My passenger is crying.  Her husband­—my dear friend—is in a coffin under the canopy of the orange pickup ahead.

The truck leads our convoy from Victoria, heading north on Vancouver Island. It’s a cold, bright morning in January. Snow like dirty flakes of soap is piled up on the sides of the icy road.

I follow close behind, not wanting passing cars to come between us. I love the three men travelling ahead. I track the time they’ve been in my life: sixteen years for Martin, seventeen for my son, nineteen for my ex David. Memories elbow each other aside, fighting for my attention.

Martin, his nail brush moustache cantilevered over a canny smile. The teller of truths I didn’t always want to hear:

“That divorce will be gruelling and take at least two years.”

“Your house looks shabby, needs painting.”

“If I were you, I’d grab some Grecian Formula for that grey hair. Don’t know what you use, but you need it now.”

His announcements were usually followed by a curt “That’s the reality of it,” and any protests received a dismissive grunt followed by ”Dream on!” A gruff man working to hide his compassion and sensitivity without success.

My son Luke, the wise one, with wit as dry and sharp as a wishbone.

David, seaman of many voyages, captain of his friends psychic ships faltering through swirling night hurricanes.

I slide a cassette into the player. Dylan hones the edges of our history together:

Then time will tell just who fell

And who’s been left behind

When you go your way and I go mine.

After a couple of hours driving we all pull into the parking lot of a roadside restaurant.

Martin stays in the truck.

Martin died alone; we wanted to be with him now

The plans for this unexpected pilgrimage began when a police officer brought Martin’s wife Janet to my home. Hours before, she found Martin on their sofa, dead. Without warning, his heart had stopped beating after 44 years. Friends were called and we gathered around the old kitchen table, the wood seasoned with years of our laughter, secrets, and tears.

We agreed to do as much as we could without using a funeral home. Martin died alone; we wanted to be with him now. He wouldn’t have wanted canned music in a funeral chapel or a stranger speaking of him, or of the meaning of death. We learned from the Coroner’s office that we could take care of all the funeral arrangments ourselves, except for the Union job of digging the hole at the cemetary.

It would take four of us to dress Martin and put him in the coffin. Being the one among us who has worked around sickness and death, it seemed natural that I should volunteer. Nevertheless, I felt doubtful about my offer.

Could I really do this?

I was frightened by what I might see, what I might feel, and fearful of not doing things “right.” We were all silent for a while. I was ashamed to realize that I  had hoped no-one else would volunteer; that way, we would have to use a funeral home. My son said he wanted to help, that he would come with me. It was not the first time his quiet courage had led me. Two other friends at the table that night offered their support.

The celebration cloth

Conflicting emotions began to spill out of us; surprise and gratitude that burying Martin ourselves was allowed in what we believed was an over-regulated society; apprehension, as we had never done this before, nor did we know anyone who had. We had nothing to guide us but our will.

We took care of the paperwork, then rented a truck to transport the coffin. With more time, we could even have built the coffin, provided it was the regulatory seven feet long. We bought a very simple one, payed the cemetery digging fee, and went to get Martin.

When we arrived at the morgue, we were greeted by two nurses who were expecting us. The gentle, warm women led us into a damp chamber. They left us alone with Martin’s body and waited in the next room.

We stood around the table Martin was laid on. He was inside a thick plastic bag, sealed with a wide zipper. We reached for each others’ hands and a prayer was spoken asking the Great Spirit to be with us. I slid the zipper open.

Little was said as we worked together to cleanse and dress the body of our dead friend. We lifted Martin into his coffin, placed our privately chosen gifts inside, rested the lid on tip and carried him to the truck.

My daughter Pagan draped a white linen tablecloth over the coffin and arranged cedar fronds along the centre. A few weeks earlier Martin had joined us for Christmas dinner. The table had been set with the same cloth, decorated with cedar from the same tree. The cloth is now embroidered with his name. When those in our family or friends marry, have their babies, or die, we will use the cloth again and add their names to it. The celebration cloth.

Nothing to fear

I think about the richest celebrations life has brought me – giving birth to my children, making love with my beloved for the first time, preparing Martin for his last trip with us – I was afraid before each of these holy callings; too short, none was a moment. There is nothing to fear. These are the ancient, mysterious human experiences and in their embrace, fear falls away.

The reality of death

We leave the roadside restaurant and the cortege continues its journey. It is dusk now, trees veiled with mist. We carry Martin into a friend’s home and pass the night with him.

There he lies, dressed in his favorite clothes: green plaid flannel shirt,  crumpled gardening hat, and his soft old shoes. His body is dead, but I feel his presence.

My daughter, eyes soft with love and awe, tells me she will never be afraid of death again.

Reflecting on this sacred ritual, it seems the real cost of using a funeral home is not a financial one, but a spiritual one. Being with Martin in death has carved deeply into the wonder of my living.

Tomorrow we will take his body on the ferry, across the water, to the cemetery in the small community where we all once lived; we will give him to the earth.

You are dead Martin.

That’s the reality of it.

Dream on.

Breakdown of funeral cost:

Coffin – $400

Fee for digging of the grave – $464.38

Fees at Vital Statistics Office – Registration of Death – $50

Burial Permit- $27

Total: $941.38 (as of 2000)

Steps to be taken:

1. At the Vital Statistics office, fill out the Registration of Death certificate and obtain the Burial Permit.

2. If the Coroner has been involved in investigating the death, take these two papers from Vital Statistics to the Coroner’s office to obtain the Medical Certificate. Otherwise, the doctor who attended the deceased will provide you with the Medical Certificate of Death.

3. Take the medical Certificate back to Vital Statistics for verification.

4.Notify the Registrar of Cemeteries at the office of the Attorney General of your decision to transport the deceased to the cemetery.

5. Purchase the coffin if you have not made it yourself and pay the fee for the digging of the grave to the cemetery you have chosen.  A home-made coffin can be of any wood, including plywood and particleboard. A purchased coffin is less expensive if obtained from a store listed in the Yellow Pages under Caskets, rather than purchased from a funeral home.