When my husband died, I had him cremated. In the course of making the arrangements, the funeral home offered to sell me all sorts of urns, memorial jewelry, and plaques, and finally, the director told me they could take my husband’s fingerprint and have it engraved on a necklace charm or something else for me. “You can purchase the urns or plaques any time, but of course, we need to know if you want his fingerprint before we cremate him,” the director explained.
I said no quickly and effortlessly to all of it. The fingerprint was easy to dismiss because my husband used to joke that he had no fingerprints. The carpentry work he had done for decades and the many accidents he’d had involving power equipment that shaved off layers of his fingertips had left him with nearly smooth finger pads. He joked that he could commit a crime and leave no fingerprints behind. When he got an iPhone with touch ID, the salesperson tried to help him set it up for 20 minutes before conceding that indeed, Tom had no fingerprint.
I didn’t give my no to the fingerprint a second thought until I went to pick up his cremains a few days later and realized his fingerprint was gone forever. Never mind that I knew he didn’t even have a fingerprint. Never mind that I could put a blank charm on a necklace and claim it was Tom’s fingerprint and no one, including me, would know the difference. I didn’t want a piece of jewelry with his fingerprint on it until it was a complete impossibility.
I was talking with a widowed friend recently who regrets throwing out a threadbare T-shirt of her husband’s. The T-shirt didn’t ring any bells with her when she found it in with is other clothing and it was too worn to give to someone else, so she put it in the trash. Months later, she noticed that he was wearing that same T-shirt in many photos and realized it must have been one of his favorites.
It doesn’t matter to her that she still has many of his other shirts. It doesn’t matter to me that I have a ring with some of my husband’s cremains in it and several bracelets with his handwriting on them. We want that one thing that is impossible for us to have now.
I think if she found the T-shirt—maybe she didn’t throw it out after all and it turns up later in the back of a drawer—or the funeral home called me and said, “We accidentally took your husband’s fingerprint,” we’d find something else to fixate on. She’d pine away for a watch of her husband’s that she gave away and I would wish to have back one of the dozens of tape measures my husband had, many of which I gave out as party favors at a gathering.
It’s not about the fingerprint or the T-shirt. It’s about the deep aching loss of our partners, the wishing for one more day with them, one more T-shirt, one more hand hold, one more anything. Just one more. It’s about fighting the foreverness of death.
When I think about not having gotten my husband’s fingerprint, the thought, “It’s gone forever” rings in my head. I made a decision that can never be undone. My therapist says I am trying to find something I can control. I can’t control that my husband is dead, but I could control that fingerprint decision.
I used to tell myself I was being stupid when I got upset about the fingerprint. “You’re such an idiot,” I would say in my head. “You don’t need a stupid fingerprint charm, get over it.” Or worse: “Well, you should have gotten the fingerprint when you had the chance, dumbass.” But being mean to myself about it didn’t make the feelings pass sooner, it just made me feel stupid on top of being sad.
Now I try to show myself the same compassion I showed my friend who was upset about the T-shirt. If you’re trying to comfort someone who is struggling with the foreverness of death, here are some strategies to try.
- Because it’s an illogical longing, an approach based on reason will fall flat. Reminding the person that there are other T-shirts won’t make them feel any better. This is not a time to worry about what makes sense.
- Hold space for their sadness. Listen and offer support without judging or trying to fix things.
- Invite them to tell some stories about the thing they are pining away for. The last time I was upset about the fingerprint, my daughter asked me how Tom had lost his fingerprints, and soon we were laughing hysterically about him making boomerangs on a job site.
- Acknowledge that it sucks that the thing is gone. Don’t look for a silver lining. Don’t say “at least you have [fill in the blank].” These approaches minimize the pain the person is feeling.
Note that if you are the someone struggling, you deserve the same kindness and compassion your friends do. I mentioned above that I said things to myself that made me feel stupid, but I would never try to make a friend feel stupid on top of being sad. Why would I talk to myself that way?