His hands felt just the same.
I went to see Kieran today, nineteen days after he died. For various reasons – delays at the coroner’s office, the complexities of a pandemic world – this was the first opportunity I had to do so. Yesterday the funeral directors dressed him with care in the clothes I had painstakingly selected, and today I dressed myself carefully, too; if this was the last time we would be alone together, I wanted to look like I had made an effort. I wore a dress that he bought me, a brooch he gave me for Christmas. He would have said I looked nice. But he always said that.
In the first moment of seeing his body, I felt a terrible lurch of unfamiliarity. Even with the undertakers’ care and attention, of course he looked different. Nineteen days after death, the only way he could possibly look like he was “just sleeping” would be with a heavy coat of make up, and I didn’t want that. But after that initial stomach swoop of something close to horror there was a deeper pain – the pain of familiarity, of recognition. That so much of him was just as I’ve known it for so many years. His skin was very cold, but with his hand in mine I could feel the dear familiar fingerprints I have known for so long. Kissing his lips felt different, but the top of his head, the little fuzz of hair that grew there that I have scritched affectionately so often over the past thirteen and a half years – that too was just the same. I’m not sure I can quite explain the strange blend of comfort and agony of that.
I’m writing this to have a record of it, but I could keep that private. I already know that there are plenty of things about this journey that I will keep for myself alone. I suppose perhaps I’m also writing this because I know there are other people out there who have done this same thing, or who will face doing it sooner than they would like, and I want them to know they don’t have to be afraid of it. I am fortunate that my Irish and northern English Catholic background means that I have never found it disturbing to be in the presence of the dead; that to me it’s a natural thing to kiss the face of someone who has departed, knowing they are both themselves and not themselves all at once, and that this last taking care of their body is a ritual of deep love. I know not everyone is brought up to think that way, and yet they may find themselves in a situation where they want to see a departed loved one and they feel afraid of what it will be like. It should never be something anyone is forced to do; but if you choose to do it, I don’t think you’ll regret it.
After I picked my daughter up from school, I sat with her and told her about seeing Daddy’s body. I asked her if she wanted to see it – she said no – and I explained what a funeral means, and said she can come if she would like to. She said she isn’t sure, and I said that’s alright. She isn’t even six yet, but in this, as in much else, she deserves to make her own choices. I will guide her in this, as I navigate my own grief, but she is her own person, whole and entire. Adults so very often shy away from honesty with children, fearing bringing them pain; but while honesty sometimes hurts, it is a far cleaner pain than half-truths and obfuscation.
Just before she fell asleep, Grace turned to me and smiled – a very sweet sort of smile, one that comes from the heart as much as the mouth. She said she would have good dreams tonight, and fell asleep with her hand in mine. I held her hand as I held her daddy’s, and said to her what I told him today: I love you, and we will be alright. Time to sleep.
Rachel E. Moss 
Take care of yourself.
Oh, dear Rachel – you are a brave and wise woman. Thank you for this. I’m sure it wasn’t easy to write – it’s not easy dealing with all these things – but I hope you found comfort and redemption in the writing. You inspire and comfort me. I embrace you.
Really glad to hear you got this opportunity, and you extended it to Grace too. I’ve seen first hand how powerful and positive an effect viewing the loved one’s body can have on grieving relatives. It seems to help make it real for them, so they can come to terms with what has happened, and that leaves them much more settled after. Perhaps seeing them in person actually helps you see they’re not there anymore.
I think too that there are things you need to say to your loved one, and even if you know they aren’t really “there” any more, saying it to their dear body is still better than just saying it in your head.
Rachel .. this is wonderfully done.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts in such a simple honest manner that has touched us all.
thank you x
I related so much to this. The shock. The familiarity cloaked in absence. The coldness. All of it. It’s gut wrenching but I’m glad I did it. Sending you and your brilliant little Grace lots of love.
I’m sorry you have reason to relate but thanks so much for your kind words.
I am glad you went to see your beloved Kieran and I am sure you were right to do so, I am only sorry you had to wait so long before you were able to.
My late father died a couple of months after my 17th Birthday. He was 68 – 23 years older than my mother and had heart disease. I had gone to school that morning and he had been sitting in his usual chair beside the fire. I had home economics and was making a pineapple upside-down cake; one of his favourites .
When I came home from school he was gone, quite literally gone.
Mum explained that he’d stood up to get his cigarettes from the mantelpiece, had a massive heart attack and died. He had already been taken to a chapel of rest.
Mum insisted , in her wisdom, that I go and see him, because she thought I would find it hard to believe that he was really dead and might always wonder whether he had walked out and was still alive somewhere . I am grateful that she did that and believe she was right.