My True Story of Our Green Burial

I directed my kids to drive to the Honey Creek Woodlands adjacent to the Conyers, Georgia Monastery to choose a green burial plot.

Our house was buzzing with activity as Karen rested in the small apartment space we turned into an impromptu hospice.

Amid the mayhem, I picked up the phone and talked to my kids:

“Choose one for me while you’re there,” I added with a hint of snark.

After my kids arrived, they put me on the phone with the Honey Creek Woodlands “Steward.”

“This is a beautiful meadow with native grasses, a small oak growing nearby, and a tranquil view,” the Steward intoned.

“I’ll take it,” I replied, having bigger fish to fry.

Karen rested for most of the day, attended by her beloved friends. In the spirit of the film Wings of Desire, I started calling them her Angels. At each poignant moment of finality, Karen awakened from her flirtation with the other side.

“Life is so sweet,” she murmured, sparkle intact.

Those four words would guide me in the difficult months to come.

Hospice nurse Fey came by to offer a glimpse of her mission.

With her old-time religion, I saw how Fey ministered to the dying like a ferrywoman on the Southern branch of the River Styx.

Karen’s massage therapist, Gail, arrived unannounced to offer craniosacral therapy. She held Karen’s ankles for a long time to restore the energy flow.

Gail turned to me from the end of the bed to whisper, “I was brought up as the daughter of a preacher, and at a young age, I learned to tune into the spirit world. This room is full of them. There’s one just above Karen right now.”

It took me a moment to realize who “them” were. I thanked the spirit beings for making an appearance on my birthday.

Today was my birthday. I wasn’t sure about the etiquette for hosting a birthday party in the kitchen while your wife is dying in the back room.

Should guests be given a meeting with the person of honor? Do we pop open beers or speak in hushed tones? At a minimum, the house should appear tidy, so I rushed around to hide the piles of papers. As I scurried, an ancient postcard plopped out of a strangely misplaced envelope. I turned it over to discover a 1982 love note I had sent to Karen.

I read the scribble from a younger me:

“Business opportunity seems to be coming my way these days, and I comply, but I am far more interested in Love Opportunity with my Suzette.” (Her nickname at the time.)

Well, that was inopportune. A vortex of grief swallowed me whole. I went upstairs and let two days of wailing pour out.

When the “party-goers” arrived, I instinctively entered host mode.

I shook off my confusion about how to host and decided to love up the guests. How strange – these people came to support me! What a concept, “ME!!! And not Us.” For a brief moment, I felt strong, complete, and whole, rather than fractured and broken.

After the birthday pie with a spectacular lattice crust, I invited people to visit Karen. Some people instinctively disappeared while others assembled on the outdoor deck, doors open, a few feet away. As they peered through the door, I felt ashamed to have foisted such a jarring vision — to see their once-vital friend hovering between worlds, looking gaunt. My musician friend Anahata broke into song.

After the guests left, I slid into bed, defeated at last by the crushing fatigue. I cowered under the covers like a child and let the demon thoughts pull me under the surface – until Julie summoned me at 5 am.

“Karen is restless and in pain, and we gave her four doses of medicine,” Julie nudged. “I think she needs your support.”

That’s where my birthday ends – typing this story at Karen’s side while savoring a glorious slice of verboten pie.

December 8 – Welcome to the House of No Sleep

The house is bursting with Heavenly Hosts. Twelve of us are taking shifts. You’d think we could distribute the load so everyone could get some rest. But no, this is The House of No Sleep. Sleeping in The Bed of Emptiness brought me to the precipice of despair, so why sleep at all?

Julie woke me at 5 am after a 3 am shut-eye. “Karen needs you. We gave her four doses of morphine and can’t get her to relax.”

I lined up three chairs and stretched alongside, cradling her in my arms. Sufi chanting from another lifetime returned to my heart.  I sounded “Allah-Allah-Allah…” in rhythm to Karen’s gentle moans.

By morning, the Angels of the House buzzed around with love and intention – food, dishes, dog walks, wall charts, a house meeting, reassigning bedrooms, medications, bathing Karen’s body, readjusting her position, and catnaps.

The doorbell rang for a surprise delivery from a Turkish restaurant – two dozen containers of moussaka, grape leaves, soup, salads, appetizers, and grilled kabobs. (Thank you, David and Lynden). We gathered in the kitchen like famished angels, giddy to feast.

“Who’s with Karen?” I called out. “Shit, nobody’s with Karen!” I ran up the stairs to perform a visual check. Breathing, yes. But it’s shallow, VERY SHALLOW!

I ran to the kitchen. “Karen is hovering!”

Everyone put down their food and ran to join Karen. If this were sci-fi, the ceiling would open to reveal the stars – and maybe that’s what happened. The firmament gave way as Karen’s breath softened into a wisp.

With one final flutter of a butterfly’s wing, Karen left with pin-drop perfection.

Hitchcock must have cued “action” because Nurse Fey immediately entered through the back deck door. In a film, the on-the-nose timing would be suspect, but it got my attention.

Fey listened for Karen’s breath, felt for a pulse, stethoscoped her heart, and announced, “She has passed. 5:23 pm. It doesn’t get more beautiful than that. She is free from pain. Let’s clean her up before your people arrive,” she directed.

Gently, the Angels removed Karen’s garments one more time, moistened cloths, and prepared to rock her to one side. As they turned the body, they gasped.

“Bruce, don’t watch!” Fey ordered. “Get me gloves, towels, rags! Remove the sheets and pillow into plastic bags.”

I considered not sharing this scene, but here it is. When they turned Karen, a river of fluid spewed from her abdomen and mouth. The collective shock was not from the visceral release but from the realization that Karen had been enduring weeks and months of unimaginable distress inside her sweet body. Always suffering but rarely complaining. Even Fey was shocked.

Angels face life as it is. They washed and dressed Karen, disposed of the linens, trashed the medical debris, lit candles, and began to sing. They adorned her chest with roses and arranged bouquets throughout. We sat silently for a long time.

On cue again, the transport team appeared at the door.

“We’re here from Phoenix Funeral to transport the deceased.”

“Are you taking her this minute?” I asked, feeling unsteady as I faced the Full Weight of Finality.

“We’ll be out in minutes.”

“Will you be taking her out on a stretcher?”

“Fireman’s body bag.”

“Should I watch?”

“I don’t recommend it. You don’t want the last image of your beloved to be a body bag.”

So, I chose not to watch. Bridget sat close to me, stroking my head. I closed my eyes, breathing quietly, letting my heart fill with light.

Naturally, I opened my eyes.

As the macabre scene unfolded, it became clear, like a Vegas magic trick, that Karen was not in the bag. A smiling radiance filled the crown of my inner sky. Yes! Yes! Yes!

Good work, Karen.

One final note: Karen’s moment of radiance will stay with me forever, and now I know why. Researchers running an EEG on an 87-year-old man stumbled on a surge in gamma brain wave activity when he suffered a fatal heart attack during the study. The brain released a final gamma burst of ultra-coherent wave activity after the heart stopped. Not only does death release us from form, but at the moment of death, they may have recorded the soul releasing into the broader field of consciousness.^[1]

I dreaded the burial, not the finality, but my lack of emotional bandwidth.

My friend, Bridget, said wisely, “Karen has been leaning on you for months, even years, and now it’s time to lean on her. She is offering you that.”

Shelly, our medical intuitive, underscored, “Karen is sticking around to guide you in embracing the subtle worlds.”

I put these together and leaned on Karen as my son drove our shrinking family to Honey Creek Woodlands. We gathered and then drove through the woods in a procession. As the mourners took their seats, I realized there were no invitations. Every guest would be a surprise — our yoga teacher, work colleagues, cabin neighbors who drove three hours, two Turkish musicians, and my childhood friends from Chicago. I always believed that an invisible thread connects our hearts, but it isn’t until you face a crisis that you truly know who’s who.

A frigid wind whipped harshly as I read from Rumi:

“Listen to the story of the reed as it laments the pain of separation —  Those ripped away from their beloved know my song.”

I invited my friend Anahata to read from Thich Nhat Hanh:

“Our greatest fear is that when we die, we will become nothing. Many of us believe our entire existence is limited to a particular period, our lifespan…

The Buddha taught that there is no birth and no death. Our belief that these ideas about birth and death are real creates a powerful illusion that causes us a great deal of suffering. When we understand that we can’t be destroyed, we’re liberated from fear. It’s a huge relief. We can enjoy life and appreciate it in a new way.”

After my childhood friends butchered the Kaddish like stand-up comedians, the mourners returned to cars and snaked through the woods to the green burial site.

At the director’s suggestion, I walked alone, maybe 40 steps, one for each year of our lived history. I wish I could convey the shock of seeing my life partner shrouded in cloth — a saint in a basket adorned with roses. The Karen of laughter, stolen kisses, illness, crises, and triumphs lay surrounded by blossoms like a mystic bride.

A natural burial is all about the dirt — a dust-to-dust return to Mother Earth. For the scientists reading this, in natural burial, graves are typically dug 3-4 feet deep, which is shallower than conventional burials. This depth allows for better oxygen flow, promoting decomposition by bacteria and carrion beetles. It also aligns with the goal of maintaining a complex soil food web and returning the body to the earth.

I knelt and felt her being — her presence so palpable, I imagined the famous director Buñuel calling “Action” and Karen blurting, “Fuck this!” We’d blow kisses to the crowd and snag a bus like Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross in The Graduate.

But that didn’t happen. The earth was ready to receive her. I placed my forehead against her torso and let a surge of grace flood my being. Fully humbled, I knew Karen was now my teacher, guiding me from the unseen world. What a turn of events.

Karen’s student Cavit chanted the Fatihat:

“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds…”

We lowered her shrouded body on straps while the mourners chanted, and a hawk circled the sky. I sneaked off to a golf cart to release my spill-gate of feeling. People saw me disappear but had no clue I was crushed, like grapes on their journey to wine.

My sons stayed behind to shovel earth onto their mother. I’m all for natural burials, but I couldn’t desecrate her beautiful body. I hitched a ride home. Later, my sons reported that only one other family in the last 12 months offered to shovel dirt onto a beloved.

^[1]              https://news.louisville.edu/news/uofl-researcher-explores-what-happens-our-brains-when-we-die

 A year went by before I visited the grave site. 

I planned each hour of her Anniversary Day, including cooking, cleaning, setup, and music. Unfortunately, Karen’s best friend, Carole Anne, threw in the wrench:

“I want to drive to the burial site.”

Ashamed, I had to say yes. I hadn’t visited Karen’s grave or even ordered a marker in 12 months. When you find your partner alive in your being, visiting the remains seems ridiculous.

We piled into the car, drove 40 minutes to Honey Creek Woodlands, hopped on a golf cart, and headed down the trail for about a mile to Meadow 2. I walked down the wooded path until boom —  the déjà vu hit full force.

Twelve months ago, while rounding that bend, my heartbeat stopped when Karen came into view, laid out in a basket rimmed with flowers and a spray of roses on her heart. Natural burials are all about the dirt — no funeral trappings — just the real-deal-dirt of Mother Earth.

We rounded that same bend to discover her burial mound covered in wildness — random brush, ragweed, native grasses, and ant mounds. Like it or not, we purchased the dust-to-dust plan, and nature delivered. We busied ourselves, pulling weeds and making a big “K” out of stones. When I rested my head on her bosom, Karen’s little dog Miko recognized the scent instantly.

Doggie Darshan is a thing.

^[1]              https://news.louisville.edu/news/uofl-researcher-explores-what-happens-our-brains-when-we-die