I’ve been fascinated by death as long as I remember.

Just before I turned eight, my Grampa Lewis died. The event left a lasting impression on me. He had gone to the hospital, puffy and deteriorating from kidney disease, at age 56. I remember that Dad parked the station wagon with faux wood paneling in the hospital lot and we all got out and stood there in cold December sunlight. Strict visiting hours prevailed then, and no kids were allowed, period. Dad pointed up to Grampa’s window, where he waved down at us through the glaring glass as we waved back. The youngest of four children, I was too embarrassed to admit I couldn’t locate him in the anonymous grid of windows.

At the funeral, I grappled with whether or not to look into the casket. Both available options seemed horrible—be forever haunted by a vision of dead Grampa, or guilt-ridden because I hadn’t respected him enough to look.

As a parent, I know no child should feel alone with that type of decision. But this was the 60s, when feelings weren’t discussed. Although neither an open casket or an embalmed body are traditionally Jewish, Granny must have decided she wanted it this way. At the last minute, […]