GriefSPEAK: The Mortician’s Daughter – Mary Nardolillo Dias, EdD

By Mari Nardolillo Dias, EdD, NCC, FT

“…..But February made me shiver, with every paper I’d  deliver, bad news on the door step. I couldn’t take one more step….., (American Pie, Don McLean”)

With February 2025 almost in the rear-view mirror, I would be remiss if I did not reprint the iconic story of my dad, his passing and the Station Night Club Fire.

It’s complicated when you’re a girl; even more so when you’re the only girl in an Italian family with three brothers. My father was a second-generation funeral director, and I maintained a tacit understanding that I would be the third generation. As the oldest, I would be the first to join the business.

As a precocious, erudite 4-year-old, I learned to read by sounding out words from the obituaries in the local newspaper. Sitting on my father’s lap during breakfast, I would beg him to read them aloud as I studied the pictures. Many times, I felt cheated because the information was so brief. I often asked, “Daddy, how could Claire Jones, age 94, only have one paragraph to describe her entire life?” I was often frustrated as well; they never disclosed the cause of death. So, my father and I changed venues and began reading the New York Times, where the obituaries were lengthy and full. They did not disclose the cause of death either but offered clues. “Sam Wiley, age 83, died peacefully at home, surrounded by his loving wife and children. Donations in Sam’s name should be made to Hospice.” Cancer.  “Abigail Hargraves, age 64, was found dead in her home. Donations may be made to the Diabetes Association.” Diabetes – no guessing there. I began to fill in the blanks, recalling Einstein’s quote:

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.”  

By age 7, I advanced from obituaries to corpses. My mom, the hairdresser for the funeral home, saved babysitting money by taking all four children along when she had to “do a head”. My brothers were not quite as interested: I was fascinated. I always stood on the kneeler, so I could get the best vantage point. So, this is Jennie Brown, age 54, who died suddenly at home. Heart Attack or Aneurism.  

When my middle school’s science curriculum required a science fair project, I embalmed cow hearts. Year after year I submitted an embalmed cow’s heart to the fair. Sure, parents rolled their eyes, and everyone complained about the smell, but I stood tall and proud. After all, I was the mortician’s daughter.  

My father was magical to me. I remember a Christmas party where he left me alone and scared, but when I sat on Santa’s lap, it was my father’s mischievous, blue eyes that winked at me. He had such happy eyes. I also thought my father was famous; after all every family in town chose him to bury their loved ones.

As an adult traveling in Rome, I chose to have an engraved gift for my father blessed by the Pope. When I gave the salesgirl at the Vatican gift shop his name, her hands immediately flew over her mouth as tears came to her eyes. “Ah, yes, he buried my sister. Please send him my gratitude. I will never forget him.”  

One of my most memorable moments occurred at age 12, when I received permission to observe the embalming process. No more cows’ hearts for me! I felt I had graduated to the big time. I sat on a folding chair in the doorframe of the morgue (OSHA regulations prevented me from entering). I imagined this was my father’s final exam; if I passed this, I would be the first to work side by side with him.

That evening at the dinner table, I expected my father to congratulate me and admit it was a test. He didn’t say anything. We shared the obituaries in silence until I couldn’t wait any longer. “Dad, did you hear what I did today?” He responded: “yes, good job,” in a very staccato voice. “Doesn’t it mean I am ready to be a mortician now?” “No.” My excitement was cut short. “No, No!? What do you mean no?” I exclaimed. He put the paper down, took off his reading glasses and calmly stated: “Because you are a girl,” as if I should have been aware all along that my gender was a detriment. His logic escaped and devastated me. I would never be allowed to follow in my father’s footsteps. Freud’s concept of penis envy reared its ugly head. I was so angry! I felt I was misled by a Potemkin dream.

Still, I was driven to make my mark. Still aiming to please my dad, I pursued an alternate dream. I knew my father respected knowledge and education above all. I went on to study English and Psychology. When I began to pursue my doctorate, I finally got my father’s attention. Finally, he was proud. On the phone with him in Florida, we discussed the dissertation and my impending defense. He couldn’t wait until he could refer to me as “My daughter, the doctor”.  

My dissertation defense was scheduled for Monday. On the preceding Wednesday, I received a telephone call from my mother. My father had choked on a piece of calf’s liver while dining with a group of his friends at a favorite Floridian restaurant. He suffered a heart attack due to a loss of oxygen and was on life support. Despite his living will, I begged my mom to keep him on life support until I arrived. February school vacation combined with driving New England snow made all flights impossible. It was three days before I arrived. My dad died while on life support, and was waiting for his children, embalmed at a local funeral home.  

For the second time in my life, I found myself in a morgue; this time I was old enough to enter, and the man on the slab was my father. He was so cold. They dressed him. I slowly and carefully put his socks and scapula on him. I combed his hair and kissed his cheek. We flew home accompanied by my father in his casket, his funeral scheduled for the following Monday at 10am. My doctoral defense was scheduled for 1pm. I attended the funeral mass, said prayers at the cemetery, and delivered his eulogy. Immediately following the funeral, the limousine drove me to a doctoral defense I don’t remember. When finished, my committee members asked me to leave the room. When I returned, they each took a turn shaking my hand, saying:  

“Congratulations, Doctor”, and then offered their condolences. I returned to the collation.  

Robert N, age 73, died suddenly in Florida. Donations may be made to the Parkinson’s Disease Foundation. A hundred other obituaries, victims of the Station Night Club fire, obscured my father’s obituary. As I stared at his mischievous eyes looking back at me from the page, I felt sad, and a selfish disappointment that my father’s obituary did not stand alone, allowing me to concentrate on filling in the blanks.

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Dr. Mari Nardolillo Dias is a nationally board-certified counselor, holds a Fellow in Thanatology and is certified in both grief counseling and complicated grief. Dias is a Certified death doula, and has a Certificate in Psychological Autopsy.

Dias is Professor of Clinical Mental Health, Master of Science program, Johnson & Wales University. Dias is the director of GracePointe Grief Center, in North Kingstown, RI.  For more information, go to:  http://gracepointegrief.com/