You Know It's Been a Bad Day When Your Wife Picks You Up at the Airport With the Hearse

-by Jay Jacobson, LUTCF, CPC, CFSP

I returned from a conference to discover that my wife was picking me up with the hearse. Now this might not seem so unusual for people in the funeral profession, but my wife never drives the hearse.

It wasn’t the fact that the flight was delayed three hours or that my suitcase decided to vacation in Denver while I flew to Des Moines. It wasn’t even the three toddlers behind me who reenacted WrestleMania for the duration of the trip. No, the moment I knew the day had truly gone sideways was when I stepped onto the curb at the arrival terminal—and there it was: the charcoal grey funeral coach idling at the curb, with my wife Shelly behind the wheel, not so much waving as glaring over the top of the steering wheel like she had a bone to pick with the universe—and maybe with me.

There’s nothing quite like watching a crowd of bleary-eyed travelers shuffle past a hearse and whisper, "Oh no," while tightening their grip on their carry-ons. Some made the sign of the cross. One guy took a selfie with it. I just stood there, my shoulders slumped, wondering what life choices had led me to this particular punchline.

Shelly rolled down the window, her expression somewhere between weary and exasperated. "Jay, honey, hop in. There's been a lot going on today."

"There's hot coffee in the cup holder and McDonald's in the bag," she said.

So there we were, cruising down I-235 in a vehicle built for last rides and final goodbyes, sipping coffee and eating a quick Quarter Pounder, as though this were any ordinary Friday.

And maybe that was the point. In our line of work—when grief and grace coexist daily—you take joy where you can find it, even if it means being the punchline at baggage claim.

Bad day? Sure. But as Shelly handed me a Quarter Pounder and turned down the radio, I realized it could’ve been worse.

While I was away at the conference, Shelly had been holding down the fort at the funeral home. I’d left her with a brand-new student hire who barely knew which end of the gurney rolled forward, and the neighboring funeral home was covering all of our death calls. In theory, it should have been manageable. But then the neighboring funeral home got swamped with calls of their own and suddenly wasn’t available when all hell broke loose at ours. In reality? It was chaos. But Shelly handled it with grace and dignity.

Just as she was about to leave to pick me up at the airport, three death calls came in—almost back to back. The first was a transport case: someone had passed away out of town and their remains would be shipped to our funeral home early next week. Manageable. The second was anything but: a fatal motorcycle accident involving an 18-year-old, and someone needed to respond to the scene. The third—well, that was the reason I was about to be picked up at the airport by a hearse.

An older gentleman had passed away in Des Moines and needed to be transported to the University of Iowa within the next few hours.

With the neighboring funeral home now overwhelmed and unavailable, Shelly went into command mode. She sent our brand-new student hire in the first call van, paired with one of our seasoned employees, to the accident scene. Before they left, she got on the phone with the officer who had reported the death and let him know that a student would be arriving—asking if he could help guide them through the scene.

Then, thinking ahead, she placed the gurney in the back of the hearse and headed to the airport to meet me. The plan was simple: I would take over the call from Des Moines, and together we’d drive the two hours to Iowa City to complete the transfer.

Because of course, nothing says "welcome home" like a road trip with your wife, a Quarter Pounder, and someone’s loved one in the back.

At least she didn’t bring the gurney for me.