Dad died. In a flash. During the few seconds the nurse left him sitting up in his chair while she went to get his medication. I had no warning except for a very restless night's sleep the night before he died. That night I kept seeing him, felt I was in his room and that I was comforting him with his anxiety. Maybe in my sleep I helped him prepare for death. 

His nurse told me he was doing fine when I called the nursing home the day before. So when I got a message to call the doctor the following night, I thought we'd talk about adjusting his medication or running another test. I was not prepared for her sword- like words "Your father passed away this evening." I gasped with a sudden intake of air. I was surprised I hadn't "sensed" his death as I did my mother's. I felt badly that he died alone but figured he wanted it that way. He wasn't much for fanfare and never wanted to be a bother to anyone. 

Dad didn't much care what I did with his body. Members of his family had been cremated and he spoke favorably about that. When my mother died 20 months earlier, Dad was appalled and upset by funeral bills approaching $6,000. Later he said to me he thought funerals were a big rip off and how he'd read an article saying cremation was cheaper. 

Now he was dead so I had to call the funeral director to pick his body up from the nursing home. I was so glad I had prearranged funeral arrangements only a month earlier. This allowed me several peaceful days of adjustment before facing the funeral. 

I had asked the funeral director if I could accompany my father's body to the crematorium. I couldn't imagine my father being there alone. Even with the visitation hours and church services I couldn't bear strangers carting his casket away afterwards to be put in an oven and reduced to three to nine pounds of bone fragments. I had to be there for Dad. I wanted him to know I cared and that he wasn't alone while his 81 year old body underwent a transmutation. 

I needed to be there for myself to get a sense of completion about Dad's death. Although certain crematoria are set up for visitors and even church services, the one used by Dad's funeral home was not. His was to be strictly an industrial operation. The funeral director seemed concerned about the setting's negative emotional impact on me. Once he understood that I understood and I assured him I had already "seen all" working in a hospital, he was willing to grant me permission to be there, knowing I wouldn't swoon during the procedure. 

It was a good thing no other relatives or friends went to the crematory because of its stark setting. The brick building surrounded by barbed wire was nothing more than a garage in a commercial real estate zone. The building was not noticeably labeled as a crematorium. Passersby would never know it was there. The hearse driver told me to wait in the car while he went in to talk to the director. 

When he came back for me, I walked in and met the crematorium director. He was a sensitive looking man who could have passed for a computer techie. I was glad he wasn't some slovenly type with a cigarette butt hanging out of his mouth. The men had placed Dad's casket on a level dolly. At the far end of the room yawned what looked like two huge beige bakery ovens or maybe CAT scan machines I'd seen in hospitals. The men looked at me and asked me if I was ready. They seemed sensitive to my feelings. 

They rolled the dolly towards the left oven. They then lifted and slid the entire casket into the oven's open mouth. They asked me if I wanted Dad's casket cover floral arrangement burned along with his body. 

"Yes, those were his flowers," I said. 

They lifted the blue and white flower arrangement into the mouth of the oven. The overhead industrial lighting temporarily set the ribbon's gold lettering ablaze. "To Dad, with love from your daughter" flashed the lettering. I heard the screech of Styrofoam from the base of the floral arrangement rub against the tight clearance of the oven's roof interior. A few loosened chrysanthemum petals fluttered slow motion to the floor. An attendant quickly dustpanned them away, looking at me quickly with concern.

There was Dad, my Dad, now in his casket in the crematory oven. I had this uncontrollable urge to make sure he was comfortable just like when I used to plump up his pillow in the nursing home bed. I felt there must be something I could do or say before they shut and bolted the heavy crematorium door. So I leaned in and said "Good-bye, Dad—I love you. I always have and always will." The director's face flushed scarlet. He looked as if he was going to cry. 

The director asked me if I wanted to turn on the oven. I saw his question as offering me some control in the uncontrollable process of my loss. "Yes," I said. I looked at the control panel of the oven calibrated in thousands of degrees. My finger poised above the toggle switch. I felt as if I were a child about to do something I was going to get in trouble for. I looked at him with a "are you sure this is going to be all right?" look. He nodded. I flipped the switch. 

Hearing the oven roar set the reality in for me. The realization of what was happening went beyond tears, beyond sorrow. This was not about grieving; this was about comprehension and being stupefied. This technical piece of oven equipment was separating me from what used to look like Dad. Dad, as a body, would no longer exist. The oven would see to that. Through heat and evaporation Dad's body would be reduced to its basic elements. The most shocking thing about cremation was that Dad would go from a physical body... to a series of ideas. That oven seemed to have a lot of power. 

The director told me the cremation would take several hours. There was nothing to do but leave. I didn't sense Dad's spirit nearby. Maybe he figured it was time to move on, too. I thanked the crematorium director for allowing me to be there for my father's final journey. The young pall bearer said "I understand. You wanted to follow through." 

... Yes, follow through, that was it. I felt I did that. On the way out I walked past the melted metal caskets from other bodies and other cremations. I passed the large modified coffee grinder used to crush the remaining bone fragments and walked out the garage door into the sunlight. 

As we pulled out of the crematory parking lot, my husband said "Hey, look at the tomato plants growing alongside the crematory building," and we laughed at the absurdity of it. I noticed the pall bearer now leaning up against the hearse joking around with the crematory director. Apparently they were good friends after the hundreds of trips the hearse driver made to this crematory. This was probably just another business day for both of them. But instead of their comradery striking me as inappropriate, their friendliness, the ripeness of the tomatoes and even the industrialized look of the place seemed comforting to me. All of it meant life went on. I waved at the men, wished the tomato plants well and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I had completed my journey with Dad.

Click Here To Read Transformation, the preamble to this article.

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Nancy Wright is a freelance writer, author, speaker, and Reiki Master specializing in metaphysical, inspirational, alternative healing, paranormal and travel topics.  She is author of Suitcase Down The Nile: A Spunky Woman's Transformational Journey Through Egypt which is now available through Amazon.com. For an autographed copy of her nonfiction book, send a $19.95 check made payable to Lexigram Books/PO Box 693/Westford, Mass.  01886.  For book signings, writing, speaking or paranormal research engagements, email: NancyWri@aol.com, Website: www.lexigrambooks.com.