It was a long stretch of highway, a ribbon of asphalt that seemed to run forever. No towns to break the monotony.  No houses scattered about that could give one a false sense of security should anything happen that required assistance.  Not even a street light to chase away the absolute darkness.

There had been two routes from which to choose, both leading to the same destination, both leading through the same scenery. Dark . . . desolate . . . heavily wooded . . . . on both sides of the road.  He had been fortunate in his years as a funeral director.  The late night trips had not come regularly, but tonight it was his to make.  Over an hour one way to a place we might refer to as the no-man’s land of death care.  No mortuary services close enough to assist.  No full service funeral home with which he was familiar that could make the removal and shelter the remains until morning.  The call had come around midnight and after reviewing the lack of options, he realized the journey was his to make.

The trip over was uneventful, the staff at the facility helpful but possibly not quite awake which was understandable. After all, it was the middle of the night.  With his passenger safely inside and securely in place, he began the trip home.  And then he came to that desolate stretch of uninhabited highway . . . and he began to speculate.  What if the staff was so tired that they accidently missed the faintest of heartbeats?  What if his passenger wasn’t really deceased but just barely alive?  What if she started making noise . . . directly behind his seat . . . while he was driving down the road . . . by himself . . . in the dark . . .

His foot may have gotten just the slightest bit heavier until civilization came into view.

It was this same funeral director who, after meeting a family at the hospital in the wee hours one morning, returned to the funeral home and, as he exited the vehicle to raise the garage door, realized they had followed him—and were approaching him. Big, burly men who could snap him in two like a mere twig.  Where could he go if that was their intent?  And how would he know before it was too late?  They had been distraught at the hospital, but not angry. They had not really wanted him to leave, but understood that he must.  Why would they have followed him . . . and what should he do?  Dashing into the building was not an option.  The garage door was still down and, being old and cantankerous, was likely to balk at the most inopportune time.  Back into the van?  By then they were too close for that to serve as Plan B.  But they only wanted to be certain he knew who held the Power of Attorney for Healthcare and, therefore, to whom we should listen when the time came to make arrangements.  And they didn’t want other members of the family to know they had that conversation with us, so what better time than at 2:00 in the morning behind a dark building?  Later he observed that, at that precise moment, he realized he could die doing this job.

If you’ve been in funeral service very long, you’ve had your scary moments, most of which are manufactured by overactive imaginations but a few of which are very real. The manufactured ones will put your nerves on edge and force you to look over your shoulder more than once.  But when it is reality that comes calling, all you can do is weather the storm—there is no avoiding it—and then be grateful when it passes and all you are is wet and a little wind-blown.

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