The Gatekeeper

Hands clasped in front, nodding and smiling genteelly to the incoming guests, Andrew Cumby bowed his head after the last guest entered the sanctuary, and closed the big doors behind him.

With a quiet reserve in the vestibule with three other men, he bowed his head, stifled what little he can of a tear, and began to massage his palms.

The service was about to begin for the 4 months old baby.

Sitting there with an open heart and a sad smile, Cumby remembered how quick the whole process was for this one.

Three months ago, after the baby was born with a heart defect, doctors made a mistake during the surgery and shortly thereafter, the heart gave out.

Then, on a clear sunny day, Cumby received a call to say his 4 months old grandson had died.

The appointment was set for the next day; the couple said the sooner they got it over with, the better.

“We just sat down at a table, we made the arrangements, and it was all done within the same week,” Cumby said.

The next day the viewing of the baby was set in a small parlor room, where the tiny figure laid next to a wooden sideboard with added candles and a polished wooden cross.

“That was the hardest for me, the viewing of the baby,” Cumby said.

Even as an expert in the art of compassion, Cumby remembered to stay a respectable distance from the family.

“You feel like you are a part of them and you really feel their grief, but you still have to maintain a distance,” Cumby said.

The following day in the sanctuary, flashes of parents and three other children with the open-mouthed, smiling baby flooded the projector screen.

Tears fell like rain drops, and palms gathered sweat particles before Cumby rose from his chair.

“They thought the baby was fine, and they knew it was born with a heart defect, but the death completely threw them,” Cumby said.

After the hour passed, Cumby sauntered back to his designated spot before taking the family in the black limousine to the Guilford Memorial Park Cemetery in Greensboro, where the baby was to be buried.

The final day approached, and Cumby took a deep breath again before he rang the doorbell.

The wife answered, accepted his flowers, and signed off one final time in the black registration book he carried.

Cumby closed the book, gave her one final smile before shaking her hand and saying goodbye.

“I felt relief on my end, but also sadness that the child was gone both physically and spiritually,” Cumby said.

Once the torch was passed to him to carry on the family business, Cumby has been working as full-time director for ten years now.

“I love it, I absolutely love it, even if I have two or three more deaths going on at the same time,” Cumby said.

“I learned it over time, and what I love about it is getting to know and talk to people,” he said.

The business is, however, unpredictable in regards to scheduling events with the family.

“They call you when they need you. Sometimes you get up early to meet them, or in the middle of the night; it’s very unpredictable,” Cumby said.

“Are you going to be home tonight?” is a constant question for his wife to ask.

He could be home for several days, and others he could be at the office until 4 a.m. and then have to come back in at 7 a.m.

“I can have four families to see in one day, and often, it’s split up between the different events going on during that week,” Cumby said.

He could have one viewing in the evening, followed by a service tomorrow of that same family, then also have another viewing from another family planned that same night.

“One of the hardest things,” he said, “is the death of children.”

Like the death of the 4 months old baby, “should I tell my wife this?” Cumby asked himself.

Against his good judgment, he told his wife even though she’s about to have their first child.