What not to do in Japan: die
(This article, which first appeared in the
Japan Times of August 6, 2005,
is reproduced here in Eyes on Japan by kind permission of the
author.)
As a veteran resident approaching his
28th year in Japan, I would like to offer some simple advice to tourists,
newbies and fellow graybeards as well. Which is:
Do not die here. I'll wager you will
not enjoy it.
This is not a comment about final
destinations, or even about the port of embarkation. For I suspect in the
larger picture of life, Tokyo or Osaka are just as fine for dying as
Tahiti, Palm Springs or Maui. At that point, one is supposed to savor the
moment and not the locale.
It's what comes next that I would
like to warn you about: the bill.
Now I myself have not yet died,
although readers will sometimes question the health of my prose. Whatever,
I did live with a dead person for four days last year and thus consider
myself somewhat of an expert on death's resounding knock, especially when
it comes to paying for it.
No matter the country, funeral
companies rarely offer discounts. Mark Twain once commented on how the
price of a plain wooden box can skyrocket if you stick a corpse in it.
Still, when my elderly mother-in-law passed away last spring, I was
unprepared for how much yen would soon go up in smoke with her.
Grandma — that feather of a woman
who had dwindled her last eight years as a mellow member of our household
— was gone. After a lengthy cry, my wife went to telephone family
members while I sat beside Grandma and stumbled through small talk about
how fine she looked, how warm the weather was and what a lousy son-in-law
I had been. I could have sworn I saw her nod.
My wife interrupted to announce that
the phone calls had all been made, including a hurried buzz to a party she
had almost forgotten — an undertaking firm.
Nobody better than an undertaker
understands that death takes pause for no one. Hence, the company car
arrived in a heartbeat. Two men stepped out and they came bearing gifts.
To be precise, they brought dry ice. Which seemed to be just what Grandma
wanted.
After an exchange of introductions, a
moment of paying respects and then the solemn packing of the ice, we
retired — with Grandma's now chilly approval — to the living room to
discuss the arrangements.
At this point we learned why the men
had come as a team, for they soon began to play "good undertaker, bad
undertaker."
The Good Undertaker seemed almost
overcome with grief. He opened his catalog and humbly presented his
company's three funeral packages, which I will label "Very
Expensive," "Double That" and "The King Tut
Plan."
"But," the man choked,
"don't worry about costs. We will work something out that will be
meaningful and match your budget as well."
"That's right," spoke the
Bad Undertaker. "Yet you should know that most people who choose the
first package end up being haunted. And then they lose all their friends
for being so cheap. Not that we would ever tell anyone, of course."
This he offered in a voice not quite loud enough to wake the dead, but one
surely audible to our neighbors.
So we chose the "Double
That" package. Next we had to decide on options.
"It's a small thing," said
the Good Undertaker, "but would you like the dearly departed's
funeral portrait to be ringed with flowers?"
We asked what was the difference.
"Thirty thousand yen more,"
said the Bad Undertaker. "That and the fact that only people with
flowers can get into heaven. That's basic eschatology."
We chose flowers. Next we were asked
if we required a hearse, for it was not part of the package. Faced with
the sweaty picture of my wife and I lugging Grandma's coffin across Tokyo,
I said: "Why, yes. A hearse does sound convenient."
"Fine, fine. Now . . . would you
like a driver for that?"
A driver was not part of the package.
Neither was his honorarium, nor honorariums to the various crematorium
workers, over and above their regular salaries, plus oodles of other
extras including funeral munchies to eat while the family waited for the
oven to perform its final, grim duty. If you're wondering about the
difference between funeral munchies and regular munchies, the answer is a
300 percent markup.
But this was all for Grandma, so we
said, "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" until at last the Bad
Undertaker wore a smile. But the next question was this:
"Now, how would you like her
DNA? Set in this attractive bracelet or in this rather tasteful
pendant?" The Good Undertaker showed us photos.
DNA? We scrunched our brows.
"Does this mean . . . we can have her cloned?"
"You never know. The world is
changing and one day some DNA might come in handy."
The prospect of having a tiny version
of Grandma crawling about was too much to imagine, even though it did
provide a solution for the older model's remaining diapers. Yet we
declined the DNA.
"You can't. It's part of the
package."
At this point, I decided to retire
from the discussion and go sit with Grandma. With her, at least, I knew
the conversation would be intelligent.
My wife eventually nodded to even
more extras and then the men promised to return in the morning — with
more dry ice . . . and perhaps a few more charges. How much? In general
terms, enough to fly to Tahiti, Maui or Palm Springs and die there in
style.
"Remind me," I told my
wife. "never to die. I can't afford it. It's one side of Japanese
culture I think I'll skip."
"Hush. This is not a time to
quibble over costs. My mother would agree."
Grandma, however, proved as patient
with my humor in death as she did in life
. . . and offered no comment.
©Thomas Dillon for the Japan Times 2005 All rights
reserved
Editor's note: Sincere thanks to the author for
his kind permission to republish the above article, which first appeared
in his regular Japan Times column "When East Marries
West".
This page last updated 2008-06-16
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