The sun hovered above the horizon at four p.m. on that November day in Alaska. Conducting a quick mental calculation from my office, I realized that if I departed promptly, I could pick up my children from daycare and squeeze in 20 minutes of sledding before darkness descended.
Grabbing four red-foiled Hershey’s kisses from the community candy bowl on my way out, I headed to our Chevy Traverse where my five-year-old daughter and three-year-old son eagerly awaited, fueled by chocolate and the prospect of sledding.
While they debated who would take the first ride on the orange sled, known for its speed, my phone buzzed in the cupholder. Glancing at the screen, I recognized the number.
“Hello. It’s Michael,” a voice identified itself from one of the funeral homes in Anchorage.
Katherine Witt is pictured with her college roommate at their graduation from the United States Air Force Academy in 2012. Image courtesy of the author.
Building rapport with the local funeral directors had been a priority for me, engaging in casual conversations before addressing business matters. However, Michael was not one for small talk. His responses were brief, steering the discussion back to the task at hand, and he displayed impatience when he felt I contacted him too frequently for updates or suggested alternative inspection times.
During our initial collaboration, I inquired about the embalming duration, to which he bluntly replied, “I’ll inform you when it’s completed.”
Today was no exception. “Can you arrive by 5:15?” Michael’s deep, mechanical voice inquired. “We’ve just received the remains from the medical examiner, and tomorrow is a full day of services.”
As a , my responsibilities included examining the deceased service member’s remains at three stages: before any preparation, after cleaning and potential embalming, and once fully dressed for services. Ensuring the service dress uniform’s impeccable appearance was also part of my role, verifying all necessary accouterments were in place.
Typically, I managed my visits to the funeral home during work hours or when my husband, Jeff, was available. On one occasion, a last-minute favor from a friend had been necessary, resulting in a spaghetti dinner and impromptu art session for my children.
Although I aimed to shield my children from the mortuary and its intricacies, I couldn’t refuse Michael’s urgent request, mindful of the grieving families awaiting closure. With no time to seek assistance, I glanced at my children in the rearview mirror, traces of chocolate lingering at the corners of their mouths. “Certainly. I’ll be there shortly.”
* * *
After a brief stop at home for essentials and a partially charged tablet, I resettled my kids in the car.
“Mommy, I thought we were going sledding,” my daughter voiced her confusion. “Why do we have to get back in the car?”
“I apologize,” I explained. “I have one more work obligation tonight, and Daddy is working late. No sledding today, but we can have a quick bath after dinner.”
“Bath!” they chorused.
Heading south on the Glenn Highway, we listened to . Recalling our family trip to Maui months earlier, the kids had protested against Alicia Keys and Shane Smith and the Saints, leading us to our compromise—George Ezra, a reminiscent soundtrack of blue skies and warm sands amidst the dark Alaskan winter.
Katherine Witt’s family joyfully greets her return from deployment in May of 2020. Image courtesy of the author.
Upon arrival at the funeral home, the deserted lot prompted me to park in front of the veiled window overlooking the reception room. Pausing the music, I turned to address my children.
“I need to step inside for a moment. Promise to stay here, strapped in. I’ll be just beyond that window.”
“What movie can we watch?” my daughter inquired.
“Your options are The Incredibles or Ice Age. Promise to stay put?”
“What snacks?” she pressed.
“Choose from Cheez-Itz, granola bar, or Goldfish.”
“Can we have candy, please?” my son chimed in.
While I had gummy bears as a backup bribe, I allowed them a treat before reiterating, “Yes, you can have some candy now. Promise to stay in the car? Movie is on. Snacks are ready. I’ll be back shortly. Can I trust you?”
Engrossed in the movie, they reluctantly tore their gaze away to assure me, “We promise, Mommy.”
Entering the funeral home foyer, the scent of embalming chemicals and fading florals mingled with citrus air freshener, triggering a wave of discomfort. Familiar piano melodies filled the air as I met Michael, ready for the task at hand.
“Are you prepared?” he inquired without preamble.
Glancing back at my car, my children out of sight behind tinted windows, I nodded, ready to proceed.
Katherine Witt reunites with her children following a seven-month deployment in Afghanistan. Image courtesy of the author.
Following Michael into the preparation room, I stood by as he unveiled the covered table bearing the remains. Clasping my hands tightly, I observed the deceased individual, his face a stark reminder of mortality. The man’s body had been utilized for organ donation, leaving a clean, small hole at the crown of his head.
Expressing gratitude to Michael, I requested a notification upon completion of the cremation. Exiting the funeral home, I embarked on the journey home, eager to tuck my children into bed and have a moment of solitude.
“Are we going home, Mommy?” my daughter queried.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay, Mommy?”
Suppressing my emotions, I managed a nod, concealing the turmoil within.
Our Journalism Relies on Your Support
Back at home, my children immersed themselves in a warm bath, unperturbed by the absence of our sledding plans. As they played with rubber duckies and toy dinosaurs, I set up a speaker playing George Ezra, creating a serene atmosphere. Ensuring a towel-lined barrier against splashes, I left them to their imaginative play, retreating to the solitude of my thoughts.
Sinking to the floor, tears streamed down my face.