Editorial introduction
In this post from John Cooley, a funeral becomes the setting for a conversation no coordinator is ever fully prepared to have. A teenager, standing apart from the crowd at his father's service, confides something that shifts the entire meaning of the ceremony: he did not recognize the man being eulogized. It is a quietly devastating account of what happens when officers give everything to the job and almost nothing to the people at home.
I recently read a newspaper article about a man in his mid-twenties who had never known his father because his father had been killed in the line of duty when the boy was a toddler. A tragic story. The man went through the formative years of his life not knowing his father.
This story reminded me of another young man who didn't know his father either—though for very different reasons.
As a funeral coordinator, I met many families and developed a rapport with many family members. After the funeral of one officer, I was at the home where the family was gathering to prepare for the reception. The officers who had attended the services had to return to the station to change out of their uniforms and had not yet arrived.
I noticed the deceased officer's seventeen-year-old son standing off by himself, and I walked over to talk with him.
He looked at me and said that if he had not known the funeral was for his father, he would not have recognized the man they were describing. He commented on how all the eulogies spoke of someone who was always there for his fellow officers—who was so much fun to be with, who was the BBQ master at all the station parties and fundraisers. He looked at me and said, "Sergeant Cooley, who were they talking about?"
I was dumbfounded. I had no answer.
He continued. He told me how he and his mother had never been on the ski boat parked in the driveway. His father refused to take it out on weekends because of the crowds and only used it during the week with his police friends. His mother worked during the week, and the son was never invited. His father always had weekdays off because he preferred to work weekends, when traffic was lighter and there was more going on at work.
He didn't know his father was a BBQ master because his father never used the grill at home. His mother cooked every meal. He never repaired anything around the house or took care of the yard. The yard was the son's job. The stories went on—an absentee father who, by choice, chose his buddies and the job over his wife and son. It too was a tragic story.
The picture became all too clear. The officer had his family at the station. His whole world revolved around being a police officer and those he worked with. When I first met the family and began making the funeral plans, I was given a tour of the house. The officer had his den—a small converted bedroom with a large recliner, a big-screen TV, a small table on one side, and an ice chest on the other. The wife explained that her husband liked to relax with a cold beer and a good movie. There were hundreds of films on shelves around the room. She hinted that he spent a great deal of time there.
I was the funeral coordinator, not a counselor—but even I could see that this family had been estranged from one another despite living under the same roof. The den was a sanctuary: one chair, one ice chest, one TV. It was not for the family. I came to the conclusion that the officer likely had problems with alcohol. At planning meetings at the station, his friends told hilarious stories involving drinking and camaraderie on water-skiing trips and at station barbecues. The words dedication and commitment were always associated with the job. None of the officers mentioned his devotion to family.
My conversation with the son was interrupted by the arrival of the officers who had attended the funeral. They arrived in style: at the front of the caravan was a pickup truck with the bed filled with cases of beer packed in ice. It was time for me to leave. I shared some personal thoughts with the son and made sure he had my business card and phone number. I spoke with the wife and reminded her that resources were available to help both her and her son through this difficult time. I promised myself to keep in touch.
I shared what I had learned with a department psychologist, who acknowledged that because the family was no longer officially listed as dependents, he could only offer short-term support—but he would be generous with the definition of "short-term." He said that if they needed continued support, he would help them find a good referral rather than simply directing them to their insurance provider.
I also spoke with the station chaplain, who promised to keep in touch with the family.
I met with the station's recently assigned commanding officer. The story did not surprise him. The station was one of the oldest in the city and had a reputation for its camaraderie. He knew there were officers who had been on the same watch longer than he had been on the job. He appreciated what I shared and said he would look into how, from a management perspective, he might be able to reduce the likelihood of similar situations occurring in the future.
When I read that article about the young man who had not known his father because he had been killed—and I remembered the young man who should have known his father—I found myself wondering which man had experienced the greater tragedy.
As a funeral coordinator, I often encountered family situations I found deeply distressing. My job, and first priority, was to help the family plan the services. But that did not mean I couldn't care—or try to connect them with resources and support that might help. Someone needs to care. If not me, who?
By John Cooley | Policefunerals.com