Middleclass Death

(not to be confused with the death of the middleclass)

I didn’t realize until now that death is a class issue as much housing, taxes or dinner reservations in Manhattan. And until late last year I didn’t realize how fortunate I am to be able to afford the experience of middle class death.

November 13, 2011 was a quiet Sunday. I had just come back from Whole Foods and was puttering around the house in my sweats when I got the call I had been dreading every since my father was diagnosed with incurable bladder cancer. His wife phoned to say that the hospice nurse estimated that he only had a day or so left to live. I had watched this scene in movies but now this was real life and it was my life. I shifted to some kind of autopilot, ran to the computer, booked a flight to Palm Springs for 3pm, showered, threw some random items in a carry-on, kissed my husband and dog, and grabbed a cab to Newark Airport. Eighteen hours later I was holding my father’s hand as he took his last breath. Forty-eight hours later I was on a flight back home to seek much-needed comfort in the arms of my own family.

My father had asked to be cremated, and his wife and friends planned a small, spiritual “celebration of life” (judgment of that title withheld…well, at least not expressed on this page) in Maine where they had lived until last year. So, three weeks later my husband Steve, our dog and I -- along with my sister and her two kids -- drove up to Kennebunk, Maine and stayed in the local Comfort Inn (very accommodating for pets but a lousy continental breakfast) to attend my father’s lovely and tasteful memorial service. As my sister drove us home, we cheered ourselves by playing Bruce Springsteen on the ipod and singing at the top of our lungs.

But this nostalgic comfort came to an abrupt end somewhere in the middle of Connecticut when my husband got “the call.” His mother had been admitted to the hospital ten days before with a nasty infection that she contracted in a nursing facility a month earlier (figures.) She was deemed "on the mend" just the day before (hence his decision to accompany me) but now her blood pressure was dropping rapidly. My sister drove at the speed of light – or as fast as her Altima would take us. But we were too late. We burst into her hospital room and saw such a peaceful look on her beautiful 90-year old face that we knew she was gone.

At once, Steve and I were thrust deep into a new level of middleclass adulthood as some “great men” have power thrust upon them. We were faced with decisions about flowers, prayer cards (an entity I needed defined), burial clothes and coffins. We made endless calls, texts and emails to everyone his mother ever met and most of our friends too. And we pulled off a lovely, appropriate middleclass funeral in Astoria, Queens. Something I had looked down my new-age, modernist nose at for years. Of course, ironically, this bastion of middleclass tradition of prayers, goodbyes and endless lines of well-wishing friends brought me more comfort than I could have imagined.

It also brought a hefty bill: $11,000.  My sister’s jaw dropped when I told her the sum and she asked, “what would someone do if they couldn’t afford to pay.” Good question, I thought. And I gave it a lot of thought.  I added the funeral bill to the cost of several flights out to Palm Springs, the trip to Maine, dresses needed for all occasions, dog-sitting and a myriad other death-related costs and all of a sudden I didn’t feel so resentful but wonderfully grateful that I was able to afford these things. I could be with my dad without hesitation, I could honor my mother-in-law appropriately and not have to worry about the money.

Then came the paperwork: the endless bills from the hospitals, Con Ed, credit cards and the like; searching through years of disorganized files for bank statements, 401 (k) documentation and life insurance policies. And slowly our gratitude turned to anxiety and fatigue ,and we began to wish that we – like the 1%ers -- had “people” to handle these things. We pined for a staff of lawyers, accountants, trust managers and personal assistants to do this painstaking work so we could just sit around and feel sorry for ourselves for being down two beloved parents at Christmastime.

And there it is,  Middleclass Death: forcing you to grow up when you least expect it and adopt  the trappings of tradition, then demanding your time and energy when you feel you are depleted. But, in the end, enabling you to take stock of what you have, and reminding you of what is truly important and what eventually will pass – as everything does.

Lovingly dedicated to two extraordinary middleclass parents:

Richard A. Azeez and Dorothy Archer Dahut.