had a habit of back-firing on the odd occasion.

Forgetting about this fault, I parked the van behind the hearse under the church canopy.  At the conclusion of the service, we all piled back into Jim’s van to follow the hearse to the cemetery.  Other cemetery bound folk also made their way to their cars, but about one hundred mourners were still milling around outside the church.  As I started the van, I remembered the fault, and I hoped Murphy’s Law wasn’t riding with us – alas, it was.  The van back-fired unmercifully, and the canopy of the church certainly enhanced the explosive boom.  The sound was deafening.  I could imagine the faces of the startled guests, many of whom were elderly.  I wanted to look back but I couldn’t – I was embarrassed, and laughing too much, along with the rest of Kerrianne’s family.

Chapter Four:

Doctors, Mortuary and Jewellery

If a person’s death is sudden, it will be referred to the coroner, and the police will attend the death as agents of the coroner.  One of the requirements of the police is to get the deceased person certified dead by a doctor.  There are certain doctors listed as ‘police doctors’ who will be called out to the scene, just like the contracted funeral director.  The doctor is required to perform a quick examination to establish that the person concerned has actually passed. The doctor will then sign a ‘certificate of life extinct,’ which is attached to the sudden death file for the coroner.  Of note, these days, an ‘advanced paramedic’ from the ambulance service can also sign the life extinct certificate.  However, when I was working in the funeral industry it was predominately doctors who were called out, and they were paid well for this service, at the expense of the tax payer.  Doctors are still used today, but only if no advanced paramedic is available.  Sometimes, if the doctor was extremely busy at his surgery, the funeral director would bring the body to him and park in a discrete area.  The doctor would then come to the car and view the body. 

Over the years I saw all forms of verifying life was extinct.  This varied from checking for a pulse, listening for a heart beat by way of stethoscope to the chest, through to lifting closed eyelids and shining torch light into the eyes checking for dilated pupils.  Some doctors though were more thorough than others.  Some however, could be quite lax, just giving a cursory glance, especially if the death was obvious.  For example, I can recall on many occasions seeing a doctor approaching a rotting corpse, then turning on their heels before they even entered the room.  “Phew,” they would exclaim, “Yes, I’ll sign that.”  I would often think, ‘Gee that was easy money for a one second look.’

However, there was also the opposite side of the coin, those that were too thorough. I can recall taking a body to a doctor’s surgery after the doctor could not get to an accident scene.  The body I had in the back of my vehicle had been decapitated.  The main torso was in the stretcher and the unfortunate victim’s head was in a plastic bag.  I informed the doctor of this, but instead of a cursory glance he went through the full process.  I thought the doctor was being a bit too optimistic as he listened with his stethoscope for a heart beat on the headless chest.  The doctor continued his examination and reached into the bag which contained the severed head.  I had to refrain from smirking at the absurdity of the situation, as the doctor used a torch and shone it into the eyes of the hapless victim looking for any signs of life?

As an aside, of all the police callouts I have attended in public areas, the main place these deaths occurred was at a doctor’s surgery or practise.  Numerous times a year, the services of our company was required for a member of the public who had either died during a consultation with the doctor, or while waiting to see the doctor.  I guess this phenomenon stands to reason.  After all, who do people go and see if they are not feeling well?

One Sunday evening, I attended a sudden death at a residential address.  An elderly woman had passed away unexpectedly while sitting on the toilet and she had fallen into the floor.  The police were present, as was the woman’s family who had gathered in the lounge.  After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, I wheeled my stretcher into the bathroom area.  There were three police officers and myself.  One of the police officers was wearing latex gloves and he appeared keen to help.  I could also tell by his demeanour he was new to the job.  However, despite his keenness, he didn’t help at all – he just hovered and watched.  Once most of the lifting was done, and the old dear wrapped in the stretcher, I noticed the toilet bowl was not clean.  The woman had soiled herself, and brown skid marks were evident on the toilet seat as well as the tiled floor where she had landed.  Because ‘Constable Keen’ was the only one wearing gloves, I suggested it might be nice for the family if he grabbed some toilet paper and cleaned the mess.  Once the realization of what I had asked him to do registered, the look on his face was priceless.  His keen and eager grin quickly dissipated.  The Constable immediately turned to his colleagues and remarked, “Urgh, I don’t have to do that do I?”  The cleaning remark was something I had said in jest, and I was prepared to do it myself.  However, the more senior officers present agreed.  “Yeah, it would be nice for the family,” they replied.  I struggled to keep the smirk off my face as I wheeled the woman from the bathroom, followed by the two senior officers who were obviously struggling to do the same.  As we did, Constable Keen became Constable Clean.  

Speaking of new officers and the brown stuff, I am reminded of a story I heard from a police officer once at the Auckland Mortuary.  He told me how one night they had received a body, and were cutting the clothing off the male who had been killed in a motor accident.  A new police recruit had joined them for the evening and was keen to muck in. Consequently, after an initial bit of guidance, the experienced officers left the newbie to it.  Using scissors, the recruit cut away at the torn clothing and pulled on it to free it.  The victim was lying on his back on a steel tray and his body weight was lying on top of some of the garments.  The senior officers were standing near the recruit and were just chatting away to themselves.  All was going well, and the recruit had made good progress removing all clothing except for the underpants.  He quickly snipped at both sides of the underpants and placed the scissors down.  The recruit grabbed the Y front of the underpants and pulled at them in his direction.  The two senior officers stopped their conversation and quickly moved away and stood by the head of the victim.  The recruit stopped pulling at the underpants and asked, “What’s wrong?”  One of the experienced officers replied, “Nothing, carry on.”  So the recruit did just that, but he pulled even harder at the underpants which were trapped under the victim’s buttocks.  The senior officers were only too well aware that the recruit was about to learn by his mistake. Because of the laws of physics, and the force being used by the eager recruit, and the underpants flicked out from under the male, as did the matter resting within them.  I am told the recruit was pulling so hard, the matter flicked not only all over him, but up the walls and onto the mortuary ceiling. 

Throughout my years as a funeral director, I saw countless deceased persons at the coroner’s mortuary who had died from unnatural or violent deaths.  The cause of these deaths ranged from accidents to self inflicted injuries.  The wounds sustained by these persons could be horrific and it was at times distressing to see what some people had experienced.  On one occasion, I was saddened to see a teenage girl who had accidentally stepped into the path of a rotating aircraft propeller.  She had been a passenger on the small aircraft when she was hit in the face by the blade as she walked around the wing after landing.  Clean but deep striations across one side of her face made it look like she had been clawed by a ‘big cat.’ 

On another occasion I was delivering a body of an accident victim to the mortuary for the police when another funeral director arrived with his ‘police removal.’  The funeral director had the body of a male who had fallen from an apartment in the city.  Due to the height of the fall the landing would have killed the male, but what he landed on would have made his death even more painful.  This was because as he landed, he impaled himself on a wrought iron fence, the type that has pointed-barbs at the top of each rod.  The unfortunate soul was skewered by no less than four of these rods, which entered his feet or shins and punctured their way through his body exiting either through his chest or neck.  The assistance of fire brigade was needed to cut the unfortunate male from the fence.

On another occasion I saw a male who had died from hanging, which I had seen countless times before, but on this occasion the method was somewhat different.  The male had tied a long rope around his neck, and the other end he had tied around a tree.  The male then jumped off a cliff.  The weight of his body, and the subsequent fall turned his elongated neck into what looked like a character I had seen in an 80’s movie, ‘Beetlejuice.’  The noose around the male’s neck had constricted to a circle which was only about 6 centimeters in diameter, which I guess was just enough to cover the vertebrae.  The actions of this male reminded me of an article I had read several years earlier in the ‘Sydney Morning Herald.’  On that occasion a male had tied the rope around his neck and the other end around a tree, but instead of jumping off a cliff, he got into his car and drove away at ‘break-neck’ speed.  What a violent way to die! 

Occasionally, I was present at the mortuary when there were bodies belonging to high profile murder victims.  Victims murdered by persons known or unknown as they had simply gone about their daily lives.  At times it seemed almost surreal seeing the actual body of high a profile case that was being discussed daily on all the news bulletins.  I can remember, early in my career looking at the body of a male who had been shot dead at his place of work during a robbery.  At the time there was a huge police investigation going on as to what had happened and who was responsible.  I can remember looking into the murdered victim’s eyes, wondering what he had seen, and I can remember thinking, ‘if only those eyes could talk.’  Seeing the body of a person who has been murdered seems even more mystifying in my opinion.  The whole ‘whodunit’ aspect, coupled with the hope the perpetrators will be found added to the uneasy feeling I got when I saw these innocent victims.   Unfortunately, justice has not yet been done for the man I have just mentioned.  His death still remains one of New Zealand’s unsolved murder cases.   

On one occasion in my career, I was dispatched at the request of the police to uplift the remains of a man who himself had been murdered, the victim of an unknown assailant’s gun.  I arrived at the rural property and reversed my removal wagon into the gravel driveway.  As usual, the news media were camped outside the address on the roadway, and the bored reporters and cameramen quickly scrambled to attention when my vehicle arrived.  Filming from a distance, the television cameras followed my every move.

I spoke to the detectives present at the scene.  The farmhouse had been the subject of a home invasion, and a male at the address had been shot twice, once in the chest, once in the abdomen, and he had died of his wounds.  I was also advised that from preliminary enquiries, the shooting was possibly drug related.  The murder victim, who was lying in the lounge room of the address, was lifted into my stretcher and wheeled to my car.  With a detective riding with me, I drove the victim to the Auckland mortuary.  At the mortuary, we lifted the male onto the steel examination tray in preparation for his post mortem.  Once again, I found myself looking at the man’s face, wondering what had happened, what had he seen?  The two obvious holes in his body were a stark reminder of the seriousness of the situation.  However, unlike the body of the male seen earlier in my career, the perpetrators of this case were caught and were held accountable for their actions.

Jewellery can be a little bit problematic for funeral directors at times, especially rings.  Sometimes, certain family members want the rings left on the deceased while other family members want them removed.  Some families will query the whereabouts of a ring or rings when you least expect it, making you second guess whether the person was wearing one or not when they were originally uplifted.  Rings are very precious keepsakes for some people, and understandably emotions can run high when a ring appears to be missing.  Thankfully, there are some safeguards implemented to help protect funeral directors against any allegations of theft.  The main one of these safeguards is when a person dies at hospital, any rings or jewellery they were wearing is recorded on a form the funeral director signs when uplifting the deceased.  The funeral director will check the form for jewellery, and will then check the hands of the deceased to confirm the number of rings present with the hospital orderly.  If there is no jewellery, the funeral director will note that, and if there is any dispute with the family the onus is on the hospital to prove where the rings went.  However, this safeguard only works when a funeral director actually checks the hands, rather than just signing the form.  There have been instances when I have gone to sign for rings, but a check of the hand reveals no rings or vice versa, rings present when the form states no jewellery.

At our firm, we also had a jewellery book in our own mortuary in which we recorded every arrival and whether the deceased had jewellery or not and if so, how much.  It was up to the funeral director who brought the deceased into the mortuary to complete the entry, and record it correctly.  Unfortunately this system, like any system, only worked well if the entry was made.  A majority of times most deceased were not wearing jewellery, so some of our funeral directors got slack and didn’t always make the entries. 

On one occasion, I got tripped up by the slack entry of one of our directors.  A middle aged man was viewing his deceased mother one last time about an hour prior to her funeral.  My colleague Rick was the funeral director on this occasion, but I found myself answering a request from the relative as he exited the viewing room.  He asked me, “My mum had five rings on her fingers, I told Rick I would like these returned, do you have them?”  I replied, “I am not sure, I’ll have a look on the funeral arrangement sheet.”  This was because, any rings that are to be returned are removed from the deceased at the time of dressing and are placed in an envelope for the family to collect.  This envelope is then attached to the arrangement sheet.  I went to the office and checked the arrangement sheet.  There was no envelope, but there was a note in the jewellery area confirming that if there were any rings they needed to be returned.  I went back to the woman’s son and told him there were no rings on the arrangement sheet.  The male then added, “It is okay, they might be at the hospital with her property.”  I then informed the male I would check our jewellery book to see if she was wearing them when she came in.  I went to our jewellery book, hoping the woman’s arrival had been recorded.  Her name was in our jewellery book, I could tell by the hand writing it was Rick himself who had uplifted the woman.  Next to her name he had recorded ‘No jewellery.’  Unbeknown to me at the time, this entry was incorrectly recorded.  Rick had absentmindedly written ‘no jewellery’ when this was not the case.  I subsequently went back to the male and informed him that his mum was not wearing jewellery when she arrived at our establishment and he would need to contact the hospital.  He was happy enough with this and told me he had finished viewing his mum, and could I now close her casket.  I dutifully obliged and closed the woman’s casket in the presence of her son.  Later that afternoon, under Rick’s guidance her funeral went ahead and she was cremated – along with the five rings still on her fingers!

A couple of days later the male rang Richard, the funeral home proprietor enquiring the whereabouts of his mother’s rings.  The hospital had confirmed the funeral director who had uplifted his mum had signed for five rings.  Richard obtained a copy of the signed receipt, and yes, Rick had signed for five rings.  Because of the likelihood these rings had been cremated and the possible fallout due to the company’s ineptitude, Richard was furious.  Rick and I were questioned at length about what had happened.  I told my story as I have just recounted, and Rick told his about how he must have written ‘no jewellery’ in error.  I might add at this point, Rick is very honest and is a church going man, so theft wasn’t even considered.  I was quizzed by Richard as to why I didn’t check the woman’s hands.  I honestly felt I had no need to.  I thought the male had checked himself while he was in with his mother and he noticed they were not present, that is why he asked for them.  Secondly, I had no reason to check because the jewellery book stated there was none.  Despite this, it was deemed that I was largely responsible!  I wasn’t too happy about that and personally felt that Rick was more culpable than I. 

Thankfully, the incident turned out okay.  The son was a firm believer that things happen for a reason.  When Richard explained to him what had happened, the son was relatively happy and said, “I guess it was meant to be, mum obviously wanted to keep her rings.”  This saved the company a great deal of expense or bad publicity if the male wanted to take it further.  I was still aggrieved that I was involved in the unfortunate incident at all, as I was merely walking past at the time. 

However, nothing is foolproof where dishonesty is concerned.  In 1998 when my Nana passed away, I was her funeral director.  I went to the hospital and uplifted her body.  I signed the release papers and noted she was wearing two rings.  Unbeknown to me, she should have been wearing three.  I later found out it was her engagement ring that was missing.  It was not a case of the ring simply falling off her finger either.  She always wore her engagement ring between the other two rings on her ring finger.  Someone at the hospital had obviously removed the outer ring, a plain gold band, to get to her engagement ring.  Once the engagement ring was removed, the plain gold band was slyly returned.  This sneaky and sickening theft could have happened before her passing while she slept, or after her death.  Either way, the culprit was never caught, and it got me wondering how many other families had fallen victim to the dishonesty of what was obviously a hospital employee?  I guess some people live by the motto that the world owes them.  Theft is a crime that I hate; it is deceitful, cowardly and downright rude.

Chapter Five:

Questions and Answers

Part One

As I mentioned in the Introduction of this book, many people have questions about what happens in the funeral industry.  People are naturally curious about what happens after a person dies.  Funeral directors will often answer a myriad of questions from family members and loved ones during the arrangement process.  Throughout the next two chapters I will answer, to the best of my ability, some of the more common questions I was asked as a funeral director and those I have been asked since publishing my last book.  I do not claim to know everything and the answers to these questions are my understandings and explanations only.  I have tried not to use too much technical wording and I have answered most questions in layman’s terms.  I am sure you will find the following pages interesting.  You may even satisfy some of the questions that you have always been dying to ask, but were too afraid to.

Q.  Do you have to have a funeral?

A.  No you do not.  Some people prefer not to have a funeral at all.  The reasons for this will vary.  Some people do not believe in the afterlife and they live by the philosophy of, ‘when you die, that is it.’  Some people have no funeral for practical reasons, such as to save money.  Whereas other people are private and they do not want all of the fanfare associated with having a funeral.  Some families may have a private memorial service afterwards, either with just the photo of the deceased person or the cremated remains maybe present.  There is no law that states you must have a funeral.  However, there is a legal requirement for your death to be registered and for your body to be disposed of by approved means (typically burial or cremation).  Where this disposal takes place, is recorded on the official death certificate.

Q.  If you don’t have a funeral is it cheaper?

A.  Yes, it is cheaper, though how much cheaper will vary from firm to firm.  The main reason it is cheaper is because there is less time involved.  Obviously there is no funeral service, often there are no viewings, no flowers, some firms will offer no embalming, and often a cheaper casket such as a cardboard casket can be used to keep costs lower.

Q.  What happens if someone dies penniless? 

A. ‘Work and Income New Zealand’ do have a funeral grant that can be applied for.  It is asset tested, but if a person has nothing, they will possibly be granted the maximum which is $1925.34 (as of April 2011). Obviously, this figure will fall short of the funeral expenses, despite what arrangements were made.  The remainder of any funeral costs will usually fall onto the family members making the arrangements or someone who will be taking responsibility for the bill.  If there is no one, then the person is usually cremated as a ‘pauper’ without a funeral.

Q.  What information do I need to supply the funeral director to register a person’s death?

A.  On the official death certificate there is certain information that will be recorded by the funeral director, who will supply it to the government department of Birth, Deaths and Marriages.  All the information supplied will show on the death certificate.  This information is the deceased person’s full name, birth name, date of birth, and place of birth.  The funeral director will also need deceased parents’ including maiden name and occupations.  This is exactly the same as the birth certificate recordings, and if you have a birth certificate for the deceased all this information will be on there.  In addition to those details, they will require marriage details of the deceased, who they married, their age at marriage and place of marriage.  This is required for every marriage, so if there were three marriages, then three lots of information will be required.  Also recorded on the death certificate is the age of all living children of the deceased.

Naturally, the death certificate will also contain the date and place of death, along with medical reasons for the person’s death and where they were buried or cremated.

Q.  Isn’t the death certificate the doctor signs the official death certificate?

A.  No.  The certificate the doctor completes is a ‘medical certificate of death,’ that outlines the medical reasons for a person’s passing.  This certificate is sent to Birth, Deaths and Marriages along with all the family details obtained from the funeral director.  It will also include the date and place of burial or cremation of the earthly remains.  All of this information will be copied onto the official death certificate. 

Q.  On my dad’s death certificate the cause of death says ‘subject to coroner’s finding.’  Why is no reason for his death recorded?

A.  Despite the coroner establishing a ‘most likely’ cause of death at the post mortem, based on visual diagnosis and circumstances, toxicology results taken from bodily samples during the post mortem can take up to eight weeks.  However, people usually require a death certificate prior to this.  Obviously death certificates are required for legal reasons, to claim insurance, settle estates and close bank accounts etc.  Consequently, they are required quickly so that these matters can be attended to in a timely matter.  A death certificate will be issued by Birth, Deaths and Marriages about a week to ten days after the funeral.  If the death is the subject of a coroner’s investigation or inquest the cause of death will show ‘subject to coroner’s finding’ so the death certificate can be issued promptly.  Once the finding or inquest has been completed, you can have the death certificate altered to show the finding if you wish, though the death certificate is still perfectly legal left as it is. 

Q.  Why are funerals so expensive?

A.  This is a tricky question.  Not everyone thinks funerals are expensive, considering the work funeral directors do.  Besides, a lot of the costs on the funeral directors bill will be costs they are merely passing on, such as crematorium or cemetery fees, stone mason fees, newspaper notices, celebrant and organist fees, floristry fees, doctor’s fees, medical referee’s fees, casket fees, and catering services.  Obviously there is a mark up on the casket and some firms may add a small surcharge to the other items because they have had to pay the other agencies, but a majority do not.  The main costs funeral firms will charge for is hearse hire, embalming and ‘professional services.’ The hearse hire and embalming is self explanatory.  The professional services however, can range from $1500 to $3000 or more.  A majority of professional services is ‘time’ as well as recuperating costs associated with running the firm, such as power, rates, phones, buildings, and general upkeep.  However, time is the big thing.  Most people do not realise there is on average 20 hours of time associated to each deceased person.  That is, meeting with the family, arranging the funeral, picking up the deceased, obtaining a death certificate, preparing the deceased, arranging a celebrant or organist, phoning through paper notices, being available for viewings, fielding phone call enquiries, preparing service sheets, conducting the funeral itself as well as driving to or from the crematorium or cemetery.  After the funeral there is still time associated with, cleaning, either the funeral home or hearse, vacuuming, registering the death with birth deaths and marriages, accounting, uplifting ashes etc.  However, my one piece of advice is this – shop around.  Funeral homes are no different from any other business.  Ring for a quote if you are in a city or town that has more than one funeral director.  Sometimes the savings can be in the thousands.  Make sure you do the ringing around before you engage a funeral director.  When I was a funeral director people would sometimes ring for a quote after they had gone through another firm, and they were ringing around to see if their billing was right.  Obviously they had concerns because of the price.  On one occasion, before I knew what the enquirer’s bill was, I quoted the caller $4,800 covering off everything on her bill.  She was absolutely gobsmacked.  This was because her bill with another firm was $10,400! 

Q.  Are children’s funerals cheaper?

A.  Usually, yes.  This is despite the time involved being the same as an adult, (sometimes actually more).  However, a lot of funeral firms are compassionate and will lessen their professional services fee for children or babies.  Cremation, burial and casket fees are usually less too.  In saying this, once again, ring around firms and compare.

Q.  Can you pre-pay your funeral?

A.  Yes, many funeral firms offer this facility.  You will sit down with a funeral director and basically ‘arrange your funeral’ and the costs will be worked out in ‘today’s prices.’  You then pay the funeral cost, which the funeral director will place in a trust account.  The purpose of a trust account is to keep your money safe should the funeral home go into receivership.  Over time, the interest your money accrues should offset any price rises associated with your choices over the coming years.  Some people will elect to place up to $10,000 aside for their funeral, which is often more than what is required.  However, Work and Income allow this maximum which is not included in asset testing for benefits.  Aside from funeral directors, there are various insurance companies that also offer funeral insurance or funeral plans. 

Q. What does the deceased person get dressed in?

A.  More often than not family will provide clothing for their loved one to be dressed in.  This clothing can range from a formal suit, through to casual wear, and in many cases simply pyjamas.  What clothing the family gives the funeral director, is the clothing they will dress their loved one in.  Once I even dressed a man in a female nurse outfit – it was his wish.  If no clothing is provided, the funeral director will arrange for the person to be dressed in a shroud.  However, it makes it more personal if the deceased’s own clothing is supplied, and this includes underwear.  Many people forget the underwear side of things, so bring it in.  After all, Nana wouldn’t normally ‘go commando’ so why should she in death?

Q.  Are clothes that family provide just cut up the back and draped on?

A.  In short, no.  All clothing provided, will be placed on the deceased person in the correct manner.  This includes bras, slips, underwear, stockings etc. There is an art to dressing lifeless limbs, but once you know the technique, it isn’t that hard.  The only time I have ever had to get scissors to clothing is on occasions when a ‘large’ man is wearing a suit and tie.  Often family members will underestimate the neck size of the shirt.  Besides, when lying down the neck becomes fatter than when standing upright.  On these occasions a discrete cut in the back of the collar of the shirt will assist in doing up the button in the front.

Q.  Can family members dress their loved ones?

A. Yes, this can be arranged.  Actually it is very common amongst Maori and Pacific Island cultures.  If required, the funeral director will assist family members doing this task after the person has been embalmed.  As I have previously mentioned, there is an art to clothing lifeless limbs.  Having a funeral director present who can help in this area and offer advice certainly alleviates the stresses sometimes involved.  If you do not want to dress your loved one, you can certainly assist with make-up or ‘getting their hair right’ once they have been dressed.

Q.  When funeral directors uplift loved ones they often ask the family to leave the room.  Why is this?  Does it mean they are going to be rough or uncaring?

A.  No, not at all.  The reason is that sometimes it is upsetting for family members to see their loved one being placed onto a stretcher, or the lifeless body being manoeuvred around by the funeral directors.  Also, sometimes there are unpleasant odours or discharges that can happen at the time of moving a deceased person.  The funeral director is merely trying to lessen the grief process by not having family witness any unpleasantness.  If you want to stay while your loved one is being moved, by all means you can.  However, I would usually inform people of what may happen.  Most had not considered what may happen and usually they will accept this and leave.  However, some have stayed and witnessed the removal, and have later regretted it, quickly leaving the room, especially if there are odours or discharges.

Q.  Do bodies groan, fart, poop or sit up?

A.  I am not too sure what the fascination is with this question, but it is asked a lot, especially from those cheeky enough to ask. Well, here is the answer.  Groan or gurgle – sometimes.  Fart, not really.  Poop – sometimes.  Sit up – never!  If there are any groans or gurgling sounds they are usually only made when a person is being moved, and the cause of this is the expelling of air or gaseous exchanges brought on by gastric juices fermenting in the stomach cavity.  Sometimes, this fermentation process can cause a brown coloured discharge to travel up the oesophagus and exit through the mouth or nose, more commonly referred to in the industry as ‘purge.’ Some deceased persons may ‘go to the toilet’ once they die or are moved, but not always.  This usually only occurs if the person was ‘ready to go’ prior to their departure, and as a result muscles that were previously holding on – relax.   As far as sitting up is concerned, I have never seen a deceased person sit up nor have I had any colleagues report it.  It is something horror movies would have us believe.  The only time a person may rise slightly is during the cremation process, and that is only because some muscles may constrict due to the heat, but any rising would only measure an inch or two.

Q.  Do the handles on the casket get taken off before a cremation?

A.  No.  Many, many years ago, handles were made of metal and they were removed prior to a cremation.  This was because they did not burn and they only contributed to black smoke, which is not visually appealing coming from a crematorium flue.  Most handles these days are plastic with either a silver or gold looking finish.  They merely melt during the cremation process, as do all of the fixtures and fittings on a casket.  However, if you specifically want metal handles for a burial they can still be supplied.

Q.  Are the flowers cremated with the casket?

A.  Yes.  Most of the time flowers are cremated these days.  Years ago they weren’t.  This was because the greenery and oasis block the flowers are wedged into created black smoke.  Once again, smoke coming from the crematorium flue was not visually appealing.  However, these days most modern cremators have a second chamber in which smoke goes into first and it is burnt off before travelling up the flue.  Excess greenery or the oasis block maybe still removed at some crematoriums, but not the actual flowers. 

Years ago, I was made aware of the actions of an organist we regularly used.  After a funeral, she would sometimes follow the hearse to the crematorium to help herself to flowers that were not being cremated.  She had obviously ‘eyed up’ the flowers while playing at the service.  I was disgusted by this practise of hers when I found out.  Consequently, she was crossed off my list of organists and she never got any more work from me.

Q.  What happens to all the floral tributes at a funeral?

A.  That is up to the family.  Often, in the case of a burial they will remain at the graveside.  The funeral director will remove all the cards from the flowers and give them to the family.  The family may take some tributes home.  If the person is being cremated, once again it is the family choice.  Some families will take flowers home or will have them donated.  I can recall on numerous occasions taking flowers to a hospital or rest home at the request of the family for others to enjoy.

Q.  How long does it take to cremate someone and does anyone watch the process?

A.  The cremation process will vary, depending on the size of the person.  On average it will take about two hours.  Sometimes it will be a little less, sometimes, a lot more.  No one will watch the entire cremation process.  The novelty of such a thing – if you can call it that, would soon wear off.  However, the person being cremated is checked upon several times throughout the process by the crematorium worker. 

Q.  What temperature are people cremated at?

A.  Most cremators need to pre-heat to around 650 degrees prior to putting the casket in.  During the cremation process the temperature will rise and can reach temperatures between 900 and 1200 degrees depending on the size of the person.

Q.  Why did the funeral director ask if Dad had a pacemaker?

A.  If a person is being cremated, the pacemaker needs to be removed.  This is because during the cremation process they can explode, which can damage the inside of the furnace.  Of note, I recall reading in the New Zealand Herald once that a crematorium worker was killed in France by an exploding pacemaker.  The worker was sitting beside the furnace eating his lunch when an exploding pacemaker dislodged a brick in the furnace wall.  The brick flew out and struck the hapless worker in the side of his head, killing him instantly. 

Q.  Are the ashes you get back from your loved one theirs, or a bit of everyone who was cremated that day?

A.  Yes, the ashes you receive are just from your loved one.  All crematoriums have a policy of full ash recovery after each cremation.  I have seen hundreds of cremations take place over the years at various crematoriums and it is always the same.  Once the cremation is completed, the glowing embers are raked from the floor of the furnace and placed into their own receptacle to cool.  Once the embers have cooled sufficiently, screws and nails are removed with a magnet and bone fragments are placed in a device called a Cremulator.  The Cremulator grinds the cremated remains into a fine powder or dust, commonly referred to as ash.  All of the ash pertaining to that person is then placed into a personalised box or urn, which is returned to the funeral director.

Q.  Do you have to get cremated in a coffin?  Dad always says he wants to go in a sack.

A.  Yes, you do need to be cremated in a coffin, though it does not have to be wooden.  It can be cardboard and many firms offer this as an option.  However, the cardboard casket it is not solely cardboard.  It will be reinforced with a wooden or particle board base and sides which prevent sagging.  The vessel the person is going to be cremated in needs to be firm as it is pushed or ‘charged’ into a cremator.  The cremator is extremely hot and the coffin needs to go in quickly.  Obviously if the person was just in a sack or body bag it would prevent this smooth process, the heat and fire causing a real danger to the crematorium staff. 

Q.  My Uncle is a handyman and wants to make his own coffin.  Can he do this?

A.  Generally, this will not be a problem.  On occasions I dealt with families who had a family member who made their own coffin.  As long as it is sturdy enough and the base within in it is secure.  However, if you have any concerns, I suggest you check with your local funeral firm.

Q.  We never picked up Grandad’s ashes.  Will they still be at the funeral home?

A.  If they were not returned to a family member or instructions were not given to scatter them, then yes, this is a possibility.  Obviously, I cannot speak for all firms, but many firms will hold onto ashes for a long time.  The firm I worked for had some unclaimed ashes dating back 50 years or more.  Despite this, some firms will arrange for unclaimed ashes to be scattered on the rose gardens at the local cemetery after a period of time if they have not been collected.  However, all I can suggest is if you think a loved one’s ashes are still unclaimed, ring the funeral firm concerned and check. 

Q.  Can you get family plots for ashes?

A.  Yes, most cemeteries will offer a family burial plot for numerous ash interments.  Some plots can house up to 12 or 16 interments.  Often these ashes will be placed around a tree as well, and there is a facility to have a plaque for each interment.  Some families like this concept as it is a bit like a family tree.  Check with your local cemetery as to what they offer.

Q.  Are there laws about where you can scatter ashes?

A.  No, there are no laws that I am aware of which directs you as to where ashes can or cannot be scattered.  Often people will scatter ashes in areas where there person had an interest, such as a beach, garden or sports ground.  Obviously, permission should be sought though for public rose gardens or cultural areas etc.  If you are in a public area though, I would suggest you exercise discretion to avoid upsetting anyone who may not approve.

Q.  Can you take ashes out of the country?

A.  Yes, cremated remains can be taken overseas.  However, let your funeral director know and he will arrange a special certificate from the crematorium which you will need for Customs.  That way, hopefully, Customs staff won’t be too suspicious of what is in the container and they won’t go digging around in Granny’s ashes too much. 

Q.  How many people die in New Zealand every year?

A.  I am led to believe the death rate in New Zealand is about 7 out of every 1000 people.  So based on our current population, this equates to somewhere between 29,000 and 30,000 people dying every year in New Zealand.

Chapter Six:

Questions and Answers

Part Two

Q.  If Rigor-Mortis has set in, how do you move the body?

A.  Rigor-Mortis, (Latin – meaning ‘stiffness of death’) is a condition caused by a chemical change in the muscles of a deceased person which cause them to contort or stiffen. This process can appear after a few hours reaching maximum stiffness after a day.  If we pick up a person who is experiencing Rigor-Mortis it is quite easy to deal with.  It is mostly evident in outer limbs such as the arms or legs.  Muscles in these extremities have only seized, and a bit of gentle limbering up will soon move them again.  Obviously these muscle groups are used to moving, so repeated bending of the elbow for example, will soon make it moveable again.

Q.  What actually happens during embalming?

A.  Well, this is actually an involved process which would take several pages to answer.  However, in basic layman terms, the following happens.  In incision is usually made in the neck, near the Carotid Artery.  This artery is cut and embalming fluid is pumped into the artery through the body replacing the body’s blood.  The embalming fluid is a formaldehyde based solution, a preservative which slows down the decomposition process.  The blood is replaced because it is one of the first things to ‘go off’ in a body.  After the blood has been replaced, a ‘cavity treatment’ is done in the stomach area.  An incision is made just above the naval and a device called a trocar is inserted.  This device is pushed through the stomach lining and internal organs and it will aspirate the contents.  The reason for this is because the stomach area is another are that can ‘go off’ rather quickly if untreated.   This is due to fermentation of gastric juices and bodily waste which can cause swelling.  Once this has been done, the trocar device will be used to fill the cavities with a formaldehyde solution preserving the stomach area. 

Q.  How long does embalming take and how long will it last?

A.  The first part of the question is easier than the second.  Embalming a body that has not gone through a post mortem will vary from 2 to 3 hours.  A body that has been subjected to a post mortem will take longer as internal organs and arteries are no longer connected inside, and individual areas of the body have to be embalmed.  The process can take anywhere from 3 to 5 hours.

With regards to how long it will last, that is a lot more technical.  Embalming does not stop what a deceased body wants to do naturally, that is to decay.  Embalming merely slows this process down.  How long a person will last will depend on environmental conditions and how good the embalmer is.  Humidity and summer heat will naturally speed up the decaying process compared to cold winter days, even on an embalmed body.  Ideally, the person should be fine at least until their funeral, though it is not guaranteed.  It is tricky to understand what chemical reactions are taking place under the skin.  How long the body will last in the ground will vary.  This will depend on the grave location, for example a grave at the bottom of a gully will be wetter than one on the top of the hill.  In reality, decomposition will eventually occur to all embalmed bodies. 

Q.  Do I need to be embalmed?

A.  Not necessarily.  If it is only going to be a day or two until your funeral, it is not always needed.  This is especially so if no one is going to be viewing your remains.  However, if you are going to be lying in state at home or at a Marae, or it will be several days until your funeral, then yes, embalming is needed.  You will need to check with your funeral home though; some firms have a policy of embalming everyone regardless.

Q.  What if I wanted to be buried in an ‘Eco’ grave, do I still get embalmed?

A.  Technically no.  There are certain restrictions associated with Eco burials.  Basically, what is interred into the ground needs to be as natural as possible. Some of these restrictions include no embalming or chemicals within the deceased person.  This also applies to the casket.  Natural biodegradable materials need to be used, which means there is to be no glue, nails, screws, polish etc.  However, if you want people to view you after your death, then for sanitary reasons you should be embalmed, which may mean you may have to reconsider your eco choice.

Q.  How are the mouth and eyes closed on a deceased person?

A.  The eyelids have little plastic caps fitted under them.  The caps have little ridges or hooks that keep the inside of the eyelid closed.  As for mouths, some will stay shut naturally, however the majority will have to be assisted into staying closed by the embalmer. This is done by placing a needle and string into the skin under the jaw.  The needle is then tracked into the mouth under the tongue and up into the roof of the mouth, over the teeth and back down again.  The other end of the string is also needled into the mouth via the same entry hole.  The string is tightened pulling the jaw together, then it is tied off inside the mouth.  This does not sound pleasant, but it is necessary to keep the mouth shut and to avoid any offensive odours exiting the mouth when viewing.  

Q.  Are there cases where you cannot view the body?

A.  Most definitely.  The obvious examples are where a person has been killed by fire, a suicide by shotgun to the facial area or decomposed bodies that have lay undiscovered for weeks or months.  Some road accident victims are not viewable either if their face or head had sustained massive trauma.  Unlike the movies would have us believe, embalmers cannot perform miracles.  You have to remember, in the movies, deceased people are played by living actors – of course they are going to look fine.  Face reconstruction is a time consuming, costly and at times unattainable.  Even if it is done, be aware, the person will still look remarkably different. In reality, there are often times where the person cannot be viewed, and it is best to remember them, and visualise them as they were when they were living.

Once, we handled funeral arrangements for a young woman who was scalped in an accident – her long hair was literally ripped from her skull.  No amount of cosmetic reconstruction would have fixed that.  However, her family desperately wanted to spend time with her.  Consequently, she was embalmed but her head was extensively bandaged.  It was not ideal, but it allowed her parents time with their daughter and to stroke her hands, which is what they wanted. 

Q.  Why do embalmers take the character out of a person’s face?

A.  Hmmm, this is not intentional, and it does not always happen.  However, you need to remember, when a person was living their facial muscles held various expressions in place.  When a person dies, certain muscles in the body relax, and this can include facial muscles.  As a result of this relaxing it may appear their character has gone, or as some people suggest ‘they look sad.’ Another reason they may look different, is because the majority of the time you saw the person they were standing upright.  When viewing, the deceased person is lying down which in some cases can cause facial tissue and skin to droop slightly.  Lying down can also give the appearance of a double chin.

Q.  Should I view the person or remember them as they were?

A.  This is totally a matter of preference, and there is no right or wrong answer.  It is something you need to decide for yourself.  Everyone’s expectations will differ. Some people need to see the deceased person, to say their final goodbyes.  Some people who view are very happy they did, others can be disappointed.  Some that choose to remember the person as they last saw them and don’t view their loved one, are happy with their decision, some later regret it.  It really boils down to what you want to do and what you are comfortable with at the time.  My advice is this; do what you feel most comfortable with at the time; do not allow yourself to be forced into doing anything you don’t want to do.

Q.  Do you break fingers to get the person’s rings off?

A.  Definitely not.  Realistically, a broken finger is going to be more of a hindrance. Usually we use either soap to lather up the finger to assist the sliding of the ring or we use string.  With string, it is tucked under the ring and is slowly wound around the finger numerous times while pulling on the ring.  This process allows the ring to slowly work its way down the finger and over the knuckle, which is the biggest hurdle.  In very rare or extreme cases, the ring may have to be cut, but this is always done upon consultation with the family beforehand.  Some families will prefer to leave the ring where it is.

Q.  Is taking the body home only reserved for Maori and Pacifica?

A.  Not at all.  Many European families are already aware of the benefits of having their loved ones at home.  It would be fair to say that, taking a loved one home is more common with Maori and Polynesian families.  However, it is personal preference, but there is certainly a shift in thinking from European families and many are taking advantage of this service.  I remember going to a house once to uplift a casket of a European person.  I spoke to the mother of the deceased and she said, ‘This has been great having our loved one at home, the Maori folk have had it right for so long.’

Q.  If we have a person brought home after they have passed, do they have to be in a coffin?

A.  Not at all.  Some families like the idea of having someone home, but they are not quite ready to have a casket in the house.  In this situation the person is embalmed and when they are returned home they are placed in bed or on the bed.  Once again, this is personal preference, and it is mostly European families that do this.  Many feel more comfortable with this arrangement because it is more natural – like the person is sleeping.  Friends and family can still come and visit, sit on the bed and spend time with their loved one.

Q.  Emotionally, how do you deal with tragic or accidental deaths?

A.  Obviously I am only speaking from my own experience here.  Personally, I tried not to reflect too much on the circumstances or that of the family.  I certainly wasn’t uncaring, but I had a professional job to do, and the family concerned relied on me to be professional about it – not a blubbering mess.  Emotionally, I would distance myself from their grief while still being sympathetic.  There were times when I could feel a lump swelling within my throat or a tear forming, but I repressed these urges and carried on with the task at hand.  In reality, funeral directors have to distance themselves from the grief.  After all, the world is full of tragedy and sadness; we see it every night on the news.  Not getting too involved in a family’s grief certainly helped me to carry on and I am blessed with the ability to forget.

Q.  Emotionally, are children’s deaths the worst to deal with?

A.  Yes, most definitely.  No one likes to see a child suffer or die.  It is unnatural that these innocent and beautiful beings should suffer horrific injuries or painful illnesses. However, like the answer above, I would endeavour to distance myself from grief or allow myself to reflect too much on the case.  Being a father myself obviously makes things worse as you can relate to a parent’s grief.  However, it was a case of rising above the heartache and being a pillar of strength for the family concerned.   

Q.  I couldn’t put a death notice in the paper until the funeral director had, why is that?

A.  Usually the paper will wait to place the main notice, or phone the funeral director to confirm that they are handling the funeral arrangements for that person.  The reason being is they need to confirm the person concerned has actually died.  It is an exercise to cover themselves from unscrupulous persons who see it as a ‘joke’ to put in fake notice for someone they wanted to ‘get at’ or disliked.  It may seem a little callous that someone would want to do that, but it has happened in the past.  Consequently, papers will err on the side of caution until the death has been verified.

Q.  Professional Mourners – are they easy to catch?

A.  Firstly, I will explain what constitutes a professional mourner for those of you who may not know.  This is a term coined to describe people who are unknown to the deceased, but will attend funerals, merely to partake in the ‘free’ reception refreshments after the service.

Personally, I expect professional mourners are harder to spot in big cities than rural towns and areas where everyone knows everybody.  It is possible that I have had professional mourners at funerals I have conducted, but who knows?   Sometimes they will be easy to spot as they don’t tend to mingle with the other guests so much.  However, I suggest if you think you spot someone at a funeral who you suspect, approach them, and start a conversation.  You will soon know if they knew the person or not – however, if they did know the person, you might find yourself a new friend.

Q.  I want to leave my body to science.  Can I do that?

A.  Yes, though this needs to be arranged before your death.  The Auckland School of Medicine and the Otago School of Medicine are the only two hospitals that deal with bodies left to science.  Sometimes, there are instances where the medical school may have an abundance of donations and the cadaver will not be accepted.  Exceptions to this are when the person has passed away from a rare disease which the medical school wants to explore more thoroughly. Usually, if you are donating your body to science, no funeral will be held.  The funeral director will uplift your body from the place of passing and liaise with the medical school concerned and will arrange delivery as soon as possible. 

Of note, your remains will not be returned to your family after the examinations are complete, which could be several months or years.  From my understanding, all bodily remains are cremated and the ashes are scattered on rose gardens or consecrated ground.  Often the medical schools hold a memorial service once a year, honouring those who have donated their bodies to science.

Q.  Can my organs be donated after death?

A.  Only some organs can be donated after death, these are usually skin or corneas.  Organs such as heart, lungs, kidneys etc. need to be transplanted to the recipient as soon as possible, so your passing will need to take place in a hospital – not the roadside.  Even if you are registered as an organ donor and you die away from hospital, your vital organs cannot be transplanted – not many donors know this.

Q.  When carrying a coffin, does it go head first or feet first?

A.  More often than not it is feet first.  I guess the reason for this is because it stems from life; we follow our feet which lead us to where we are going.  Nurses at hospital will wheel patients’ feet first.  Also, when a person is flowing down a rapid river, they go feet first so they don’t bang their head.  Similarly, it is respectful in death to carry a person feet first.  You go feet first so if the casket is banged, it is not the head that receives the knock.  A casket is always placed into a hearse feet first.

Of note, when the casket is facing an altar or cross at a church or on a bier at a funeral chapel, the head is closest to the congregation and the feet are at the altar end.  The reason for this is to also mirror life, whereby a person would face the altar.  If the casket is being carried from the church afterwards, the funeral director will come and turn the casket at the conclusion of the service so it may travel feet first.  

Q.  How is a body added to an existing grave?

A.  When the grave is first used, family have the option of having it dug ‘single’ or ‘double’ depth.  If it is double depth, the grave will be dug to a depth of approximately 12 feet deep, for the first interment.  When the next interment is due to take place the same grave will be dug down to a depth of about 6 feet (hence the term six feet under).  The existing casket at the deeper depth will not be disturbed.  Single depth graves are only used once, and the deceased will be buried between 6 to 8 feet deep. Of note, years ago you could get ‘triple’ depth, so some graves may still have allowances for two more interments above if only one burial has taken place.

Q.  Can ashes be added to an existing burial plot?

A.  Yes, most definitely.  These will usually be interred by the cemetery staff under the headstone area.  There will be a small interment fee for this.  Some people try and save money by doing it themselves.  However this is not recommended because the cemetery will not have a record of the person’s remains being buried there.  Ultimately, this creates problems of inaccurate interment records for the cemetery.  It also creates headaches for future generations of the family wondering what happened to the remains or for those researching genealogy.  

Q.  Dad often jokes he wants to be buried in the back yard.  Can we bury him on the property?

A.  Technically no.  If you are to be buried, and you die within or are to be buried within 32 kilometres of a public cemetery, then by law, you must be buried there.  However, if there is no cemetery within this distance, you can make a consent application to be buried on your property.  The consent process is complicated and takes time.  The consent process is done through the Ministry of Health and your local District Council to assess whether the land is suitable and safe for burial. 

Q.  Why do you wear your suit to fatal road crashes or messy removals?

A.  This was a question often directed to me by police officers.  They obviously thought the attire was not overly practical considering the extent of blood and injuries which some victims of road crashes sustained.  The reason I and my colleagues wear a suit is because the public expects it of us.  After all, we are professionals and as such, will dress accordingly.  It also shows respect for the deceased, and members of the public could be watching or the media might be present.  It was very rare that I got any bodily fluids on my suit.  Basically, it all boiled down to being aware of what I was wearing, being careful and watching for any possible contamination.  However, at times I did feel a bit overdressed for the occasion at some police callouts.  An example of this was very early in my career when I attended a drowning at a beach.  I parked my removal wagon in the car park which was several hundred metres away from the shoreline.  I could see two police officers standing by a boat near a wharf.  I was unsure whether the body was with them or elsewhere, so rather than pulling my stretcher across the sand I thought I would check first.  Many people present at the beach would have been unaware of the tragedy.  Consequently, I must have looked strange walking along the beach in my suit, tie and dress shoes on that hot summer’s day.  Personally, I felt strange too as I walked and felt the curious gazes of beach dwellers relaxing in their bikinis and shorts.

Chapter Seven:

Grief and Children

Grief affects everyone in different ways.  Now I am not a grief counsellor, nor do I have any skilled knowledge in this area.  However, I have seen various forms of grief over the years.  I have seen the common traits such as tears, anger and disbelief, or the opposite end of the spectrum where people are impassive to the situation or they tell jokes.  Some people have asked me, ‘How should I grieve?’  In reality, there is no right or wrong way.  Obviously you cannot prepare for grief or plan to respond to it in a certain way.  We will all deal with grief in our own way when the time comes, and each person’s emotions will vary. 

It is widely thought there arecan be five to seven stages of grief.  Not everyone believes in these stages and I have heard some studies have been done refuting them.   However, the majority of people, accept the five most common which are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance.  It is thought some people will experience all of these stages in order, some will only experience a couple, whereas others may fluctuate between several, revisiting them numerous times.   As a funeral director, I saw most of these stages over the years.  I will briefly cover the five grief stages as I see them.

Denial is where someone will initially find it hard to accept the person has passed.  Often they will make comments like, ‘No, it can’t be true, I don’t believe you, or why me?’ Most people will carry this emotion for only a short period of time.  However, in some cases people can experience this emotion for several hours or days in extreme cases.  In reality, their brain doesn’t want to accept what has happened.  

Anger is an emotion that can affect people in different ways. Some will yell and scream, while others will literally punch walls or smash objects.  Some will also attribute blame for the death on someone else.  Anger is an emotion that can linger for a period of time, disappear and then return again at any time.

Bargaining is where people will often make promises or negotiations to the universe or God.  They will plead and bargain in exchange for a reformed lifestyle making statements such as, ‘Please don’t let it be them, I will donate money to charity,’ or ‘I will start going to church again.’

Depression is possibly the most common of these emotions and can affect people in many ways and can exist for short periods of time, through to several months or years.  It is not generally recommended that any attempt is made to cheer up any persons experiencing this stage.  However, keep a friendly eye on them.  Grief is important, and time will help the individual come to terms with their loss.  Sometimes, it will appear that a person is no longer depressed, but reminder celebrations such as anniversaries or birthdays can trigger the person’s depression again.  Often the depression will be minor, sadness, tears, wanting to be alone through to refraining from taking part in normal daily activities.  However, in some cases depression can become more sevre, causing the grieving person to contemplate taking their own life or in extreme cases succeeding with this desire.  Professional help will need to be sourced if chronic depression occurs.

Acceptance as the word depicts, is an acceptance of the situation or coming to terms with it.  However, acceptance rarely means instant happiness.  Like anything, this too will take time.  Despite this, a person may never return ‘back to their old self,’ but they will find a way to move forward and deal with life without their loved one. 

I will now detail a couple of instances where I witnessed the first two stages, denial and anger.  The denial incident was an extreme case and it happened when I went to a train fatality.  A middle aged woman had walked through a group of pedestrians standing at a railway pedestrian footpath.  All of the pedestrians were waiting for an approaching train to pass.  The woman did not look, and she stepped out through the group into the path of the train.  She was struck by the locomotive and killed instantly. Obviously this was a very stressful incident for those who witnessed the tragedy, but even more so for the woman’s family.  I arrived at the cordoned off scene, and I was directed by police to reverse my removal wagon up the train tracks to where the woman’s body had landed.  It was a bit of an unusual experience for me driving up train tracks rather than crossing them.  The wheels of my vehicle straddled the tracks and I reversed gingerly as the car bumped and bounced over railway sleepers and rocks.  After I uplifted the deceased woman, I was required by the police to return her to our funeral home so that her family could formally identify her.  Obviously identifying someone in the privacy of a funeral home is better than performing this task in a public place. At the funeral home, I presented the woman the best as I could in one of our viewing rooms.   Thankfully, her face was largely undamged, suffering only minor grazing from landing on the rocks situated beneath the railway tracks.  The family arrived and I dutifully showed them into the viewing room.  I was not prepared for the outpouring of grief.  There was so much yelling and screaming from all members of the woman’s family.  They were all in shock and definite denial.  The blood-curdling screams of ‘No, No’ mixed with shrieking and wailing lasted for nearly 40 minutes.  A victim support worker who was also present even confided in me and said, “What can I do, I have never experienced anything like this before?”  Unfortunately I was not much help either.  I had never experienced anything like it myself either.  It was simply a case of giving them time, and allowing the denial phase to dissipate.

An example of the anger emotion was one I witnessed when I attended a sudden death in an industrial area.  A mechanic had been working underneath a large truck which was held up by a jack.  Unfortunately, the jack collapsed causing the truck to fall on the hapless worker.  I was talking to police at the scene, when one of the mechanic’s sons arrived in his car.  This son had obviously heard through the grapevine what had happened.  The son was clearly in a state of disbelief and came to see for himself, if what he had heard was true.  He parked his car in the driveway and walked towards us.  One of the police officers present approached him and greeted him halfway.  The police officer stopped the young man, not wanting him to see his father’s plight.  “Is that my dad under that truck?” the young man nervously enquired.  “What is your father’s name?” asked the police officer.  The young man told the officer his father’s name.  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” replied the officer.  The son looked very anxious. “Is he dead?” he asked.  The officer looked uncomfortable, he obviously wanted to advise the son in a more professional manner, but replied, “I’m sorry.  He was killed instantly.”  The son reached up to the top of his head with both hands and grabbed his hair.  “How did it happen?” he enquired.  The police officer replied, “It looks like the jack holding up the truck slipped.”  At that point I saw the denial phase of grief within the son disappear and it was quickly replaced with anger.  The son screamed loudly, “NO.”  The officer tried to speak with the son but it was futile.  The son did not want to listen and he punched the corrugated fence adjoining the driveway several times.  The son continued to scream at the top of his voice and walked towards his car.  The officer said, “I don’t think you should drive at the moment, can I call someone for you?”  The son ignored the officer and got into his car and started it.  The son revved his car with huge acceleration and promptly reversed out of the driveway at a high speed.  He then accelerated away heavily, leaving a cloud of smoke which emanated from the screeching tyres.  I heard the sound of the young man’s angry driving for several streets until it faded away.  I hoped that his anger and manner of driving was not going to hurt anyone else. 

Obviously these two emotions I have just mentioned are extreme examples.  However, everybody’s emotions will vary.  Some people will only be mildly affected, whereas others will suffer greatly.  In my opinion, these five stages affect people more if the death is accidental or the person concerned is young.  Interestingly, these five stages or characteristics of grief do not just pertain to death, but can apply to any type of loss.  For example, it could be the loss of a job, a relationship, a pet, a favourite possession or can apply in a change of daily routine, such as the effects of a natural disaster.

There are many books on grief and grieving and there are also several agencies that specialize in grief and grief counselling.  Should you or anyone you know of, be experiencing grief that you or they cannot cope with, please seek help.  There is no shame in seeking assistance with professionals who can help lessen the burden you are facing. 

The death of children is one of the hardest things to deal with as a funeral director.  It is un-natural that children should die before their parents.  Whether the death is tragic or expected due to an illness, it is emotionally demanding.  Being a father myself, I could empathise with the parents’ loss.  Although I have never been through such a tragedy, I could relate to how I would possibly feel if I was in their shoes.  However, whenever funeral directors were involved, any pain or suffering the child had endured was over.  Personally, I could not be a doctor, nurse or ambulance worker who has to deal with these children when they are living.  I can recall on several occasions wheeling a stretcher through the corridors of the Starship Children’s Hospital, here in Auckland.  On those occasions I had been summonsed at the request of a family to uplift a child who had passed away.  As I walked those corridors, respectfully I tried not to look into the rooms containing other parents’ sick children.  However, at times it could not be helped.  I felt so sad seeing kids in traction, kids in plaster, children with shaved heads, some with tubes entering their bodies or hooked up to monitoring machines.  In my opinion, it takes a special kind of person who can tend to sick children on a daily basis.  It is certainly not a job I could do.  Thankfully, as a funeral director I never heard the cries of pain from a child or witnessed their tears.  When I was involved, their suffering had passed and they were at peace.   

When I was a funeral director, some people asked me if children should attend funerals. Personally, I don’t have a problem with this at all.  I realise in times gone by, children were never seen at funerals.  Some children never even attended the funerals of their own parents. However, this is an old fashioned way of thinking, being that funerals were only for adults.  Thankfully, our modern society is much more receptive to the needs of children.  Obviously children need to grieve too, and attending a funeral can help with their own grief process.  Like adults, each child will deal with grief in their own way.  In my opinion, attending a funeral with adults can help the child with this process.  It allows them to say their goodbyes, even though they may not quite understand.  However, seeing the rituals associated with a funeral will undoubtedly encourage dialogue with others, as the children ask questions of their own.  Sometimes, an innocent question from a curious child can really break the ice.  Children often view the world in black and white and I have seen some fairly distraught people laugh at a simple or sweet question from a child.  This laughter can at times assist the adult too, by releasing tension and enabling the person to see things from a more simplistic point of view.

I have a deep respect for parents of special needs children.  This respect grew after I attended the funeral for a special needs child.  Towards the end of my career as a funeral director, I made the funeral arrangements for a 6-year-old girl.  The girl was handicapped and had suffered from both physical and mental challenges since her birth.  Naturally though, her parents and siblings loved her unconditionally throughout her short life.  After I made the funeral arrangements, the little girl was embalmed, prepared in her casket and was returned to the family home until her funeral.  She looked beautiful in her casket, and there was no hint of the troubles she had endured.  On the day of the funeral I returned to the family home in our white hearse and uplifted the casket containing their little princess.  I then led a short funeral procession to the local crematorium chapel.  Because of their daughter’s condition, the parents of the girl had been part of a support group for several years with other parents of special needs children.  At the funeral, the other parents arrived, each with their own special needs child.  These children had also been play mates of the deceased girl.  At that funeral, I came to realise how demanding the role is for parents of special needs or handicapped children.  I watched intently, as these parents patiently dealt with children who constantly demanded their attention.  Some children had twisted limbs and were in wheelchairs, some had to be carried, and some could walk unaided, albeit awkwardly.  Some children constantly twitched, some children dribbled, some regularly called out making strange noises.  I had never seen so many children of varying forms of disability in one place.  As a person who was unaccustomed this, I found the constant movement and outbursts of these children a bit of a distraction.  However, the thing that struck me the most was the patience of the parents.  None of the parents or caregivers were flustered, embarrassed or seemed to notice the distractions of their child.  I realised then, that it was possibly only I who was uncomfortable, and I felt embarrassed for feeling this way.  These children were so innocent, happy in their own world and they didn’t need judgement from me.  As a parent, I thought I knew about the demands of a child – I was wrong.  I then realised these children were also blessed.  They were blessed because they had been born to parents who cared, parents who would look after them and nurture them, placing their needs first, often for life.

A majority of graves at cemeteries are dug to the same width or length.  However, there are occasions due to a person’s size that a grave needs to be dug a lot wider, or in the sake of children a lot smaller.  It is the funeral directors responsibility to notify the cemetery of the casket dimensions prior to the interment, so the grave can be prepared accordingly.   Despite this, as a funeral director I heard several stories over the years of caskets that wouldn’t fit into the grave, or those that got stuck halfway.  Thankfully, this scenario never presented itself to me.  There is only one occasion I can recall where I came close though.  The funeral was for that of a baby, and I had previously phoned through the casket dimensions to the cemetery staff.  Despite this, when I arrived at the cemetery with the family, I thought the prepared grave looked too small.  Consequently, I arranged for the cemetery attendants present to make the hole larger.  The workers dutifully got their spades and widened and lengthened the small grave while the family and I waited.  The family was not too impressed and I could understand their heartache at witnessing this.  However, I thought it was the lesser of two evils.  Having the casket stick or not enter the grave during the words of committal would have been a lot more embarrassing and upsetting for the family.  I felt it was a safer option to have it corrected before the committal service began.

Emotionally, music at funerals can be very powerful.  An appropriate piece or carefully selected music can certainly turn dry eyes into ones filled with tears which cascade down a person’s face.  At adult funerals, the music is often lyrical from an artist loved by the deceased person or alternatively the words sung have a special meaning. However, with children they don’t usually have a favourite artist, and their music is often simple tunes listened to in happier times.  I have been the funeral director at funerals for children where the funeral music is, or the casket is carried to songs sung by The Wiggles, Barney the Dinosaur or Elmo, but to name a few.  Hearing these innocent tunes being played at the time of a funeral can be quite sobering, and dry eyes at the service is certainly a rarity. 

Now we have all heard that leaving children unattended by water is a recipe for disaster.  Unfortunately, as a funeral director I was reminded of this several times throughout my career.  I have attended police call outs where children drowned in swimming pools, creeks and water holes.  In all of these cases, the children were not accompanied by an adult.  In some cases, the children were aged between 6 and 9 years and should have been able to swim.  I have also arranged funerals for infants who have drowned in pools, baths or buckets of water.  Often these infants had disappeared from sight from the parent or minder only momentarily.  It is devastating to lose a child, but to lose a child in a situation that is so preventable in a matter of seconds must be gut-wrenching. 

My advice to parents is, watch your infants and children.  Always know where your angels are, and be acutely aware of what water hazards are within, or near your home.  If your child is old enough, get them swimming lessons or teach them to swim.  Any death of a child that can be prevented must be prevented, and drowning is so preventable.  The one sight that no parent deserves to see, is that of a man in a black suit carrying a little white coffin.  

Unfortunately, I witnessed a terrible assault of a child once at a funeral.  It was very early in my career, around 1987 or 1988.  It was a Pacific Island funeral and the congregation was largely made up of Pacific Islanders.  During the service I was standing near the entrance to the church watching the proceedings.  There was a young girl, about 2 years of age who was running around inside the church.  She wasn’t being overly noisy, but she did appear to have free rein and was going up to various persons before moving off to someone else.  It was not an uncommon sight, children often got restless at long services, and the Pacific Island people did have long services at times.  However, after about 10 minutes or so, a man who appeared to be in his late 40’s or early 50’s picked the child up.  I presume this man was her father.  The man began carrying the girl back towards his seat, but she began to wriggle and squirm, obviously protesting the loss of her freedom.  The man then walked down the aisle, making his way towards the back of the church.  As the man neared me, the girl continued to squirm and she twisted, almost upside down.  The man held the girl by her legs, and the girl began to smile, thinking it was a game.  However, I could tell by the look on the man’s face, he was not happy and it was not a game. 

What happened next shocked me.  The man punched the girl twice to her head as he neared the back of the church.  The girl began to cry, which got her another slap across the face for her efforts.  I kept looking straight ahead as the angry male passed me, but then I turned to see what was happening.  As this bully carried the girl in an upside position, I saw what looked like two more strikes, I did not know if these were punches or slaps.  The man walked out to his vehicle in the car park and opened the rear door.  Still holding the girl by her feet, he thrust her onto the car with such force she struck the window on the other side, before falling onto the floor.  The man then slammed the door shut and walked back towards the church.  I stood in disbelief at what I had just seen.  The man then calmly straightened his tie and retrieved his bible which was tucked under his arm, as though nothing had happened.  Our eyes didn’t make contact with each other.  I remember thinking, ‘You two faced, sanctimonious wanker.’  He was going to go back into a house of God, clutching his bible as though he was a good Christian servant.  From what I had witnessed, he was anything but.  I remember thinking, ‘If the girl is not moving, I’m going to call the police.’  I walked up to the vehicle and peered inside.  The girl was lying on the floor crying.  I was angry at what I had seen, but unsure what to do next.  I was only 17 or 18 years of age, a skinny white boy, not a confrontational type of person.  I was mindful about causing a scene at the funeral.  I was mindful of upsetting the grieving family, or getting the company I worked for in trouble with the Polynesian community by involving the police.  Regrettably and ashamedly, I did nothing.  If I saw such a shocking display today it would be different, I would intervene, or at the very least, call the police.  However, back then I did not have the confidence I have now.  I didn’t even have the forethought to get the registration of the vehicle, and report the incident at a later time to the police or child welfare authorities.  For that I am truly sorry.  It is one of those things in life I wish I could go back and change, but it is done.

The saddest memory I have from my funeral directing career, is uplifting the body of a 4-year-old girl who had died suddenly in her sleep.  I was called to an address early one morning at the request of the police.  The police informed me her parents had taken the girl to the emergency doctors the night before after she had developed a fever.  Apparently, the doctors prescribed her some anti-biotic medication and told the family to take her home, pop her into bed and keep her warm.  They did just that, only to find in the morning she had died. 

At this address, I passed onto the family via the police, that they could bring their child out to me if they wished.  This is because whenever I went to a house at the request of the police to uplift a child or baby, I would assess the situation before entering the house.  At times I felt like an intruder, entering the family abode and removing their child, their pride and joy.  Sometimes, instead of entering the house with the removal stretcher or carry-cot, I would speak to a family member first and I would ask if they preferred to bring the deceased child to my car.  Obviously I wanted to lessen their grief and I didn’t want them to have the memory of their child leaving the house in a stretcher.  Some folk preferred to bring the child or baby out while others were comfortable enough for me enter their home to perform my task.

At this removal, the police informed me the girl’s father would like to bring his daughter out.  I waited as the father brought his daughter's lifeless body to my car.  I had to hold back my emotions as her father walked towards me.  His daughter was cradled in his out-stretched arms, her legs hung over one of his arms and her head rested on the other.  Her legs and her long golden hair swung slowly with the sway of his walk.  As he walked, he wept inconsolably.  I could feel his pain, his anguish, his heartache.  I felt guilty watching, a total stranger intruding on his grief.  I made a concentrated effort to hold back any tears.  As he walked towards me, the image reminded me of those I had seen on TV of children killed in bomb-blasts in the Middle East being carried through the streets by their distraught and wailing parents.

With outstretched hands the father delivered his daughter to me.  She was still wearing her pyjamas and was wrapped in a blanket.  We did not exchange words as the girl’s weight shifted from her father's arms to mine.  We both knew what we were obligated to do and words can be so cumbersome at such a time.  As I accepted his child I felt her warmth and I was surprised to feel her temperature was still hot to touch.  Beads of sweat were also still visible in her hairline.  I reverently placed the girl on my stretcher at the back of the car.  Her father’s sobs echoed around me as I performed my sombre task in the still morning air.  The police officers present were also moved to tears.  The little girl’s mother did not come to the car but I could hear her cries from the house.  After I had secured the girl in my stretcher, I purposely glided her into the removal wagon with extra reverence.  I closed the boot of the car and the girl's father said to me, “Look after her,” as he cupped his hands to his mouth.  I had a huge lump swelling within my throat and I empathetically replied, “I will.”  I got into the driver’s seat, started the engine and at a respectful pace I drove down the driveway.  As I drove away I exhaled a large breath, releasing the tension from within my body.  I too felt like crying, but quickly repressed the urge, concentrated on my driving and turned the radio on to help distance my emotions.  It is situations like these that were the hardest to deal with as a funeral director.  I found that blocking out the emotions, not dwelling on the incident and continuing with the task at hand is what helped me to carry on.

Chapter Eight:

A Funeral Director’s Life

As a funeral director, it can be hard trying to have much of a social life, especially if you work for a busy firm or live in a populated city.  It can be done, but being on call and carrying a phone or pager everywhere you go, with the added prospect of being ‘called out’ at any given time, certainly takes the enjoyment out of the occasion.  Often I attempted to get to functions or events but inevitably I would be called away, or called out before I even got there. Unfortunately, Mother Nature doesn’t work nine to five, Monday to Friday. 

I was on call every second week for the full seven days.  On average, I would do about 35-40 hours overtime that week, in addition to the standard 40 hours worked.  Regardless of how many times I was called out during the night, I was still required back at work at 8:00 a.m. in the morning for my normal day.  After all, I had funerals that I had arranged days earlier which I needed to attend.  In reality, I only got every second weekend off, which was only two days out of fourteen. 

Sporting wise, I found it was pointless belonging to a team that relied on its members to be there every week.  I played touch rugby and indoor bowls for leisure.  Luckily, I was not required every week, because I could only guarantee my attendance on my ‘off-call’ weeks.  Once, I tempted fate and entered a bowling tournament during my off week.  I won my matches, qualified and was required to play the following week for the finals.  The following week I duly arrived with my pager in hand because I was ‘on-call.’  I played really well and I continued to win my qualifying rounds which got me into the grand final.  I was half way through the final, and I was winning convincingly when my pager went.  I was needed.  I quickly called my boss Richard, I explained to him where I was and that I would be ready soon.  I returned to my game, but the undivided attention I had on bowls had slipped.  I was conscious of the fact I was only halfway through the final and I was needed elsewhere.  My opponent slowed the game down which added to my anxiety.  Within 10 minutes, my pager went again.  It was Richard, wanting to know how much longer I would be.  I continued the best I could in the game, but my concentration had gone and I dropped vital points on every end.  Shortly afterwards, my pager went a third time and I lost the final. 

Sleep is another area of life of which funeral directors very rarely get their quota.  Being called out at anytime, or several times during the night is a part of the job.  Personally, I would hate to think how many hours sleep I lost over the years.  However, I was fortunate enough that my body could cope on very little sleep, much to my wife’s amazement.  Another thing that didn’t help was the fact I have never been the world’s best sleeper.  I often took, and still do take a long time to get to sleep.  My brain is too busy processing the day’s information and events yet to come.  If I have to get up early for anything it is even worse.   I take ages to get to sleep, then once asleep I wake throughout the night checking the time, waiting for the alarm to go off, or being scared I will miss the alarm.  This is stupid really because I am a light sleeper and the smallest of noises wake me.  I often joke that I sleep so lightly I am woken by cats fighting several streets away.   I never used to be a light sleeper, it all began after I started working in the funeral industry.  I guess I got used to going to sleep keeping an ear out for the phone?  An example of a poor sleep pattern is when Dean rang me once, and woke me from my slumber at 2:00 a.m. to tell me I was required at an address to do a removal at 6:00 a.m.  The family wanted more time with their loved one who had passed away.  Why didn’t the family just ring at 5:30 a.m?  I dutifully set my alarm, but I needn’t have bothered, I lay there for the next few hours waiting for the alarm to go off!  

The best run I ever had without a call-out during the night was six weeks.  However, that was extremely rare, usually I was called out numerous times during the week.

Despite being a light sleeper, our young funeral assistant Todd was obviously the opposite.  I wasn’t on call with Todd, but one week I covered for Jeffrey who was away.  Jeffery was the one who was usually on call with Todd.  Dean rang me at 1:00 a.m. about a removal we were needed to do at a residential address.  After speaking to Dean, I rang Todd to wake him so he could meet me at the removal location.  The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity.  Eventually, the phone was answered by a sleepy flat mate of Todd’s.  I asked for Todd, and the flat mate said he would go and wake him.  I listened as the flat mate shuffled away from the phone, then knocked on Todd’s bedroom door calling his name.  This knocking soon turned into pounding, and the name calling got louder and louder.  I couldn’t believe that someone could sleep that heavily.  After several minutes, the flat mate eventually came back to the phone and said that he couldn’t wake him.  He then had the audacity to ask me if I would come around and wake him.  I was losing my patience.  I explained through gritted teeth, that he needed to wake Todd and get him to come to the phone.  Grumpily, the flat mate returned to Todd’s bedroom door.  He continued pounding on the door, calling Todd’s name, and he threw in a few expletives as well.  Eventually, Todd was woken by the commotion and I heard him dragging his feet towards the phone.  As Todd came towards the phone, I could hear in the background, his unhappy flat mate swearing and muttering away to himself.  He was obviously going back to his own bed highly upset that he was now wide awake.  I spoke to Todd, who sounded completely vacant and half asleep.  I went over the details of where we were to meet and I got him to repeat them back to me.  I then told Todd that he better not go back to sleep.  Todd assured me he wouldn’t and to his credit he didn’t.  About 15 minutes later he met me at the address, smartly dressed and wide awake.  However, I was glad Todd was not my regular on-call partner.  I couldn’t imagine going through that every time I needed him. 

Jeffery told me once how he was suffering from lack of sleep and embarrassed himself at a funeral.  He was sitting down the back of the funeral chapel listening to the service.  He closed his eyes as he listened and before he knew it he had nodded off.  When Jeffery woke, all the mourners were gone.  The service had finished.  Everyone was in the adjacent reception lounge having a cup of tea and refreshments.  The casket had been lowered on the bier and floral tributes had been placed on the casket without the assistance of Jeffrey.  He hadn’t even played music at the conclusion of the service.  No one had bothered to wake him.  I hope Jeffrey didn’t snore!

An aspect of funeral directing I enjoyed was taking funerals in distant towns or cemeteries.  These funerals were usually for people who had died in Auckland, but wanted to return to their old home town for the funeral or burial.  The very first funeral I conducted out of Auckland was at a church in Mt Maunganui in 1988.  Over the years I conducted funerals in numerous towns and cemeteries throughout the North Island.  The northernmost point I conducted a funeral in my career was in the town of Kaeo, some 4 hours north of Auckland and the southernmost point was in the town of Raetihi, some 5 hours south of Auckland.  On the west coast of New Zealand it was New Plymouth, followed by Napier on the east coast.  Of course there were also numerous towns and cemeteries in between these places.  Some of which I ended up visiting several times throughout my career.  My travels also took me to numerous hospitals, rest homes and funeral homes in different towns throughout the North Island as well.  Taking funerals or doing removals in these towns allowed me to be on the open road for the day, taking in all the sights and sounds our beautiful country has to offer.

Now I wouldn’t say I am an extensive traveller, but excluding work trips, I have toured our fine country several times over the years. I have toured both the North Island and South Island, and I have visited 20 countries overseas. 

In modern times people not only regularly travel, but they usually do a big OE, touring or working in other countries.  This touring is not just for the younger members of society, many retirees are now visiting the world soaking up the sights and sounds, experiencing different cultures and foods.  It is surprising then to find someone who has never ventured far at all, and I recall making the funeral arrangements for one 90-year-old woman who fell into this category.  She was born in Auckland, and that is where she stayed all her life.  Her family told me that she only left Auckland once, a day trip to Whangarei.  I was absolutely gob-smacked.  To live an entire 90 years and ‘not even venturing past your front gate’ so to speak, seemed such a shame.  Thinking about this, in years gone by there would have been many people like this woman.  Some folk didn’t have the means to travel.  Those that did experienced trips that could be long and cumbersome.  Vehicles lacking comfort and speed, their ventures would have taken them on dusty winding roads.  

However, we are now blessed to be part of a generation and society where travel is largely unrestricted, quick and easy.  I suggest for those of you who have not yet toured a lot of New Zealand to go out and experience it.  I have met so many people who have travelled extensively throughout the world, yet they have seen such a small part of this wonderful country.  We all know New Zealand is beautiful from top to bottom.  So see it, experience it, photograph it, leave your footprints, be proud of it, and treasure it.  That way, when you travel overseas, you too can tell others of your experiences and the beauty of New Zealand, and become a proud ambassador selling the virtues of this wonderful place.

Funeral services these days seem to average out at about 30 minutes.  Obviously some church services are longer, and some non-denominational services are shorter, but it would be fair to say this average is about right in my opinion.  In saying that, the shortest funeral I ever witnessed was only five minutes in length.  At the conclusion of the service I was shocked and looked around several times expecting something else to happen, but no, that was it! 

However, the longest funeral I ever attended was held at a Pentecostal Church and it went for four long hours!  After the four hour funeral, the funeral procession moved to the cemetery, and once there, the committal service at the graveside went for another hour.  I couldn’t believe it, and at the time I was not very impressed.  The funeral was held on a Saturday, and it was supposed to be my day off.  It was 1988, early on in my career when I was a funeral director’s assistant.  Dean had asked me a couple of days before hand if I would assist at the funeral and drive the hearse.  Reluctantly I had agreed, especially when Dean informed me I would only be working for a few hours.  On the day of the service, as the funeral went on and on, I knew my day off was slowly ebbing away.  As it was I only got every second weekend off – two days out of every fortnight.  Due to the length of that church service, the committal, preparation and travelling times, a good eight hours of daylight was sucked out of my weekend. 

I have been asked numerous times over the years whether I had a preference, to be buried or cremated when I die.  I can honestly say I would like to be buried.  Call me old fashioned, but I like the idea of my body slowly breaking down, putting goodness into the ground and my skeleton remaining for many years to come.  Even if the worms don’t go that deep, and it is just sodden clay, I’m not too worried.  Some people have said to me that burial is a waste of land.  My reply to that is, the land is already earmarked as a burial ground or cemetery so why not?  Personally, I don’t like the idea of being cremated.  I’m certainly not against it, and I realise it is a very clean and popular way of disposing of earthly remains, but for me, not an option.  As someone once said to me, ‘we spend all our lives avoiding fire, why let it get you in the end?’  I can fully understand this statement.  The person also added ‘we don’t burn the things we love.’ So for me, when my time comes – it will be rest in peace, not rest in pieces.

I have two small scars on my body that are reminders of my time in the funeral industry.  They have both come from cuts.  They are certainly not overly noticeable, but I know they are there.  The first of these was when our company received the repatriated remains of a young man who had been killed in England, after he was hit by a car.  His body had been shipped in a temporary casket which was made of tin.  We needed to get the man out so he could be checked and placed in the casket his New Zealand family had chosen.  The tin lid had been welded down and getting into the casket proved to be a little difficult.  Consequently, Rick got a pair of sheet metal cutters.  The cutters were quite blunt, and as a result of Rick’s efforts the opening resembled a serrated can.  After he had finished, several areas of the lid had been peeled back, each piece complete with jagged edges.  Several of us then gingerly assisted to lift the young man from the tight confines of his casket.  Unfortunately, as I lifted the male, my right forearm came into contact with one of the jagged edges.  This resulted in a cut measuring several centimetres. 

The second cut was more self-inflicted.  I was in the workshop one afternoon lining caskets.  I was tearing strips of calico, a white material we often used in the interior of caskets.  When tearing calico, there can often be numerous strands of cotton which have broken away from the bulk of the material.  Several strands are easy to break by hand, but multiple strands require cutting.  I grabbed a handful of the strands in my left hand and I picked up a Stanley knife in my right hand.  With a swinging motion I sliced through the strands, but in doing so I also hit my left wrist with the blade.  As soon as it hit I knew what had happened.  I dropped the knife and cupped the cut with my right hand.  I snuck a quick peak and prized open the cut to see if it was deep.  It was a clean cut, and it was relatively deep.  It didn’t help that I had just put a fresh blade in the knife several minutes earlier.  However, in my opinion the cut wasn’t wide enough or deep enough to warrant medical attention.  Consequently, I bandaged the area and continued with my task at hand.  The scars from these two cuts are now permanently etched on my body, joining several other scars acquired over my life, each having their own arrival story.

Once I was at a funeral in the Helensville Township north of Auckland.  During the service a young man got up and spoke about memories he had of his grandfather.  One memory was a popular party trick his grandfather did.  The trick was to recite the alphabet backwards.  Several members of the congregation laughed as did I at the thought of this and other memories of which the grandson spoke. 

A couple of days later I was driving a hearse north to Whangarei to conduct a funeral.  The radio in the hearse wasn’t the best and I had lost reception as I drove over the hills and after 30 minutes of silence I became bored.  For whatever reason, the grandfather’s party trick story entered my head.  I had nothing better to do, so as I drove, I taught myself the alphabet backwards.  Not only did I teach myself that in reverse, but the small ditty that comes after it, ‘Now I know my ABC, next time won’t you sing with me.’  Funnily enough, this little gem is now a party trick of mine.

One day, there wasn’t much happening at the funeral home and I found myself looking over funeral arrangement sheets from years gone by.  I came across my family name, Mann.  I then wondered how many members of my family had been looked after by the firm I worked for.  At that point, I didn’t even know if any of my family had utilised the services of the firm.  The records the company had on file went back over 80 years, so I began searching.  Within minutes I had located the funeral arrangement sheets of my great grandparents, buried some 44 years earlier.  The person who made the funeral arrangements at the time was their son, my grandfather, Hilton.  I found it fascinating reading the paperwork.  Reading about what arrangements had been made and seeing copies of the cut out funeral notices.  Also on the arrangements sheets was information required to register their deaths, such as marriage details and names of their own parents.  I photocopied these arrangement sheets and kept the copies for myself.  It was a little piece of family history, a snapshot of a time gone by. 

I am not sure why, but because of the industry funeral directors are in, some people felt the need to ‘crack a joke’ when I met them.  Maybe they were nervous and a joke helped them to ‘break the ice’ so to speak, or enabled them to feel a bit more comfortable?  The deliverer of the joke would then usually laugh at their wit, admiring their ability to deliver such a fantastic line, thinking no one had ever had the balls to say it or come up with it before.  I would usually grin, and say through gritted teeth, ‘Ha, that’s a good one,’ but in reality I had heard them all numerous times before.  Over the years as I funeral director, I was greeted with so many cheesy one-liners and puns, that I thought I would share some of them with you. 

‘I guess people are dying to meet you.’

‘I guess your business is picking up?’

‘You guys charge the earth for burials.’

‘You’re in a dying industry.’

‘How’s business?  I guess it’s dead.’

‘You’re in a grave business.’

‘Your job is quite an undertaking.’

‘You’ve got a dead end job.’

‘How do you like the graveyard shift?’

‘I tend to avoid funerals because I’m not really a mourning person.’

‘I guess you need people to die so you can live.’

So if you are one of the people that deliver these lines to funeral directors, you may want to stop, after all – we’ve heard them all before.

Living in a multi-cultural city as Auckland is, meant I attended removals and conducted funerals for all sorts of people.  I have dealt with a mixture of cultures including, but not limited to, Asians, Indians, Middle Eastern, Polynesians and Maori.  Religion wise, I have experienced Christian, Muslim, Islamic, Hindu, Hare Krishna, Ratana, Buddhist and Russian Orthodox.  I have had services officiated by Priests, Ministers, Bishops, Gurus, Lamas and Monks.  At times, these services could be educational and interesting, but on some occasions frustrating because as a European, I didn’t know what the heck was going on.  Primarily, most cultures spoke in their native tongue, and some had customs and beliefs that I was not immediately familiar with.  As a funeral director, I liked to have a bit of control, knowing which direction the service was heading, and being aware of when the service was drawing to a close.  However, having services conducted in foreign languages was difficult at times because I did not know what was happening.  I can recall on some occasions everyone at the service suddenly got up and started leaving – the funeral had obviously ended but I had no idea.

Some cultures such as the Polynesians will have extra services.  They will have the main funeral, but in the days leading up to the funeral they will have several ‘family services.’  Family services are very similar to a funeral and the open casket will be present.  These services are held in the evenings, and can be a one off, or nightly until the day of the funeral.  Each family service will last anywhere between two or five hours.  The funeral director is usually required to transport the casket to and from each of these services.

Over the years I saw many sights at different cultural services that may have appeared strange, but to the faiths and religions concerned they all had a special meaning.  Just as Maori follow their customs and beliefs, other cultures were no different.  For example, I have seen hot wax poured on the deceased and coins placed in their mouths.  I have seen caskets wrapped in lace and numerous mats and cloths nearly doubling its size.  I have seen our funeral chapel filled with smoke which emitted from hundreds of burning incense sticks, rice thrown around as if it was a wedding, monks chanting in a monotone fashion for what appears to be hours on end, and I have even had small fires lit on top of the casket.  The diversity of these cultures and customs certainly added to the variety of my funeral directors day.

Once I was on the way back from delivering a casket to an address in Tirau, a small town on State Highway 1, about three hours south of Auckland.  I did not drive on State Highway 1 for my return trip, but an alternative route on State Highway 27.  I was not driving a hearse, but one of our Ford Falcon removal wagons.  At one point of the journey I got stuck behind three large trucks.  I patiently sat behind the thundering beasts as they belted out fumes and slowly travelled at about 60kmph.  I sat behind them for nearly ten minutes as they navigated their way over hills and through winding roads.  I was aware of a straight piece of road further ahead and I hoped that no one would be travelling in the opposite direction so I could overtake a truck or two.   The straight soon arrived, and thankfully it was free.  I indicated, pulled out and began my passing manoeuvre.  I quickly accelerated as I had decided to pass all three trucks in one hit.  The truck drivers were obviously enjoying their escape from the confines of the hills and they too sped up.  Isn’t that just typical?  I was aware of further hilly terrain approaching and I didn’t fancy sitting behind them again, so I accelerated harder.  I travelled at a high, but quick speed and soon passed the enemy.  I was pleased with my efforts and as I passed the last truck I returned to my side of the road.  I was slowing down, but still over the speed limit as I rounded an easy bend in the road to my left.  As I followed the contour of the road I saw a police car further ahead which was parked on the side of the road.  The smile of satisfaction I had on my face from passing the trucks quickly disappeared as I saw the police car door open.  The police officer got out of his car, placed his hat on his head and gestured for me to pull over.  Isn’t that just typical ….again.  I sheepishly pulled in behind the police car.  “Good afternoon sir,” he began pleasantly, “I just recorded your speed at 122 kilometres an hour as you came around the corner.  Do you have any reason for that?” he continued.  “Just wait a few seconds and I’ll show you,” I replied.  Our conversation was then drowned out by the three trucks that thundered by, just about blowing off the officer’s hat in the process.  I could imagine the smirks on the faces of the truck drivers as they passed, seeing my predicament.  I pointed to the trucks and said to the cop, “That is the reason.” I then explained, “I have been behind them for so long, the straight before the corner was the only place I had to pass.”  I then added, “I don’t normally speed.”  Thankfully, the cop empathized with me.  “Okay,” he chuckled.  He then recognized the characteristics associated with a removal wagon and asked, “Are you a funeral director?”  I replied, “Yes, I am.  I’m from Auckland and I’ve just delivered a casket to an address in Tirau.”   He smiled, “I’ll give you a warning this time.  Just watch your speed.”  I was pleased he only snapped my speed as I rounded the corner, not on the straight – he might not have been so lenient.  “Thanks, I will,” I replied.  With that I pulled back out onto the open road.  I thought how ironic it was, after such a successful passing manoeuvre, I was back behind the trucks approaching hills again.   

Chapter Nine:

Removals: A Mixture

It would be fair to say that most removals funeral directors attend are standard.  That is, uplifting the remains of an elderly person from a rest home or hospital, a cancerous patient from home or a hospice or sudden death victims from the mortuary.  Most of these removals are not overly memorable for the funeral director concerned because, he or she has completed removals of a similar nature hundreds, if not thousands of time before.  However, sometimes there are certain things about some removals that stay with the funeral director.  This is because of the situation or events that occur during the removal.  In Six Feet DOWN UNDER, it would also be fair to say that a majority of the removals I wrote about were different.  Through this chapter I will mention several more memories which have stayed with me – of removals that were not so standard. 

Funeral directors usually move deceased people with dignity and respect.  That is, slow and purposeful movements showing care and understanding.  This is especially so if family members are watching. I would like to think I too was respectful when moving the deceased.  However, I can recall on one occasion where my actions may have appeared uncaring or bullish.  One night, Rick and I went to a private residence to uplift an elderly woman who had passed away at her home.  This woman had been lovingly cared for in the final months of her illness by her elderly and devoted husband.  The couple had been married for nearly 60 years.  I greeted the husband and as I shook his hand he cupped mine with both of his.  He looked sad and frail himself.  After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, I advised him that Rick and I would move his beloved to our car.  Tears filled the old man’s eyes and he said, “Please don’t hurt her.  You will take good care of her won’t you?”  I assured him that we would, and that she was in good hands.  The man then wiped the moisture from his red eyes and sat on the sofa.  Rick and I wheeled the stretcher passed the man who was seated in the lounge, down the hallway and into the master bedroom.  The man’s wife, who was lying in bed, looked very frail herself.  Her body was small and emaciated.  However, she looked at peace.  Her eyes and mouth were closed and her clasped hands were resting on her stomach.  Rick and I positioned the stretcher next to the bed and pulled back the sheet and covers.  I was positioned at the head of the woman.  I unclasped her hands and prepared myself to move her to the stretcher.  He arms were extremely stiff, rigor mortis had already set into her limbs.  This was not uncommon, so I gently placed my hands around her wrists and pulled back on her arms in an attempt to free up the seized muscles.  This was a task I had preformed hundreds of times before, gently limbering up the arms before moving a person.  Having flexibility in the arms and legs is preferable when moving a deceased person into the stretcher.  Rick and I spoke to one another in hushed tones as I gently glided the woman’s arms backwards towards her head, and then back down to her stomach.  I had completed several repetitions and the muscles in her arms were once again regaining the elasticity required.  However, as I pulled the woman’s arms towards her head one last time, there was a resounding ‘crack.’  The woman’s right arm flung backwards with vigour, her hand nearly struck me in the face as it passed.  The sound of the crack was sickening.  Because I was still holding the woman’s wrist, I felt the shockwave of the crack as it reverberated through her arm.  I looked at Rick, shocked like a stunned mullet.  “Have I broken her arm?” I asked in a panic.  It was the first time something like that had happened to me and I was quite concerned.  Rick replied in a matter of fact like manner, “No, its okay you’ve just popped her arm out of the socket.”  Rick then added, “It has happened to me before.”  This revelation didn’t help much though.  I felt terrible about what I had done, especially when I remembered the old man and his last words to me about looking after his wife and not hurting her.          

At one fatal crash I attended one night, the deceased driver was quite obese.  His body was lying awkwardly between the windscreen and dashboard area of the upturned car.  Thankfully there were numerous firemen and police officers present who made the extraction a lot easier.  The emergency workers present lifted the male onto my stretcher and I strapped him in.  Afterwards, I placed a cover over the stretcher and wheeled the dead driver to my removal wagon.  I should explain at this point the working mechanisms of the stretcher. When the stretcher is pushed into the vehicle feet first, a lever is gripped by the operator at the head end, which causes the wheel assembly at the feet end to collapse and fold in.  The operator takes the weight of the stretcher which is still outside the vehicle and pushes the stretcher further in.  The operator keeps his grip on the lever and when the wheel assembly at the head end touches the back of the vehicle they too will collapse and fold underneath the stretcher.  Placing a full stretcher into the back of my removal wagon was a task I had preformed thousands of times before, so I guess at this removal I was on auto pilot.  It possibly did not help that I was distracted, busily talking away to a couple of the police officers as I pushed the feet end of the stretcher into the removal wagon.  I pulled the lever to collapse the wheels at the feet end, which duly happened.  However, because I was distracted, I had not braced my legs to support the transfer of weight from the stretcher and its contents which were still protruding from my vehicle.  Added to this was the sheer weight of the obese person, consequently the stretcher immediately fell to the ground.  I was holding the stretcher and lever at the head end, so naturally I was pulled down with it.  I had been in mid-conversation, looking to the cop to my right, when I was unceremoniously yanked from his sight.  The drop was less than a metre, but I could do nothing, it happened so fast.  The underside of the stretcher slammed into the asphalt, but more painfully so did my knees.  My knees took the entire force of my body weight as well as what I was supporting in a matter of milliseconds.  I grimaced.  I felt the stones of the roadway forcing their way through my suit pants into my skin.  At that point, I honestly thought I had smashed my kneecaps.  The police officers beside me immediately rushed to my aid.  With their assistance we lifted the stretcher which was resting on a 45 degree angle, back to the upright position.  Thankfully, internally my knees felt fine as I stood, though I expected the outer skin to be cut and bleeding.  Embarrassed, I made a few mutterings to the police about the obesity of the gentleman, before I correctly braced my legs, supported his weight and slid the stretcher unassisted into my removal wagon.  After I closed the boot of my car, I checked my pants, and more importantly my knees.  Thankfully, there were no cuts or blood, just temporary dents in my skin from the road stones.  My knees were sore though and I vigorously rubbed them.  Surprisingly, my back felt fine.  Considering what had happened this was an area that could have been easily wrenched out of alignment.   However, I had escaped without any physical damage, only my pride was a little dented. 

When wheeling a deceased person on a stretcher to the car, there are often people watching.  If not immediate family, there would often be members of the public that were passing by.  Consequently, all removals were conducted at a more reverend pace, with care and with dignity.  Not that we were not dignified when people were not watching, but an audience certainly makes you more aware of your actions.  A removal I did with Rick one night nearly caused us a bit of embarrassment, but luckily we recovered well.  Rick and I were carrying a deceased person from their address down a long set of concrete stairs.  The deceased’s family watched us from the front steps of the house.  Because we were on the stairs, Rick and I were not using the wheels of the stretcher.  We were supporting the combined weight of the stretcher and the person on it.  Rick was at the heavier end of the stretcher supporting the upper torso and I was at the lighter end supporting the feet and leg area.  Now because I was 25 years younger than Rick, I guess I should have been at the heavy end.  However, someone had to guide the stretcher backwards down the stairs in the darkness, so being younger I elected to take the lighter end to perform the backward task.  This scenario had played itself out numerous times before and there had never been a problem.  On this occasion though as we negotiated down the stairs I noticed Rick was huffing and puffing a bit more than usual.  “Are you okay Rick?  Do you need a rest,” I enquired.  Though Rick's face was becoming an interesting shade of crimson he replied, “No, I'm okay, keep going.”  I had only stepped back another step when I saw Rick listing to his left.  His feet quickly shuffled in an attempt to counteract the shifting weight, but it was too late, Rick was going over and there was nothing I could do.  It seemed like slow motion as I watched Rick fall towards the left while still holding onto the stretcher.  I held my end more firmly in an attempt to assist Rick, but gravity is a strong opposition.  Running parallel to the left of the stairs was a hedge and Rick quickly disappeared into it.  Luckily, the hedge was rather firm and it not only broke Rick's fall, but supported his weight.  To his credit, Rick never let go of the stretcher, neither did I.  I waited for several seconds while Rick readjusted his footing and then with a heave, Rick somehow managed to push off from the hedge with his shoulder and he re-emerged.  Rick was covered in various bits of greenery and I suppose a few spiders, he even had a fresh scratch on his face.  After a bit more huffing and puffing, Rick informed me he was okay and we proceeded without further incident to our waiting car.  

It was nearing midday and the sun shone brightly as I backed my removal wagon down the driveway.  It was a communal driveway with several houses down it and I backed the car up to the address I was required at by the request of police.  I grabbed our ‘police removal notepad’ to record the particulars of the deceased from the police.  I walked up the stairs to the house and I knocked on the door which was wide open.  As I waited I turned and surveyed the view.  The house was two storeys high and it overlooked the other houses in the driveway and several more beyond.  There was silence coming from the address where I had knocked, so I turned and knocked a little louder.  As I waited I began to wonder if I had picked the right house.  Because the house was two storied I also considered the police may have been at the lower level or were beyond another door.  I decided to go and check.  I walked back down the stairs and followed the garden path which went behind the house.  Any concerns I had about being at the wrong address were quickly dispelled.  As I rounded the corner I saw a dead teenage male hanging off the clothesline.  It was a little eerie seeing him there without advance warning.  He was crouched down, almost in a kneeling position with his bum inches off his heels.  His neck was craned upwards, supported by the rope around it that was tied to the clothesline framing.  The male’s face was purple in colour, and his tongue had been forced out of his mouth, a familiar sight with hanging victims.  I walked passed the body and knocked on the lower door of the address.  At least I knew I was at the right house now.  However, there was still no reply.  I walked passed the dead male and back up to the front door.  I knocked and called out, but there was still no reply.  It was extremely unusual that no one was around.  I became a little anxious about the welfare of the police.  Were they okay?  Had an upset family member done something to them?  I went back to the car and called my work.  I got Dean to ring the police and check on their whereabouts.  After several minutes Dean got back to me and said the police were next door and they would be with me soon.   I thought to myself, they are next door?  Do I have the wrong address?  Had I just discovered an additional death they were unaware of?  I exited the car and waited.  A police officer soon appeared and approached me.  “What house should I be at?” I enquired.  “You’re at the right one,” he replied.  I explained to the officer of my discovery and that I was surprised that no one was around.  The officer apologised and told me how a lawn mowing contractor had arrived at the address to mow the lawns and had made the gruesome discovery.  The police were at the address next door getting a statement from the contractor.  The contractor had raced in there to use the phone after making the find.  The other police officer was getting a statement from another neighbour who had seen the young male earlier that day. Several minutes later with the assistance of the police, I cut the deceased male down, placed him in my stretcher and transported him to the coroner’s mortuary.     

One afternoon at another suicide I attended, there was no time to delay.  There was no time to leave a person hanging for all at the address to see.  This time a young woman had taken her life and she had hung herself from a beam in the lounge room.  The police wanted me there quickly, to do the removal and leave.  The reason for this was because the deceased woman had two young children who were walking somewhere between school and home.  Their home was the one I had been called to, the home where the children’s young mother had selfishly taken her life.  A family member was out looking for the children who were unaware of their mother’s demise.  However, if the children could not be located, police wanted to clear the sight of emergency vehicles and a funeral director outside their home.  Naturally, police did not want distraught children arriving on the doorstep, nor did they want to explain the reason for their presence.

I loaded the young mother’s lifeless body into my stretcher and then into my removal wagon.  I left the address at 3:20 p.m.  As I drove away I felt sorry for the children. I looked at the faces of numerous school children walking throughout the surrounding streets.  I knew that somewhere, amongst the myriad of happy and jovial faces, two of them were about to have tears of despair cascading down their faces.  What had been a normal school day, was about to become the worst day of their lives.

Rick and I went to a residential address one morning to uplift an elderly male who had passed away overnight.  The male had been ill for some time and had been cared for at home by his wife and a community support nurse at night.  I asked the nurse how the man’s health had been.  The nurse advised me that the male had been diagnosed with throat cancer several months earlier. Also, he had Emphysema and had been ill with Pneumonia over the past two weeks.  The nurse told us the male’s health had been going down rapidly over the past week, and to top it off, he had not eaten anything over the previous three days.  However, the death of the man was expected and a doctor had signed the medical death certificate.  Rick and I wheeled the stretcher into the room, and were assisted by the nurse who helped us move the gentleman onto it.  I observed that the male had only his top denture plate in, and I enquired with the nurse about the bottom set.  The nurse advised me that the bottom set of dentures had gone missing a few days before and could not be found. 

As an aside here, I will mention that funeral directors will always ask for dentures belonging to the deceased.  This happens when the deceased is prepared at the funeral home; we will always place the dentures back into their mouth before closing.  By having the dentures in their mouth it keeps the facial shape the family is used to seeing.  Without dentures, the mouth area can look sunken or withdrawn.  However, if dentures have been lost, funeral directors can place a small plastic mouth guard in which prevents the sunken appearance.  The only time funeral directors will not use the person’s dentures, is if they have lost a lot of weight or became extremely emaciated.  Placing dentures into a mouth that has suffered these effects will have the opposite effect – a prominent mouth and lower jaw.

Rick uplifted the death certificate and together we wheeled our latest charge to the removal wagon, after saying goodbye to his wife and nurse.  The following day, after the funeral arrangements had been completed, Rick prepared the old man in our mortuary.  While preparing him, Rick found the old man’s lower dentures.  These dentures were wedged down the back of the old man’s throat.  I am not sure how they got there, perhaps the gentleman swallowed them at some point while coughing or lying on his back?  After that revelation, I wasn’t surprised the old boy hadn’t eaten anything for three days.  I was aware that he was a sick man, and his death was imminent, but I wondered, did the denture plate, stuck in his throat, contribute to his death?  After all, it is possible his demise could have been sped up by having his airway constricted or possibly starvation? 

There are numerous islands within Auckland’s Hauraki Gulf on which people live.  The most populated of these islands is Waiheke Island, which has a population of around 7500 permanent residents.  One morning over the summer period of the year 2000, I was required to make funeral arrangements and uplift a person who had died on the island.  The person concerned was elderly and usually lived in Auckland, but was being cared for by one of their children.  Consequently, the funeral was going to be held in Auckland and the body needed repatriating back to the mainland.  Naturally, the main access to this island is by boat.  The family, who wanted to make the funeral arrangements, were due in Auckland that afternoon and they were booked on the car ferry.  The family were prepared to bring the deceased with them, but apart from their car they had no means of transporting their loved one.  After several discussions and possibilities, it was decided I would catch a morning passenger ferry and bring a casket with me.

Our funeral assistant Todd dropped me off at the ferry terminal with the casket which was discretely draped with a casket shaped cloth cover.  I arrived well in advance of the sailing time.  This was so I could conceal my cargo prior to the arrival of other passengers and avoid any curious glances.   The covered casket slid under a row of seats of which I sat on and waited for the departure.  Within 30 minutes of my arrival, the ferry left the terminal.  It really was a glorious summer day, and I soaked up the sun the best I could as I sat there in my suit.  During the crossing to Waiheke Island I ate my lunch.

When we berthed at Waiheke I waited for all the passengers to disembark before me.  I was met at the ferry terminal by a family member of the deceased and he helped me carry the empty casket to his station wagon.  After placing the casket in the back of the station wagon, he drove me to his address.  Here we carried the casket inside and I made the funeral arrangements.  I also arranged for the deceased’s doctor to come and view the deceased and to sign the death certificate.  Once the formalities were completed, several family members assisted me in lifting the deceased from the bed into the lined casket.  Embalming would take place later at our funeral home.  Once again, with the assistance of the family the casket was carried back to the family station wagon and the discrete cover was applied.  I then rode with the family to the car ferry terminal which was situated on the other side of the island.  The station wagon was driven onto the ferry and we sailed back to Auckland.  At the port in south Auckland I was met by Todd again, who had brought a hearse.  We transferred the casket into the hearse and said goodbye to the family.

While this removal itself was not that different, it was the only time in my career I caught a boat to uplift a person who had passed away.

It was 4:30 a.m. when my bedside telephone rang.  I answered and spoke with Dean.  He had a job for me, and several minutes later I was dressed and driving to the latest police callout.  This time, my services were required at a house fire.  I was informed by Dean that there was one dead, possibly two, I would be advised upon my arrival.

When I pulled up in the street, I was amazed at the number of fire appliances present, the reflection of their red flashing lights bounced of nearby houses.  The road was wet from the myriad of fire hoses which snaked their way from appliances and hydrants.  Nearby, neighbours had huddled together in their pyjamas watching the scene. The house concerned was no longer on fire.  It was black and destroyed in parts, smoke emanated from what was left of the building, and firemen dampened down hot spots.  The smell of water and burnt materials filled the still morning air. 

An ambulance officer approached me and advised me that a woman had died from smoke inhalation.  Her husband had also succumbed to the smoke, but was still alive at that point.  The husband was already on his way to hospital.  Unfortunately, this tragedy happened because there were no smoke alarms in the house.  My services were required for the woman, whose body lay in the back of the ambulance.  I removed a stretcher from my vehicle and took it into the ambulance.  We transferred the deceased patient from their stretcher to mine.  After we had completed the transfer I solemnly wheeled the stretcher to my car.  I could feel the gazes of the curious neighbours who were now fully aware that their street had been the recipient of a fatal house fire.

I will conclude this piece with a timely reminder.  Please make sure your home has working smoke alarms.  Make sure the batteries in your smoke alarms are changed every six months, the beginning and end of daylight savings is a good time.  For those of you who do not know, when you’re asleep, you lose your sense of smell.  Your sleeping brain will never wake you to the smell of smoke.  In fatal house fires, more often than not, people succumb to the smoke before they are burnt by the flames.  

I arrived at the address of the latest sudden death.  The police were already present.  I could tell by the way they were dressed this removal was going to be a little more difficult.  Some of the police officers present were wearing white disposable jump suits over their uniforms.  Some were wearing face masks and disposable latex gloves.  After my arrival, other officers passed around a jar of Vicks which they smeared under their noses.  This was obviously done in an attempt to minimize or disguise odorous smells.  I smiled at the police sergeant present.  “Is it really that bad?” I asked.  The sergeant chuckled back, “Yeah, she’s been dead for quite a while, possibly two months.”  He then added, “Do you want to put anything on, we’ve got plenty of supplies?”  I replied, “I should be alright.  I’ll have a look first.”  I walked up the driveway towards the house.  As I walked I recognized all the signs of a house in which a recluse lived.  I had seen it several times before.  The lawns were heavily overgrown as were the gardens.  Concrete paths were virtually invisible, covered in matted grasses and weeds.  Pamphlets and general rubbish was strewn around the address, covered in an assortment of creepy crawlies.   The paint on the house was weathered and peeling.  The windows of the address were covered in cob-webs.  These cob-webs contained the remains of insects that had been sucked dry by spiders many years earlier.  As I walked in through the open front door the smell of damp and mustiness hit my nostrils.  The interior was no different from the outside.  The floor was littered with papers, rubbish and food scraps.  The walls were black with grime, and cobwebs hung from the ceilings to the floor.  Knickknacks and ornaments sat on shelves covered in their own mazes of dust filled cob-webs.  I walked past the kitchen – if you could call it that.  The cupboards which were once yellow and white were covered in brown grime and dirt.  Food scraps and rubbish were piled high in the corners.  The kitchen bench was covered in filthy plates and cutlery, items that looked like they had never been washed.  The sink was blocked and overflowing, despite no plug being in the plug-hole.  The tap dripped away, echoing throughout the still house.  The water from the overflowing sink trickled down the front of the cupboards onto the floor.  The floor in front of the bench was rotten.  Pieces of the floor had already fallen through and the water dripped through these gaps, disappearing somewhere under the house.   I walked down the dimly lit hallway, following the sound of buzzing flies.  Maggots inched their way up the hallway and squelched under my shoes.  I reached the room and looked in.  What was left of the woman lay on the bed.  Her body was black, her mouth wide open revealing protruding teeth.  A shimmer of maggots feasted on the woman’s exposed skin.  Flies darted around the room, some bouncing off the windows while others became caught in the plethora of dangling cob-webs.  The mattress on which her decaying body lay was covered in a brown bodily fluid which had leached from her skin.  Besides this, the mattress was in poor shape.  There were no bed sheets on it.  Springs popped out in all directions and it was filthy.  Obviously it was covered in years of grime, from her unwashed body.  I went back to the kitchen, and looked for a can of fly spray.  I doubted if the woman possessed such a thing, but miraculously I found one.  I returned to the bedroom and emptied the contents of the can into the air.  There was a flurry of activity as the flies did their best to avoid the poisonous spray, but most soon succumbed to the toxins.  I could handle the sights and smells associated to removals such as this.  However, the flies had been walking all over the decaying remains, and I did not like them landing on me while I did these types of removals. 

Personally, I didn’t think the smell in the room was too bad.  I had smelt this smell many times before in my career.  I had also witnessed sights like this previously.  The woman’s condition did not surprise me, or that of the home she lived in.  I walked back to my car and the police.  “I won’t need any supplies,” I said to the police sergeant.  As I pulled the stretcher from my car I added, “Just send me in a couple of guys who you think can handle it.”  After all, for me, it was just another removal, for them, I guess it was something they would be reliving in their minds for days or weeks to come.

At another removal I attended, the woman at the address had been dead for over a week.  A male and female police officer met me at the front door and told me that the house stunk.  It wasn’t just the smell of death, but the fact the woman was a bit of a recluse, the house was a mess and to top it off she lived with 15 cats.  I wheeled my stretcher inside the gloomy address with all of its curtains drawn, watched by the curious gazes of cats.  The cats seemed to be everywhere, sitting on the head rests of chairs, on tables, benches and walking around in general.  A couple were flighty and darted off upon seeing me enter with my cumbersome stretcher.  Some cats hissed as the flighty ones ran past, whereas others meowed and some just sat and purred.  The old and frail woman, who was dead in her chair in the lounge, had obviously been unwell for a while.  This was evident by buckets that were strategically placed in the lounge and dining room areas, each nearly filled to the brim with vomit.  The weight of which I guess she could not empty, so she would simply start another?  The putrid smell emanating from these buckets added to the stench in the air.  The female constable present helped me undo the straps on my stretcher, and she made a comment which surprised me.  “Do you know what I don’t understand?” she asked.  I unfolded the flaps of the stretcher and replied, “What’s that?”  “These cats,” she continued, “What have they been eating while the woman has been dead for the week?”  I smiled.  This was because the constable had obviously not observed what I had seen when looking at the cats.  Most of the cats had traces of vomit around their mouths and on their whiskers.  Also, the buckets had been full, but were now several inches lower and a ring of vomit near the top of the bucket clearly showed how full they had been.  I pointed my findings out to the female constable as I answered her curious question.  She immediately looked like she was going to be sick herself and cupped her hands over her mouth.  With a frown and a worried look on face she added, “Urgh.  Why would they do that?”  “That is easy,” I replied, “Survival.”  I laughed as the disgusted look on the constable’s face remained and she added, “I was thinking of taking one of these cats home, I don’t think I’ll bother now.”

Finding decaying remains in a house of a recluse is not uncommon.  After all, they have no friends, or if they do, very few.  Usually, they don’t visit anyone, and no one visits them.  Consequently, no one misses them or notices when they die.  However, what about finding decaying remains unexpectedly in your own home?  I remember when Rick attended a death where this had occurred.  Rick was summoned to a beach property at the request of the police.  It was a few days before Christmas, and the owner had gone to the address to give it a bit of a spruce up before the influx of family over the holidays.  The owner had not been to the holiday home since Labour Weekend, some seven weeks prior. As she walked into the address, her nostrils were met by a foul smell.  The woman cupped her hand over her mouth and nose.  She gingerly walked through the house, thinking an opossum had somehow got in and died.  The poor woman was wrong.  As she walked into the hallway she was greeted by a gruesome sight.  A male’s decomposing body was hanging from the ceiling.

It transpired that this male was a drifter from Dunedin.  How he ended up at this address in Auckland will possibly never be known.  He had obviously broken-in and had lived at the address for a few days judging by several unwashed dishes in the sink.  I am not sure what caused the man to take his life, but it certainly put the holiday home out of action for the summer.  This is because as he hung for several weeks, his body decayed, swelled and turned black.  Odorous and decaying juices leached from the man’s body and dripped from his dangling toes.  These bodily fluids landed on the polished floor of the hallway.  Unfortunately, the hallway floor was not entirely flat and the pool of fluids soon reached the carpets of the nearby bedrooms.  The carpets sucked up these juices which also reached bedspreads dangling onto the floor from the beds.  My guess is that major renovations would have been needed to get rid of the smell.  Carpets would have needed to be replaced, not to mention the beds, bedding and possibly the floorboards.  The selfish actions of one had disadvantaged many.  I often wondered, if the man wanted to hang himself, why didn’t he just do it in a tree outside?

Chapter Ten:

Was that a hearse?

Unlike many Kiwi males, I am not a petrol-head or a huge car enthusiast.  While I appreciate a nice looking car, I do not really know how cars work or care what type of engine is under the bonnet.  Frankly, how much horsepower a vehicle has or how many miles it does to the gallon does not interest me in the slightest.  Because I drove big flash American hearses I was often approached by males wanting to know ‘what was under the hood.’  These males were obviously greatly interested in striking up a conversation, with a like-minded individual about the merits of driving these beasts.  Their eagerness to know was evident, either in the way they delivered the question or the look in their eyes as they salivated over the body lines of the hearse.  However, they were soon very disappointed with my lack of knowledge about what was under the hood, and were somewhat aghast that I didn’t care.  Consequently, over the years as a funeral director I disappointed many car-enthusiasts at funerals.  I think some of these guys thought it was almost criminal that I should be driving such magnificent vehicles without this knowledge.  I can honestly say my lack of mechanical cognition was a bit of a conversation stopper.  Some looked disgusted that I didn’t know, while others moved away, greatly disappointed because they couldn’t find common ground and discuss the merits of gear ratios, torque control or fuel consumption.  Some still tried to tell me what they thought the specifications on the hearse would be, but I didn’t care – to me, they were speaking another language.   

Now hearses are usually driven slowly, respectfully and with dignity, and this is true.  I have made thousands of trips in hearses over the years without incident.  A majority of the time I did drive these vehicles sedately.  I was aware that people were watching and the company’s name was emblazoned on the windows.  However, I recall a couple of incidents where my hearse did not crawl along at a reverend pace. 

The first of these was when I went to a west Auckland address to uplift a casket of a male who was lying in state at his home.  The deceased male, who was only 22-years-old, had been killed in an accident.  He was a true Westie – he loved his leather jacket, his black t-shirt and fast cars.  For the sake of this story, I will call him Aaron.  I had previously delivered Aaron in his casket to his home a few days earlier and I had returned to the address because it was the day of his funeral.  With the assistance of Aaron’s Westie mates, he was carried to my waiting hearse.  Once he was placed in the hearse and I was ready to go the group approached me with an unusual request.  They told me Aaron loved speed, the faster the better.  Aaron’s friends explained how he would hate to proceed at a slow pace to his own funeral and hold up traffic.  They asked if it was possible that I could drive fast.  I explained to them that a racing hearse is not what the public expects to see.  However, they pleaded with me to drive at a quicker pace.  I could see how keen they were, so I reluctantly agreed.  However, I told them I would not be breaking any speed limits or overtaking other motorists, but I added, I would not wait for anyone to catch up.  Aaron’s mates were ecstatic with this arrangement and all nodded their heads vigorously when I explained to them the conditions.  I then added, “You better be quick to your cars boys, because Aarons’ leaving now.”  With that I jumped into the driver’s seat with Aaron's best mate sitting beside me.  I accelerated heavily in the gravel driveway, flicking out stones and dust behind me.  There were cheers and hollers of delight behind me from his mates who were excited that I was playing the game.  Aaron’s mates quickly raced to their cars in an attempt to catch up to my hearse which was quickly disappearing from their sight.  Initially, I felt a little strange – almost disrespectful, but I quickly became embroiled in the fun and I began to enjoy it. I didn’t break any speed limits, but I accelerated away heavily each time I stopped at intersections or lights.  I turned corners at a faster pace than I usually would with a casket in the back.  Aaron’s best-mate grinned all the way to the funeral chapel.  Several times, he looked over his shoulder and spoke directly to Aaron’s casket and said, “How do you like this mate – isn’t it great?”  Naturally we arrived at the funeral chapel in a shorter than expected time and slowly one by one, each of Aaron's mates who had been at the address with us arrived too.  Any concerns I had about the tactics I used on the way to the service were quickly dispelled.  Aaron’s friends were all buzzing.  I overheard them talking to one another, laughing how they couldn’t keep up. Several of his friends also approached me and thanked me for giving Aaron the send off he would have wanted.

Another incident was early in my career.  I was only 18-years-old at the time and I was Dean’s funeral assistant.  I was driving a bit too fast because Dean and I were running late to a funeral.  Previously, I had accompanied Dean on an earlier funeral which ran significantly overtime.  Consequently we were running late for the next funeral.  We raced back to the funeral chapel and quickly loaded the next casket and flowers into the hearse.  The time on our watches was 1:40 p.m. and the next funeral was due to start at 2:00 p.m. in the suburb of Pt Chevalier, about 15 minutes drive away from where we were.  This was not very professional because funeral directors usually arrive well in advance of the funeral time, and the casket is set up in the church prior to the mourners arriving.  However, the situation was beyond our control and we were endeavouring to make up lost time.  With our new casket loaded we left the funeral home at double pace.  Dean told me that we better be quick – but to be careful.  I assured him I would, but to add to our woes it was raining heavily.  I was driving along the North Western motorway at speed, with my window wipers dancing away on the windscreen at a frenetic pace.  I wasn’t exactly speeding but I wasn’t exactly driving to the conditions either.  The rain was torrential, surface water was evident on the motorway and as a result, sensible drivers were driving at a slower pace.  Also, when this occurred, back in 1988 the North Western motorway was only two lanes in each direction – with no median barrier.  I was in the fast lane approaching a vehicle driving at a sedate speed due to the inclement weather.  I quickly gained on the vehicle and it was evident to me he was not going to move quickly enough to the left lane – so I did.  I passed this vehicle in the left lane and sailed past him at a more hurried pace.  I was quickly approaching a truck and trailer unit in the left lane so I indicated to move right, back into the fast lane.  I looked over my right shoulder as I indicated to make sure the lane was free.  Now I should mention at this point the hearse was left-hand drive.  Consequently I was on the opposite side of the hearse and as I looked over my right shoulder my vision was somewhat obscured by the casket in the back behind me, complete with a wreath of flowers on top of it.  It didn’t help that the car I had just overtaken was a MG, a low vehicle.  Because of these reasons it took me a couple of extra seconds of double checking mirrors and glancing over my shoulder.  Only then, did I realise I had cleared the MG and the lane was free to move back into.  However, at the exact moment I looked over my shoulder the truck and trailer unit in front of me also changed lanes – into the fast lane.  When I turned my head around, I was shocked to see the front of the hearse bearing down on the back of the truck’s trailer.  My speed was greater than that of the trucks, so naturally I hit the brakes.  Because the angle of the steering wheel was already facing to the right, this was the angle the hearse began to skid.  The hearse went into a slide and I cringed, expecting to hit the back of the truck.  To the truck driver’s credit, he must have seen what was going on in his side mirrors and he quickly pulled back into the left lane.  This was extremely fortuitous, because my hearse then aquaplaned through surface water in my lane.  Given the speed I was travelling I quickly slid past the truck on a particularly odd angle in the right lane.  One of my front wheels skated across the grass median strip.  Being on this angle, it gave Dean a view of the opposing traffic passing at 100 kmph within a metre of the front of the hearse.   Obviously this did little to ease his already panicked state, and he gripped the seat even tighter with his hands.  I released my foot from the brake pedal and managed to straighten the hearse, wholly in our lane, and I was back in control.  Dean, who had gone an interesting shade of white remarked, “I think you can slow down a bit now.”  I agreed with him, though secretly I was rather impressed I had managed to get us out of that predicament without hitting anything.  The only thing out of place was the casket behind us which had shifted due to my abrupt manoeuvres.  We arrived at our destination without further incident and the funeral went ahead as planned, the mourners, unaware of the jostled ride I had given their loved one on the way. 

Another time I was driving a removal wagon along the same stretch of motorway.  Dean was my passenger once more, but this time the weather was fine, and we weren’t running late.  I was in the fast lane and a large truck was about 100 metres ahead of us.  The truck ran over a large stone which flicked out from the back wheels and it bounced about windscreen height.  The stone then fell, before hitting the ground and bouncing again.  Because of my speed, I reached the bouncing stone within seconds and I didn’t fancy it hitting the windscreen of the hearse.  However, it was obvious the bouncing stone was still going to hit the hearse, somewhere.  There was no time to change lanes, so my brain quickly calculated the best way to minimise the damage.  I decided to speed up.  My theory was to reach the stone as it commenced the second bounce, meaning it would hit the underside of my vehicle as it rose.  The theory was good, and I was amazed my brain thought of it so quickly.  I immediately pressed down on the accelerator towards the stone as it fell to the road.  I lost sight of the stone as the nose of my hearse obscured it from my view.  I thought my plan had worked.  Alas, I wasn’t quite quick enough.  The stone bounced on the roadway just before I reached it and it flew up and hit the right headlight of the hearse.  I didn’t hear it hit, but the shards of glass from the smashed headlight, flying over my bonnet told the story.  Nevertheless, my well executed plan had resulted in a lot less damage than if I had done nothing.  The replacement light was a lot cheaper than a brand new windscreen.   

I always wear my seat belt when driving my own car.  I am only too aware of the importance of these safety devices.  I have lost count of the number of fatal accidents I have attended where a person was not wearing one, and if they had, their chances of survival would have been considerably greater.  Despite this, many of us funeral directors did not wear our seat belts when we were driving a hearse during a funeral procession or around town.  The reason being, we were not doing a speed that warranted wearing one.  That’s my excuse anyway.  If I was on an open road or motorway in the hearse I always put my seat belt on.  However, if I was just slowly cruising along suburban streets then I wouldn’t.  One Wednesday morning I was on my way back from doing a funeral that my colleague Rick had arranged.  Sometimes this happens in the funeral industry, you arrange a funeral with a family and the only time that suits them you are already committed to another family.  Consequently, I did the burial part of Rick’s funeral, as he raced off to another.

So there I was slowly driving my hearse back from the local cemetery, and as usual I was not wearing my seat belt.  I turned from one street into the next and saw a police check point which had been set up.  As I turned into the street, a biker on an extremely loud Harley Davidson roared into the street behind me.  A police sergeant had his hand raised for us to stop.  However, I wasn’t too sure whether the hand gesture was for me, or the rider behind me.  I had driven through police checkpoints in a hearse many times before, and often I was not required to stop – just waived through.  Also, I was somewhat concerned that if I stopped, the bike which had entered the street behind me at a great rate of knots would not stop in time and crash into the back of my hearse.   For this reason I did not stop, and I gave a little wave as I drove past the police sergeant.  As I passed I looked in my rear vision mirror and saw the bike had stopped, but more importantly the police sergeant was facing towards my disappearing hearse with his arms outstretched and palms raised.  He looked puzzled as to why I had not stopped, so I pulled over about 100 metres further up the road.  The police sergeant marched up to my hearse as I exited the left hand drive.  “Did you want me to stop?” I enquired.  The police sergeant looked angry.  “What is the international symbol for stop?” he barked.  Oh dear I thought, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.  I explained to him my reasons for not stopping immediately.  The police sergeant quickly dismissed these and then added, “And you’re not wearing your seat belt, why not?”  Once again I offered my explanation as to why this was.  Usually, our firm and employees had quite a good rapport with the local officers, because of our ‘police removal contract’ and I while I wasn’t expecting any favours, I was surprised at his attitude.  He then started to lecture me on how hard it is to shave in the mornings once a face has gone through a windscreen?  I didn’t really need a lecture, I had probably been to more fatal accidents than he had and I was greatly aware of the importance of a seat belt.   Nevertheless, he continued with his tirade and when he finished, he issued me with an infringement notice for failing to wear a seat belt.  Personally I wasn’t too impressed by that.  In fact, I was rather pissed off.  However, technically I knew I was wrong – so I had to accept it.  Later when I got back to the funeral home I bleated about it to Jeffrey over afternoon tea.  He laughed and said, “They’ll never give me a ticket for not wearing a seat belt.”  Ironically, two days later Jeffrey was also stopped at a checkpoint and he too received an infringement notice for not wearing a seat belt in the hearse.  We all started wearing them after that.

Now seat-belts do save lives.  There is no denying that.  However, while I am on the subject of seat-belts, I recall attending one accident where I think the seat-belt possibly contributed to the person’s death.  It was a single vehicle accident in a rural area and the car concerned lost control and skidded off a gravel road.   As the car left the road it tipped onto the passenger’s side and skidded at speed in this up-right position.  The front of the car just missed a large tree as is skidded, but the windscreen and roof were not so fortunate.  These items connected with the tree and were torn from the body of the car.  The male driver was not fortunate either, he was decapitated. 

At the accident scene I looked at the car which was still on its side.  I looked at the headless body which was still strapped into his seat by the seat-belt and I wondered.  Did his seat-belt contribute to his death?  Did the seat-belt hold him in an upright position?  After all, if he was not wearing a seat-belt surely his body would have fallen down towards the passenger’s seat and door?  Obviously he would have sustained injuries in the crash, but would they have been survivable?  I guess we’ll never know, and in reality it doesn’t matter, but it is an accident I always wondered about.

One morning I was heading north in the hearse for a graveside funeral at the Waipu Cemetery, two hours north of Auckland.  I left our premises early enough in case of traffic delays, I planned to be at the cemetery at least an hour before the service was due to start.  Traffic wise, the run north was pretty good.  There was only one hold up – I got caught in a queue of cars behind a slow moving truck.  However, in time, everyone in front of me managed to pass the truck, and when my time came I passed it as well.  Actually, I passed two cars at the time for good measure and I continued with my journey.  I reached Waipu Cemetery at the anticipated time, and upon my arrival set up for the service.  I laid green matting around the grave, and I set up the sticks and ropes I had brought in preparation for lowering the casket at the committal.  The casket within the hearse was due to be carried to the grave at the commencement of the service.  Time was on my side, so I slowly walked through the cemetery reading various inscriptions on other graves – a past time that I often found interesting.

About half an hour later, mourners started arriving at the cemetery, so I returned to my hearse.  The family arrived soon after and I greeted them.  The Auckland based son, with whom I had made the funeral arrangements, approached me accompanied by his wife and teenage children.  The usual pleasantries were exchanged, and then the son asked me how my trip up north was.  I explained to him that I had a good run, and that the only delay was a truck which I had managed to pass.  I was shocked when the son replied, “Yeah, I know, we saw you pass it.”  To my horror he then added, “Actually we were about to pass it ourselves when you passed us too.” My heart sank.  It was the only time I overtook on the entire trip, and immediately I began to question why I had allowed myself to pass two cars prior to the truck.  I certainly wasn’t in the habit of driving the hearse like a bat out of hell, but had my overtaking manoeuvre led them to believe I was?  I was deeply embarrassed, “I’m so sorry,” I sheepishly replied.  I cringed at the thought of the conversation going on in their car as they witnessed their mother and grandmother, disrespectfully whizzing by.  “It’s okay,” the son laughed, “Mum would have enjoyed the ride.”  Everyone laughed, and reluctantly I smiled and chuckled too.  However, I was still embarrassed.  I also saw the irony of the situation, out of the hundreds of cars on the road that morning, and just one passing manoeuvre, it had to be them.

Once I was taking an Anglican minister back to his church after we had completed a burial.  I was sitting in the driver’s seat of the hearse, stopped at a set of traffic lights in the suburb of Mt Albert.  The minister was seated on my right as the hearse was left hand drive.  The minister was looking out of his window to his right and I heard him muttering away.  He then turned to me with an excited look on his face.  “I think they guy next to you wants a race,” he exclaimed.  I leaned forward, looked around the minister and out of his window.  Next to us was a male in aged in his 20’s.  He looked excited and was revving his car heavily, egging me on.  I leaned back in my seat and said to the minister, “That happens every now and then, some people expect you to race them.”  I was down-playing the situation, but I was surprised at the ministers response.  “I think you should do it,” he replied.  I was somewhat taken aback.  This minister was grey headed, wearing glasses and aged in his 60’s.  He was dressed in black with his white collar holding his vestments and bible.  He was a man of maturity, yet he was telling me, a 19-year-old lad to ‘have a go.’  Being my professional self I said, “No I better not.”  The minister looked a little disappointed “Oh come on” he replied, “You’ll blitz him in this.”  I nervously smiled, not sure if he was being sarcastic or serious about the situation.  At that point the lights turned green.  I put my foot down, not too heavy, but a little bit firmer than usual.  Out of my peripheral vision I could see I was leading the car to my right.  “That’s it,” the minister excitedly yelled.  We passed through the intersection into the next street.  Ahead, I saw the two lanes were about to merge into one.  Still unsure if the minister was serious or not, and feeling a little uncomfortable racing the hearse I eased off the accelerator.  The car to my right quickly slipped past us and gained the lead.  The minister spun his head and glared at me.  “What are you doing?  You could have had him!” he exclaimed.  I watched as the other driver moved into the single lane and continued travelling at speed.  “Yeah, I know,” I acknowledged.  “Why did you stop?” the minister asked.  I replied, “It doesn’t look good.”  We watched as the other driver sped away, and I could imagine he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.  “Well, he has gone now,” the minister rebuked.   I was surprised by the minister’s racing attitude and was still a little unsure whether he was joking or not.  However, when I dropped the minister off several minutes later, he said, “Remember, if there is a next time – go for it.”

Now as I conclude this chapter, I suppose it is confession time.  There is one time where I did drive a hearse at a ridiculous pace.  It is not something I am proud of, especially considering my current employment status.  However, I guess we were all young once and we all did stupid things.  So I will blame this incident on the folly of youth and the stupidity of my age at the time, seventeen.  I was driving one of our older hearses along the motorway and I was watching the speedometer gauge rise.  Now I should mention at this point, the speed gauge was a little different on this vehicle.  It didn’t have a needle, but had a system where a series of bars filled with liquid as the speed increased.  The hearse concerned was American and consequently everything was in mph.  Now for those of you not familiar with speeds, 60 mph roughly converts to 100 kmph.  The speedometer on this hearse went up to 120 mph.  As I drove I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be great to see all the bars full – I’ve never seen that before.  My hearse was empty and there was no other traffic around, so I slowly pressed harder and harder on the accelerator.  My heart was pounding as the bars slowly filled one by one.  80, 90, 100, I soon reached 110 mph and everything thing outside the hearse was passing me at a frenetic pace.  Trees and lamp-posts were just whizzing by.  I had never travelled so fast in my life before.  I was scared.  I was also acutely aware of the danger and my stupidity, but my heart was racing.  I was on a mission, I had tunnel vision and the only thing I was focussed on was that speedometer. The last 10 mph was hard to achieve.  I pulled myself closer into the steering wheel in a feeble attempt to get the hearse to speed up.  I rocked backward and forward while muttering ‘come-on.’  I was mindful of the fact that I was about to run out of motorway, or worse still I would be seen and would have to abort my mission.  Eventually, the hearse succumbed and the bars finally reached 120 mph – 200 kilometres per hour.  I had done it.  I immediately released my foot off the accelerator and checked my rear vision mirror.  I was hoping there was no one behind me, or at worst a traffic cop.  Luckily there wasn’t.  I had achieved my goal, but immediately I felt guilty about my actions.  I could also see the irony of the headlines if I had crashed.  I had never been a ‘hoon’ and I was surprised at my actions, especially in a hearse.  However, I got away with my deed that day.  I was usually quite a mature teenager when it came to work. Consequently, I guess this revelation about my stupidity that day will probably surprise my former employer.

Chapter Eleven:

Bits and Pieces

When I typed this chapter heading, I was in two minds whether I should use the title or not.  After all, considering I have written about death and the demise of people it could have conjured up the notion of some particularly gruesome stories.  However, rest assured it is not about those sorts of ‘bits and pieces.’  The title came from a word document I labelled when writing this, and my other book.  Obviously when writing, stories don’t come out of my head in a chronological or themed order.  Often I would think of a story, type it out and dump it in the word document labelled ‘bit and pieces,’ along with all the other random thoughts I had and story ideas.  Later I would cut and paste the completed stories from this document into various chapters as the book began to take shape.  So what we have in this chapter is a collection of stories that are left behind and have nowhere to go.  So sit back, relax and read some bits and pieces.

Some rest homes have an extra resident, a pet.  Some have a dog, birds, or fish but most of the rest homes that have a pet, have a cat.  There was one rest home in the suburb of Mt Albert which had acquired a very friendly cat, one that liked to ride in cars.  I was unaware of this cat’s arrival, and one night I was doing a removal at the rest home.  I parked discretely around the back of the rest home, at a ramp which led to the back door.  I wheeled the stretcher out of the removal wagon and I left the boot open as I went inside, to uplift a deceased resident.  Unbeknown to me the rest home cat was snooping around and entered my vehicle for a look.  After I had completed the removal I wheeled the fully laden stretcher down the ramp, and pushed it under the cover into the back of the car.  Out of the darkness the startled cat flew from the back of my removal wagon at speed.  The nurse and I laughed.  She informed me that many visitors to the rest home had to make return journeys after leaving.  This was because as they drove, they discovered they were transporting an unexpected guest, the rest home cat which had snuck into their car.

Speaking of pets, the strangest one I ever saw at a rest home was a Pukeko.  Actually, I am not sure whether this bird was a pet or pest, but I spotted it walking up the corridor of a rest home in the suburb of Glendowie.  I smiled as I wheeled my stretcher through the corridor.  The bird nonchalantly strutted ahead of me, its rear white tailed feathers flicking with each step.  At a junction in the corridors, the bird went right, I went straight ahead.  The bird was obviously on a mission, but so was I, so I left him to it.

While I am on the subject of Pukekos, I thought I would end this piece with an amusing description of a Pukeko.  Rick told me a story about his son who lived on the outskirts of Gisborne.  He had a friend visit from America and at one point he lent the tourist his car to explore the countryside.  Rick’s son was surprised when his friend returned the car and saw the windscreen was smashed.  “What happened?” he asked.  The friend replied in his droll American accent, “Gee, I am sorry about that.  I was driving past some bushes when a purple chicken flew up out of nowhere and smashed the windshield.”

Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are two celebratory days we are familiar with.  The meaning of these special days is not lost on most of us.  In modern times, there is a huge emphasis on advertising and sales from retailers who obviously look at ‘cashing in’ and lining their pockets.  However, the true meaning of these days is still here.  We only get one mum, one dad, and for most of us, they are special.  Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are the days you want to say, ‘Thank you’ and ‘I love you.’ Consequently, as a funeral director I used to feel sorry for people who lost a parent on one of these special days.   The loss of a parent is hurtful, the end of an era, the beginning of a time when you can no longer visit or pick up the phone to say hello.  Losing a parent on such a poignant day in my opinion, would make the situation a lot less palatable, especially if the passing was unexpected.  Imagine the heartache of going to visit your mum on Mother’s Day, gift in hand, only to discover she had passed away.  This scenario has presented itself to numerous people, and over the years I arranged several funerals for adults who had lost a parent on this special day.

One night I gave myself a bit of a fright when I was travelling on the open road in my removal wagon.  Dean and I had completed a removal in the early hours and we had a deceased client on board when we were dispatched to a fatal road crash.  With no time to drop our client off at the funeral home, we raced up the local State Highway in the direction of the crash site.  At one point of the journey I heard what sounded like a muffled roar coming from the back of the car.  This roar got louder and louder.  I quickly looked in my rear vision mirror and saw something flash through the mirror at the back of the car.  The object was big and orange, despite it being pitch black outside.  I initially thought we were about to get slammed from behind, by a speeding truck, even though there was no other traffic on the road.  Then I realized what it was, my boot had opened.  The roar I had heard was the sound of the road as it passed underneath us at 100 kmph.  Obviously the muffled roar got louder as the wind got under the boot and opened it, exposing more road noise to my ears.  The movement I saw in the rear vision mirror was the boot drifting upwards.  The reflection of my pulsating orange indicator had bounced off the pale vinyl interior of the boot as it rose.  This coloured flash on the vinyl had initially added to my concern about what was happening until my brain processed what was going on.  I quickly pulled over, got out and closed the boot and gave it a tug to make sure it was secure.  Our client on board had been in no danger of sliding out, but I must admit at the time I wondered what was happening.  Maybe our client was expressing disgust and didn’t want to be transported to the crash site?  Maybe it was just a loose latch?  I am not really sure, but I never had a boot open like that before, nor did I ever have it happen again. 

Attached to the funeral home I worked for was a florist shop.  This shop not only dealt with floral tributes and casket sprays for the funeral home, but it was open to the public.  Flowers could be ordered, anything from funerals to new born babies and anniversaries, through to celebratory days such as Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day.  At times, when the florists were very busy, or were sick, the funeral directors would be utilized as delivery men.  On those occasions, I used to enjoy getting out of my suit, donning on a t-shirt, shorts, and a pair of running shoes, becoming a courier, delivering bouquets and flowers for several hours across the city. 

Before I delivered flowers to an address, I would always quickly glance at the open card.  I did this not because I was nosey, but because I wanted to set my mood depending on the reason for the flowers.  After all, I didn’t want to be all bubbly and happy about delivering flowers to a family experiencing bereavement.  Alternatively, if the flowers were for a happy occasion or from an admirer, I could be jovial, and partake in the excitement or happiness shared by the recipient.

However, on one occasion, I thought I knew what the card would read when I pulled up to the delivery address.  It was an address I had visited several months earlier in my capacity as a funeral director.  An elderly male had killed himself in the garage.  I expected the flowers were going to be some sort of ‘still thinking of you’ tribute to a family member.  As I exited the delivery van I quickly checked the card and expected my mood to be a little more serious to the recipient.  However, to my surprise the card read, ‘Congratulations on your purchase, enjoy your new home.’  I knocked on the door and I was greeted by a young woman who was extremely elated with the delivery.  I wished her well, and as I walked from the address, I couldn’t help but glance at the garage.  As I drove away, I wondered if the new occupants were privy to what had happened there a few months earlier?

Unfortunately, the peaceful and tranquil setting of a funeral home does not make it immune from people who partake in ‘five fingered discounts.’  One Sunday afternoon it was discovered someone had stolen all of the funeral directors’ arrangement briefcases from our office.  The contents of these briefcases would have been useless to most people.  After all, they contained documentation and papers which we completed at the time of arranging a person’s funeral.  Those of us who lost a briefcase weren’t too concerned about the theft.  The briefcases and their contents could easily be replaced.  However, what annoyed me was the audacity of someone to actually walk around the funeral home ‘snooping’ for something to steal.  This was not a break-in.  The funeral home was staffed at the time and front door was open with a buzzer on the reception desk.  I wondered about the person who did the theft.  Was it a relative of someone we were caring for?  After all, who else would normally come to a funeral home unless they are expecting to view someone?   If the perpetrator had been disturbed they would have some explaining to do.  Walking out with five briefcases under their arms would certainly stand out. Thankfully the following day our briefcases were located, dumped in a rubbish skip behind some nearby factories.  Nothing was missing or riffled through and the briefcases themselves weren’t damaged.  I guess the perpetrator was disappointed with his booty once the cases were opened and the contents were revealed.  

On another occasion, a female staff member planted various succulents and flowering plants around the grounds of our funeral home to brighten it up.  However, her hard work did not last long.  That night, every single plant was uprooted and stolen.  My guess is these plants would have then been sold to unsuspecting customers at a weekend market. 

Unfortunately, cemeteries can also be the victims of theft.  Over the years I heard numerous reports of flowers and adornments being stolen from graves, and toys taken from the top of children’s graves.  Who does this sort of thing?  I guess some people obviously have no scruples or morals.

Early on in my career, in about 1987 our company invested in a portable/mobile phone.  I used to think it was an amazing piece of equipment, technology at its finest.  Dean was primarily the only person who got to use it, but I was still in awe.  Imagine, being able to walk down the road or travel in a car while on the phone, truly amazing.  Looking back today, it is nothing, something we are all accustomed to.  However, back then it was a big deal – and so was the phone.  It was nearly the size of a briefcase.  The hand-piece/receiver was as big as the land-line phone at home, and it too was connected by a curly chord.  The portable phone, which was a Panasonic brand, came complete with a shoulder strap to carry the thing with.  It really was cumbersome, and expensive.  Thank goodness technology has evolved since then.    

People, who get their bodies tattooed, are a lot more common these days than in days gone by.  This is especially so with European people and even more so amongst females.  Over the years as a funeral director I saw all kinds of tattoos.  I’ve seen some very colourful and magnificent designs.  Cultural tattoos, abstract tattoos, fashionable tattoos, words and dates through to tattoos which were just downright ugly.  Tattoos that ranged from big to small, and overt to discrete.  Naturally, most of these tattoos were on young taut skin, the pictures depicting the wearers’ moods, beliefs, passions or interests.  Once, I even saw a penis tattooed with ‘words’ advising women what they could do with his appendage!  

Seeing all of these tattoos got me wondering.  What will the bodies of elderly people look like in the future?  Tattoos that appear on the elderly at the moment are usually limited to men that held careers associated with the sea in their younger days, such as merchant seamen or dockyard workers.  It is not uncommon to see tattoos of sailing ships, naked women or simply the word MUM, tattooed on the wrinkly arms of men who acquired the ink when they were much, much younger.  However, I guess in the future there is going to be a percentage of elderly people, whose bodies will be a canvas of ink, containing images they might no longer be entirely happy with.  Inappropriate images which were once trendy or funny, no longer matching the persona of the wearer.  I guess as time goes by, it might be strange to see these tattoos on old and wrinkled skin?

While I am on the subject of tattoos, I once saw a documentary on television in the mid-eighties about young males being injured and killed on New Zealand roads.  In this documentary one of the emergency doctors spoke of the strange correlation between these males and the tattoos they were sporting.  The tattoos depicting death, screaming skulls or the grim reaper, were all too common on the victims who came through the emergency doors.  I thought this was an interesting observation, because as a funeral director, I too noticed these images on the bodies of many males that ended up on our mortuary table after an accident.  Interestingly, out of all of the bodies I saw that belonged to young men killed in motor accidents, the attrition rate was higher for those who had deathly tattoo’s etched onto their skin, compared to those who did not.

There is one type of removal I was pleased I never got to attend as a funeral director.  That is a suicide where an adult had not only killed themselves, but had also killed their child or children.  It was always a police callout I dreaded having to attend.  Personally, I felt as though I would have completed any such removal with anger and sadness.  Anger for the perpetrator of the deed, and sadness reserved for the innocent child or children.  Even before I was I funeral director, I used to hate reading in the newspapers about selfish people who occasionally committed this callous act.  In my opinion, if a person wants to commit suicide, then I guess it is their choice, though I do not condone it.  But to take innocent children out of the world with them is abhorrent.  I cannot fathom their reasoning.  If it is to get back at a partner after a failed relationship and the reason is to deprive the other parent of the children, then in my book that is beyond mean, it is cruel, vindictive and spiteful.  In other cases, I guess they love their children so much, they want to save them the hurt and anguish of losing a parent?  Who knows, I’m only guessing.  In my opinion though, it is an extremely selfish and self-centered act to be ‘judge, jury and executioner,’ of your own child depriving them the right to grow, learn and make decisions of their own, not to mention the right to live.  Unfortunately there have been cases in New Zealand and some of my funeral director colleagues have been required to perform this type of removal.  My heart goes out to them.  This type of police callout would have to be one of the worst kinds of removals a funeral director would have to contend with in their career.

Once I attended the suicide of a male who was desperate to succeed.  He had gassed himself in his car in the garage at his home.  Not only did he have the car running, but every other device he owned that emitted fumes was operating in the garage, the lawnmower, the weed-eater, the out-board motor and the jet-ski.  The male concerned did not want any of the fumes to escape either.  Prior to starting all these appliances he had used masking tape over any ‘air escape routes’ to prevent this happening.  He had taped around windows frames, door frames, the base of the garage door and cracks in the walls.  With the garage full of fumes, it would have taken just a short period of time for him to succumb to his fate.

Sometimes, people are desperate to succeed in their quest to end life.  I remember Dean telling me about a funeral he handled for a man who was determined to take his life, but couldn’t pull the trigger – so to speak.  Consequently, he set about a plan that would take his life.  The man set up a tripod in his room at the end of his bed.  Upon the tripod sat a rifle, the barrel aimed at the centre of the pillow on his bed.  Somehow, the man concerned rigged up the trigger on the rifle to his alarm clock, it was set for 2:00 a.m.  Apparently, the trigger was also wired to the door and windows in his room in case anyone tried to stop him.  Though I am not sure of who would have been aware of his plan.  That night, the man then went to bed, and at 2:00 o’clock a shot rang out and his life was over.  I’m not sure how he got to sleep that night, maybe he tried it over several nights until he was successful?

Another time, we handled the funeral arrangements for a young woman who had failed two previous attempts on her life.  Firstly, she had crashed he car into a wall without her seat belt.  Secondly, she had taken an overdose of pills.  However on both occasions, she survived the event.  Her family were watching her closely, aware that she might attempt again anytime.  However, on Christmas Day she appeared to be in good spirits and asked if she could take the dog for a walk.  Begrudgingly, her family allowed her to go when she swore she wasn’t going to do anything stupid.  After walking the dog to the local reserve, the young woman uncoupled her pet from its lead and she climbed a tree.  She tied the metal linked chain around her neck, and the other end around a branch.  Her third attempt at suicide was successful that day. 

My colleagues and I dealt with suicide on a regular basis, either through police callouts or funerals and we were accustomed to it to a degree.  Unfortunately though, suicide hit our place of work one year.  Sadly, one of our florists took her own life.  This young woman was very attractive, talented and she had a bubbly personality.  She had a flair for floristry, she had won numerous awards and she was a skilled worker.  She was always so pleasant to talk to.  However, I guess she was concealing demons which were troubling her.  I was not privy to what the turmoil in her life was, nor did I need to know.  Everyone at work was shocked when we heard the news of her unexpected and premature death.  As I have said before, suicide is such a waste.  After her post mortem I went to the mortuary and picked up her body.  She looked so different, not the vibrant girl we all knew.  Her smile had gone, she looked so sad, and her hair that was always immaculate with ringlets was now matted and messy.  Back at our funeral home, she was lovingly prepared and placed in her casket.  Visually, she began to resemble the person we all knew, but in reality she was not there.  A few days later, hundreds friends joined her family and celebrated her short life at our funeral chapel.  A chapel that had previously displayed so many funeral wreaths and bouquets she had personally made.  It became the turn of her colleagues to prepare one final tribute for her. 

Etiquette is not just about good manners, but thinking of others and making them feel comfortable by the way we behave and how we are perceived by our actions.  Consequently, there are certain things not done in public – noisily clearing your nose and throat is one of them.  However, I was at a funeral once where this happened.  It was a small family gathering at the Purewa Crematorium.  The family concerned was Asian.  Because the attendees only numbered about twenty, the celebrant invited everyone to stand around the bier on which the casket rested.  This kind gesture by the celebrant made it more intimate and personal.  Everyone stood shoulder to shoulder.  However, this closeness was soon disrupted by an elderly Asian female, who not only lacked standards of social etiquette, but funeral etiquette.  The celebrant’s poignant words were soon drowned out by the woman who began to clear her throat.  Her display was not a discrete cough, but several very loud hacks.  This was followed by a bout of phlegm disturbance, snorting through her nose, a rasping throat clearance and concluded with a not so subtle, hock and spit into her handkerchief.  This inconsiderate and disgusting display lasted for nearly 20 seconds, and she repeated it not once, not twice, but three times in quick succession, each time louder than the first.  I was absolutely flabbergasted at her total disrespect and selfishness.  I could feel my patience ebbing away with anger inside me looming, and I felt like grabbing her and saying, “For F#*! sake, shut up,” but I didn’t, because unlike her, I was aware of etiquette.  However, despite her obvious lack of respect, no one else in the congregation looked at her, not even a sideways glance.  Culturally, I guess for others in the group her behaviour may have been acceptable?  Yet as an outsider looking in, I couldn’t understand why.  I found this display not only rude, but a huge distraction.

Recently I was flicking through some old papers and I found a poem.  Well, it is not really a poem, but a rhyming verse I wrote many years ago while sitting at the back of a church during a funeral.  I am not sure why I wrote it, but sometimes when you have been to literally hundreds of funerals, hearing the same old things you can become a little distracted.  This poem was influenced by my religious beliefs and a book I had read at the time about people who had gone through near death experiences.

There comes a time when we must die

On which day however, is unknown to you and I

All ours days are listed in God’s book above

Each one given with His overwhelming love

We will meet our creator when our time is due

To prepare for His arrival, many things we must do

For He will look at our life on that day

Making sure we lived it, a truly Christian way

For He gave us life and watched us grow

So daily we must let our appreciation show

He will replay our life, when our time has come

Together we will examine the days one by one

We will relive the joy, happiness and tears

We will explain our thoughts, troubles and fears

We will relive all our deeds, good and bad

Feeling the recipients emotions, happy or sad

All the good we have done will make Him proud

But selfish deeds will make His head hang bowed

So treat others as us, that is all he asks

As we live our lives and its daily tasks

Giving to others all our love and care

Remembering He is also standing there

So when the tape of our life is replayed

We’ll be proud of the way we behaved

Chapter Twelve:

Without Warning

One Sunday afternoon I was called to an address to uplift the body of a young male.  The male who was in his 30’s had just come home after a run, an activity he regularly undertook.  He was fit and active, so his passing was certainly not expected and it was a shock to all who knew him.  I am a regular runner myself, so I guess this removal was a little reminder for me that life is precious and we don’t know when our time will come.  However, while this death was a tragedy for his friends, the sudden death of this young man did not really surprise me.  This was because in my career as a funeral director I attended numerous sudden deaths or had arranged the funerals for what was, relatively fit males dying unexpectedly.  A lot of these males were aged in their 40’s or 50’s, but there were also some in their 30’s and even some in their 20’s.  Now not all of these males were super fit, but they were not overweight, they were just average kiwi males, and their occupations ranged from builders and firemen, office workers and truck drivers.  When I joined the funeral industry, the number of unexpected deaths of these seemingly healthy males really surprised me.  The numbers our firm dealt with weren’t huge, but there were two or three a month on average.  In saying that, there are at least thirty funeral directing firms in Auckland and hundreds throughout New Zealand.  If they were experiencing similar numbers, how many ‘youngish’ males in this country were dying every year?  More often than not, the cause of death of these males was a heart condition, known as Ischaemic Heart Disease.  I do not profess to know much about this condition, but from my understanding the disease is characterized by reduced blood supply to the heart muscle caused by fatty deposits lining the walls of the coronary arteries.  This results in the inability to provide adequate oxygen to the heart.  Apparently, it is a risk that increases with age, smoking, cholesterol intake or men who have close relatives with ischaemic heart disease.   I have also heard it is the most common cause of death in most Western countries, and a major cause of hospital admissions.

Numbers wise, the death of these males was certainly not as high as obese or overweight people and they were nowhere near the amount of elderly deaths we dealt with.  However it was still a number that shocked me.  Interestingly, most of these males did not know they had the disease.  As a result, many of them dropped, and died suddenly without warning, either at work or home.  Their deaths often happened in front of work colleagues or their own children, whereas others died alone.  Because their deaths were totally unexpected it caused a great deal of heartache to their families and loved ones who were left behind. 

On another occasion I attended an address where a 20-year-old male died without warning.  He had passed away in his sleep and was discovered by his mother who came into his room to wake him for work.  This young man had no previous medical conditions, his death was not self-inflicted and he was extremely fit and healthy.  Naturally his parents and siblings were devastated, and they were completely baffled as to why he had passed away.  They hoped the post-mortem results would shed some light on their unanswered questions.  Unfortunately though, the post-mortem was inconclusive and pathologists could not determine why he had died.  His death was attributed to something similar to that of a cot death (SIDS), where no medical reason is found or given.  Even several weeks later, after toxicology results came through, conducted on tissue samples taken at the post-mortem, no underlying condition or cause was diagnosed.  This was extremely upsetting for the family, but in reality there was nothing else that could be done.  I had previously heard of other instances similar to this while I was in the funeral industry, but I never had firsthand experience with it until I met with this family.  Just like parents who had lost a baby without a medical reason, this family too had to suffer the effects of their loss.

Early in my career I met with a male whose mother had died suddenly and without warning at the age of 73.  Despite her age, she was very fit and active and was still working part-time.  Actually, the woman died while she was at work.  I made the funeral arrangements with her son and his family.  The son was upset, but realistic.  He said that he hoped that his life’s journey would treat him the same, in that he too would be fit and healthy and would enjoy the company of his grandkids as his mother did.  Despite his idyllic dream, a few short months later, our firm handled the funeral arrangements for this man and his teenage son who were both tragically killed in a light aeroplane accident. Unfortunately, this happened sometimes in the funeral industry.  That is, you made arrangements with one person, and not long afterwards it is they who are having their funeral arrangements made.  This scenario was not too common, but I did witness it several times in my career.

Stephen was a young man who was doing very well for himself.  He had a good job and a good circle of friends.  Stephen moved out of home and with the assistance of his bank secured his first home.  Stephen needed a flatmate to help him pay the mortgage, so he placed an advertisement in the local paper.  One of the applicants who replied to the ad was Lance.  Stephen interviewed Lance, and thought he would make a good flatmate and offered him a room.  Lance accepted, and that weekend he moved into the address.

Unbeknown to Stephen, Lance was on medication and under the care of Mental Health, an outpatient.  Support workers often visited Lance at the address, but Stephen was not informed who these people were and naturally thought they were just his friends.  After a short period of time, Stephen noticed that Lance was different, something was not quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.  Unfortunately, within a few short weeks of placing the advertisement in the paper, Stephen was dead.  One night, without warning Lance walked into Stephen’s room with an axe.  While Stephen slept, Lance delivered violent and fatal blows to Stephen’s neck, killing him instantly.  After this terrible deed, Lance went out into the garage and took his own life, by gassing himself in a car.

After police had completed their scene investigation, I was summoned to the address.  The media were present and they were camped outside and house, and once again, my arrival at the scene caused a flurry of activity.  Like I had done countless times before, I reversed my removal wagon into the driveway and carried out my duties under the watchful eye of the television cameras.  However, this removal was different, in that an innocent life was taken so unnecessarily and violently.  

The company I worked for handled the funeral arrangements for Stephen, and a few days later, his service was attended by hundreds of his friends and family, honouring the life of this wonderful young man. 

The shocking circumstances surrounding Stephen’s untimely death, and to a lesser extent Lance’s, were the subject of intense media interest and several reports followed over the following weeks and months into who may have been culpable.  Naturally, the police, the coroner and Mental Health also held their own inquiries and investigations to ensure the likelihood of such a tragedy would never happen again.

In the grand scheme of things, 48 is not a big number.  Especially when this number, is the age you are expecting to die.  I met a man once who was worried about this number.  The man had just viewed the body of his brother at our funeral home.  His brother had died unexpectedly at the young age of 48.  I spoke to the man after the viewing, he looked a little concerned and I asked him if everything was okay.  “I am a little bit anxious now,” he replied.  “Why is that?” I asked, hoping everything was okay with the viewing.  He continued, “I’ve just been thinking while spending time with my brother, and I’ve been doing the Math.   My brother has died at the age of 48, just like our older brother did 4 years ago.”  He paused, swallowed, and then added, “Our father died at the age of 48 too.”  Personally, I was surprised at the reoccurring theme, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out why this brother was worried too. “Was your father, or older brother ill?” I enquired.  The remaining brother shook his head and replied, “Nope, just dropped dead.”  “How old are you?” I asked, secretly hoping he was older.  “I’m 45,” he sighed, “I guess I’ve only got a few more years left.”  I didn’t really know what to say, I could have told him he would be okay, but what would I know?  “My wife isn’t going to be too happy when I tell her,” he added.  I responded by saying, “Does she need to know?”  The male smiled, and then laughed as he got into his car, “I’ll be okay, but it has got me thinking,” he quipped. 

As the remaining brother drove away, his dilemma also got me thinking.  Even if he was not destined to die at the age of 48, would his constant fretting about dying at that age contribute to his early demise, thus ultimately fulfilling his own prophecy?

As this book draws to a close, I thought it might be apt to conclude my stories with one on a happier note.  Those of you, who read my last book, will be aware that I am now a police officer.  As a police officer, my colleagues and I are often directed by family members and neighbours, to check on someone who has not been seen or heard from for several days.  Police will often go to the address concerned and break their way in, only to find the person has already passed away, or is in desperate need of medical attention.  On some occasions they have already been hospitalized or have simply gone on holiday without informing anyone.

Recently, I was called upon to do just this.  A woman from Wellington had been unable to reach her elderly mother on the phone over a 24-hour-period.  They usually spoke several times a day, so naturally she was worried.  The woman had contacted her mother’s neighbours in Auckland, who confirmed they had not seen the woman concerned and stated her car was still in the carport. 

My partner and I arrived at the address.  We did all the usual things, knocked loudly on windows and doors, called out the woman’s name, checked under mats and pot plants for a spare key, but to no avail.  Police communications had also tried ringing the address with no response, and checks with all the hospitals came up with nothing.  The only course of action left was to break in.  Luckily, no window needed to be smashed because the front door was ajar.  There was a locked security door but I was able to make a small cut in the mesh and reach around to unlock the door.  I entered the house, calling the woman’s name, but there was no response.  I walked into the bedroom and found the old dear, lying on her bed.  The prognosis didn’t look good, she looked pale and stiff.  “She’s in here,” I called to my colleague.  I reached down to the woman to see how cold she was.  As I placed my hand on her shoulder, I was slightly taken aback when she turned to me and said, “Hello.”  Luckily, I am not the type of person who is startled or shocked easily.  The woman soon sat up, wondering why we were in her home.  Once I gave her the hearing aid, which she had taken out, it made the process of explaining the situation a lot easier.  It also explained why she had not heard the phone or our rowdy banging on the doors and windows.  The woman had the onset of dementia, which meant she wasn’t aware of the infrequent communication with her daughter. The woman’s daughter from Wellington happened to ring while we were at the address, so everyone was happy, and my colleague and I left them to chat.  It was a happy outcome for what could easily have been another sudden death.

In closing, I realise there are a lot of stories in this book, and my previous book, about people who were killed or died suddenly, without warning.  Nevertheless, despite my writings, these people are still in the minority.  After all, I haven’t written about the thousands of people who died in their 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and beyond.  Statistically, your odds are good.  So please, don’t worry.  The majority of people I dealt with as funeral director lived to a good age, saw in their retirement and enjoyed a happy and fulfilling life. 

However, we all possibly know of someone who died sooner than expected or at a young age.  Unfortunately, some people are destined to be called from this world before they reach retirement or old age. 

A friend of mine recently showed me a photo of a young woman who had passed away from cancer, leaving behind two young children.  My friend said to me, ‘Plan for tomorrow, but live for today.’  Those words got me thinking, and I can certainly see the merits of this piece of advice.  In my opinion, you still need to make your future plans, keep fit and save for your retirement, but make sure you really enjoy life along the way, just in case.  My advice is to ditch the boredom in your life, make friends, not enemies, laugh, love, pray, give to charity, experience new things, travel, and treat yourself.  Do the things you have always wanted to do, don’t wait.  After all, life has a way of accelerating as we get older, the days get shorter and the list of promises to ourselves gets longer.  Time is precious, so is life, use it wisely.

Epilogue

I left funeral directing in 2003 and joined the New Zealand Police.  Ironically, the guy who replaced me at the funeral home was an ex-police officer.  However, his foray into the world of funeral directing did not last long.  He left the company within a year and is no longer funeral directing, but I am still policing.  I am enjoying my role as a police officer and the variety in my days which this career can offer.  The eight years I have served in the police thus far, has gone very fast.  I am still learning new things every day, I have seen and experienced a lot, and I have found myself in situations I never thought I would be in, including being shot at.  Patrolling damaged streets and buildings in Christchurch, and its ‘red zone’ for two weeks after the destructive earthquake in February 2011 was surreal, and it is another event I never expected to encounter.

Throughout my policing career, I have seen the best in people and I have seen the worst in people.  I have made some good friends along the way and the camaraderie amongst my peers is excellent.  

I am often asked if I miss funeral directing.  To be honest, at times I do, but there are also times when I don’t.  Both careers, policing and funeral directing, have their positives and negatives, just like any job really.  However, they are both greatly rewarding at times, and that is what I truly love.

When I concluded Six Feet DOWN UNDER, I closed the book with a piece of advice.  That advice was to write down your life’s experiences. This is because we all have memories of places we have been, things we have experienced and people we have met.  I suggested you shouldn’t keep the memories of your life to yourself. I stressed the importance of writing your life’s experiences down, even if it is only for your family’s sake.  That way, you too can leave a legacy that will interest the generations to come.  I also mentioned that the experiences of your life could be a book in the making.

That advice still stands, but I would like to conclude this book with another piece of advice.  That advice is, tell your family and friends that you love them.  This is the one thing that I heard time and time again from people delivering funeral eulogies.  Now I don’t want to get too melodramatic here, but I have witnessed this numerous times, if not hundreds of times.  All of the speakers had the regret they didn’t get a chance to say to their loved one, before they died, how much they loved them.  Many of these speakers had lost a loved one unexpectedly, either through an accident or a medical event such as a heart attack.  All of these speakers wanted another chance to say, ‘I love you’ to that person.  All of these speakers said to the congregation, ‘tell your family and friends you love them,’ and they reiterated the need to ‘tell them today.’  The world is full of sudden deaths, accidents and natural disasters.  In the past 12 months, even New Zealand has experienced some mass tragedies.  We do not know when disaster will strike or what the future holds.  Some of the stories in this book are reminders about the fragility of life and the unexpectedness of death.  Basically, we do not know when our time will come.  So in closing, this is my advice to you.  Because we do not know when we, or our loved ones will be called from this earth, tell your family and friends you love them, TODAY.

Take care, God bless.

Six Feet DOWN UNDER

When people hear you’re a Funeral Director the reactions vary.  Some quickly change the subject, but the majority of people asked plenty of questions.

This is because there is an element of mystique about the profession.  Consequently, people want to know what you do, and what you’ve seen.

This book starts from my early days as a Funeral Director’s assistant through to becoming a Funeral Director.  It covers stories of tragedy, stories of laughter, stories of interest and some of the things that can and do go wrong!

I worked for a leading Auckland funeral directing firm for eight years.  I worked there on two separate occasions – 1986 to 1989 and again in 1998 to 2003.

This is my story, my thoughts, my observations.  From dealing with bereaved families, or helping the New Zealand Police at tragic roadside smashes and murders, through to the funerals themselves.  From funerals attended by the Prime Minister and high class society, to funerals attended by street kids and drug addicts.  From funerals where attendance is in the thousands, through to the funerals where nobody came.

A Funeral Directors job is not all grief and sad stories.  There is sadness associated with this industry, but it also has many moments of laughter, joy and boredom.

However, it is always, always interesting.

This book is available to be purchased for your Kindle from Amazon.com