I always phone the family the evening before a funeral, to see how they’re doing, reassure them that everything is ready, and check whether they want any last-minute changes to the plans. So I phoned Tom on Monday night. He was briefly on his own, as Janet had gone to the shop, and he seemed glad to talk to me. I asked him how he was feeling, and he said the loss of Ella was beginning to sink in.
‘I’m used to her not being here in the house, Zinnia, because she’d been in hospital and then in the nursing home for months. But I’m not used to not seeing her. Even up to the last week of her life, we were still talking and laughing together. That only stopped when she was really woozy from the morphine, or asleep, or unconscious at the end. I still spent lots of time with her every day, of course it wasn’t ideal in hospital, better in the nursing home where she had her own room, but I didn’t care, I would have gone anywhere she was. I wish I could see her again.’
That was more than he’d said during the whole of my visit last week and my heart went out to him. I casted around in my mind for something that might give a little comfort and remembered a phrase I’d learned in my training. I’ve never really understood it, but I’ve trotted it out a few times and it seems to do the trick.
‘It’s so sad when someone you really love dies, Tom. But the love doesn’t die, does it?’
He didn’t answer straight away, and I wondered if I’d misjudged the situation. But when he spoke, his voice was stronger and clearer.
‘You’re right, Zinnia. And I’m really glad you’ve said that. I thought I was imagining it, but I can feel our love, all around me, here in our home. Although I’ll never see her again, in a way she hasn’t left me. And I think she’ll always be with me.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, as convincingly as I could. And the talk turned to plans, and Janet came back, and I had a chat with her too, and we said our ‘see you tomorrow’s, and that was that.
I thought about it afterwards, happy that Tom had felt a bit better for a moment, but still unsure about this ‘love doesn’t die’ thing. I think it does, actually, just not at the same time as people. I wondered whether I’d fed him a fantasy that would prove unhelpful in the longer term.
Yesterday I met the family outside the crematorium as usual, and they welcomed me with hugs. Tom’s cheek muscles were still rigid, his eyes frozen and unhappy, but he smiled with his mouth at the people nearby.
The only thing that Tom had said about the funeral was that he wanted ‘our song’ played at the committal. The song was I’m In The Mood For Love, and Valerie had told me that it had been her parents’ song ever since they’d met: it was the first song they had danced to, and it always held special meaning for them. Tom had smiled, and nodded, attentive to the plans that were being made but happy to leave everything else to his children. So when I asked everyone to stand for the committal, I was wondering how it would feel for him to hear it without Ella for the first time since her death.
As the music began my head was down, out of respect; staring at my notes on the lectern rather than the mourners at this most emotional part of the ceremony. I could hear sniffs, muted sobs, the rustle of hands reaching for hands, a woman’s voice saying suddenly ‘oh, Mum…’ then muffled as if she had hidden her face on a friendly shoulder. I couldn’t hear anything from the right-hand end of the front row where Tom stood. How was he coping? I had to know. I peeped cautiously from under my eyebrows. To my astonishment he was standing straight, his face relaxed, gazing down at the coffin with a look of such pure love and happiness that a lump came to my throat. How often he must have looked down at his wife with that expression over the years. He was enjoying the music, loving Ella, feeling the bond that they shared, hearing the message from the song.
And I understood the point of saying ‘love doesn’t die’ to someone like I never had before.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Monday, September 27, 2004
Don't Tell The Children
Rant warning: this makes me really cross, and I feel the need to offload here because sometimes I have to support families who take this decision, and be understanding, when I have never yet agreed once.
‘Don’t tell the children’ comes in many varieties, and usually seems like an example of the psychological phenomenon known as ‘projection’, where one person attributes uncomfortable feelings of their own to someone else. So
‘We’re not telling Marcia about her mother’s funeral, she’s only seven and she wouldn’t be able to cope, she will be better off at school.’
Can be translated as
‘We can’t cope with our own grief for Marcia’s mother’s death, let alone Marcia’s grief as well, so we’re going to hand that over to the teachers and save ourselves one bit of pain on the day.’
But seven year olds are very savvy little creatures. Marcia, missing her mother like she’s never missed anyone or anything in her life, will want to know where her mother has gone, and will only ask the questions she’s ready to hear the answers to (children have a great knack for doing this). She, like anyone, is likely to be relieved by going through the horrible experience of a funeral and surviving; comforted by being able to comfort others at times; and, most of all, reassured by being included and knowing what’s going on.
Maybe I’m being too judgemental. Perhaps it’s because we’re not like this in our family: we always tell children what’s going on, include them as far as possible given their ages, and encourage them to ask questions about the world and the people around them. For example, when my nephew Danny was six or seven, he found out that his Granddad had to wear a catheter. He asked what a catheter was, and when his mum explained, he was very upset because he thought it would hurt Granddad. She said she didn’t think it did, and encouraged him to ask – and Granddad, who is incidentally an ace geezer, did a ‘show and tell’. Danny had a good look, asked a couple of questions, then looked up at him with a surprised expression and said ‘it’s very practical, isn’t it, Granddad?’ Granddad began to giggle, Danny joined in, general hilarity ensued, and one small nephew’s worried mind was put at rest by a simple explanation of the facts. Then again, we’ve been lucky in our family because we haven’t had to deal with any premature deaths yet – but I’m sure that if we had, we would have told any children involved the truth about what had happened, what was happening and what was going to happen. We’ve always taken children to the funerals of friends when they have wanted to go.
But what’s really bugging me right now is the family I’m dealing with at the moment. There are two children, a girl and a boy, and they’re at the upper end of the teenage years. Their father committed suicide after years of depression. And they have been told that he died of a heart attack. This seems so wrong to me. For a start, how long do the family think that the facts can be kept from the children? Surely, sooner or later, someone will say something unguarded or overheard. For a second thing, children of all ages are very sensitive to secrets, and they may well perceive that there’s emotional activity which doesn’t fit the facts as they understand them. And thirdly, perhaps most importantly, when they do find out – whether by chance, by enquiry or by being told ‘later, when they’re old enough’, won’t it damage them more to realise that not only did their father die very suddenly but also their mother, and everyone else, lied to them about it?
Writing this script is not going to be an easy task. I hate dealing in euphemisms.
‘Don’t tell the children’ comes in many varieties, and usually seems like an example of the psychological phenomenon known as ‘projection’, where one person attributes uncomfortable feelings of their own to someone else. So
‘We’re not telling Marcia about her mother’s funeral, she’s only seven and she wouldn’t be able to cope, she will be better off at school.’
Can be translated as
‘We can’t cope with our own grief for Marcia’s mother’s death, let alone Marcia’s grief as well, so we’re going to hand that over to the teachers and save ourselves one bit of pain on the day.’
But seven year olds are very savvy little creatures. Marcia, missing her mother like she’s never missed anyone or anything in her life, will want to know where her mother has gone, and will only ask the questions she’s ready to hear the answers to (children have a great knack for doing this). She, like anyone, is likely to be relieved by going through the horrible experience of a funeral and surviving; comforted by being able to comfort others at times; and, most of all, reassured by being included and knowing what’s going on.
Maybe I’m being too judgemental. Perhaps it’s because we’re not like this in our family: we always tell children what’s going on, include them as far as possible given their ages, and encourage them to ask questions about the world and the people around them. For example, when my nephew Danny was six or seven, he found out that his Granddad had to wear a catheter. He asked what a catheter was, and when his mum explained, he was very upset because he thought it would hurt Granddad. She said she didn’t think it did, and encouraged him to ask – and Granddad, who is incidentally an ace geezer, did a ‘show and tell’. Danny had a good look, asked a couple of questions, then looked up at him with a surprised expression and said ‘it’s very practical, isn’t it, Granddad?’ Granddad began to giggle, Danny joined in, general hilarity ensued, and one small nephew’s worried mind was put at rest by a simple explanation of the facts. Then again, we’ve been lucky in our family because we haven’t had to deal with any premature deaths yet – but I’m sure that if we had, we would have told any children involved the truth about what had happened, what was happening and what was going to happen. We’ve always taken children to the funerals of friends when they have wanted to go.
But what’s really bugging me right now is the family I’m dealing with at the moment. There are two children, a girl and a boy, and they’re at the upper end of the teenage years. Their father committed suicide after years of depression. And they have been told that he died of a heart attack. This seems so wrong to me. For a start, how long do the family think that the facts can be kept from the children? Surely, sooner or later, someone will say something unguarded or overheard. For a second thing, children of all ages are very sensitive to secrets, and they may well perceive that there’s emotional activity which doesn’t fit the facts as they understand them. And thirdly, perhaps most importantly, when they do find out – whether by chance, by enquiry or by being told ‘later, when they’re old enough’, won’t it damage them more to realise that not only did their father die very suddenly but also their mother, and everyone else, lied to them about it?
Writing this script is not going to be an easy task. I hate dealing in euphemisms.
Friday, September 24, 2004
Satisfied Customers
Yesterday I met Tom, a tall, handsome old man with vivid blue eyes. He had a sweet smile, but it couldn’t reach his eyes because the top half of his face was holding his grief in a solid mask. His daughters Valerie and Janet, and son Keith, were in their early 40s. They were all missing Ella, their mother and Tom’s wife, who had died in a nursing home after a long illness.
As Ellla’s children talked about her, she seemed to come alive again.
‘Mum would have liked you, she wasn’t religious at all,’ said Valerie. ‘She never went to church, only for other people’s weddings or funerals or christenings, and then she’d spend most of the service making rude remarks.’
Janet giggled. ‘Do you remember Judy’s wedding?’
The others all collapsed into laughter. ‘We were near the back,’ said Keith.
‘We were always near the back,’ said Janet.
‘We had to be, with Mum,’ said Valerie.
Tom was smiling fondly at his children.
‘Anyway,’ said Keith, ‘in front of us was a man with, let me say, a certain distinguishing feature.’
‘And Mum just had to say it, didn’t she?’ said Valerie.
They were off again, hooting with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes.
Valerie gained control first.
‘She said “Look, that man’s got the hairiest ears I’ve ever seen”.’
‘She had a clear voice.’
‘And it was a quiet bit.’
‘He must have heard.’
‘He never turned round though.’
‘I couldn’t look him in the eye at the reception.’
‘She behaved well at the reception, though, didn’t she.’
‘She almost always behaved well, except in church.’
‘She hated being in church. She felt she had to go, when it was a do for someone, but she felt like a hypocrite because she didn’t believe in it. ”Load of old rubbish,” she used to say.’
There was a moment of quiet remembering, then they were off again. They told me that she hated the colour green and the taste of vinegar; loved parties and dancing. That she and Tom had met early in the war, she was being posted to Yorkshire and he begged her not to go. That she was 4 feet 11 inches tall, to his 6 feet 1, and in the 1970s people used to call them ‘Little and Large’. And story flowed after story, and every single one made them laugh, even when they were remembering her most annoying habits.
‘She always sent Keith home with a doggy bag after Sunday lunch,’ said Valerie. ‘Never Janet, or me, only Keith, because he’s a man so she thinks he needs looking after.’
‘But it’s me that can’t cook,’ said Janet. ‘And it drove Keith crazy. Which is not surprising, given that he’s a trained chef!’
The only part of the meeting that was more reflective was when they were telling me about Tom and Ella’s devotion to each other. Ella had been 18 years old, and Tom 20, when they met, and they had married after just ten weeks of courtship. They had developed a strong and steady love for each other that hadn’t wavered over the intervening decades. Valerie, Keith and Janet were all happily married, and I think they knew that Tom’s loss was in some ways greater than their own.
Luckily for him, they all live nearby, and already drop in regularly with their children. I hope that will help him not to be too lonely.
The family meetings are often entertaining, and this one was particularly enjoyable. As I was preparing to leave, I thanked them for having me, and told them I’d had a great time.
‘Yes, it’s been fun, hasn’t it?’ said Valerie, sounding surprised.
‘I don’t know whether we should say that,’ said Janet, ‘but it has.’
Keith nodded. ‘Thank you, Zinnia.’
That’s what I like best. Satisfied customers.
As Ellla’s children talked about her, she seemed to come alive again.
‘Mum would have liked you, she wasn’t religious at all,’ said Valerie. ‘She never went to church, only for other people’s weddings or funerals or christenings, and then she’d spend most of the service making rude remarks.’
Janet giggled. ‘Do you remember Judy’s wedding?’
The others all collapsed into laughter. ‘We were near the back,’ said Keith.
‘We were always near the back,’ said Janet.
‘We had to be, with Mum,’ said Valerie.
Tom was smiling fondly at his children.
‘Anyway,’ said Keith, ‘in front of us was a man with, let me say, a certain distinguishing feature.’
‘And Mum just had to say it, didn’t she?’ said Valerie.
They were off again, hooting with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes.
Valerie gained control first.
‘She said “Look, that man’s got the hairiest ears I’ve ever seen”.’
‘She had a clear voice.’
‘And it was a quiet bit.’
‘He must have heard.’
‘He never turned round though.’
‘I couldn’t look him in the eye at the reception.’
‘She behaved well at the reception, though, didn’t she.’
‘She almost always behaved well, except in church.’
‘She hated being in church. She felt she had to go, when it was a do for someone, but she felt like a hypocrite because she didn’t believe in it. ”Load of old rubbish,” she used to say.’
There was a moment of quiet remembering, then they were off again. They told me that she hated the colour green and the taste of vinegar; loved parties and dancing. That she and Tom had met early in the war, she was being posted to Yorkshire and he begged her not to go. That she was 4 feet 11 inches tall, to his 6 feet 1, and in the 1970s people used to call them ‘Little and Large’. And story flowed after story, and every single one made them laugh, even when they were remembering her most annoying habits.
‘She always sent Keith home with a doggy bag after Sunday lunch,’ said Valerie. ‘Never Janet, or me, only Keith, because he’s a man so she thinks he needs looking after.’
‘But it’s me that can’t cook,’ said Janet. ‘And it drove Keith crazy. Which is not surprising, given that he’s a trained chef!’
The only part of the meeting that was more reflective was when they were telling me about Tom and Ella’s devotion to each other. Ella had been 18 years old, and Tom 20, when they met, and they had married after just ten weeks of courtship. They had developed a strong and steady love for each other that hadn’t wavered over the intervening decades. Valerie, Keith and Janet were all happily married, and I think they knew that Tom’s loss was in some ways greater than their own.
Luckily for him, they all live nearby, and already drop in regularly with their children. I hope that will help him not to be too lonely.
The family meetings are often entertaining, and this one was particularly enjoyable. As I was preparing to leave, I thanked them for having me, and told them I’d had a great time.
‘Yes, it’s been fun, hasn’t it?’ said Valerie, sounding surprised.
‘I don’t know whether we should say that,’ said Janet, ‘but it has.’
Keith nodded. ‘Thank you, Zinnia.’
That’s what I like best. Satisfied customers.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Hideous Embarrassment
Do you want to hear about my most embarrassing moment so far?
Are you sure?
OK then, here goes.
At humanist funerals we rarely use the organist and never have hymns. Instead, we have music chosen by the family on CD; it can be anything from Mozart to Meatloaf. (I did do a funeral for one man whose family begged for an instrumental version of The Old Rugged Cross because he used to whistle the tune whenever he was pottering around the house or garden. By their own admission they found it immensely irritating when he was alive and an endearing little quirk as soon as he’d died, and this amused them, which amused me too.)
The CD player is operated by the chapel attendant, sometimes from the back of the chapel but most frequently, in the crems round here, from a separate room. The attendants like to have the CDs the day before the service, so that they can make sure they will play on the chapel’s CD player, and check that the correct disc is in the box just in case little Jimmy has accidentally swapped Wind Beneath My Wings for his favourite Busted album.
I always give the attendant a copy of the script with music cues clearly marked, and go through it with them so that they can be sure of what is required – which track to play right through and which to fade after one verse and chorus; where to start a quiet introduction while I’m speaking so that the poignant part of the melody will swell to fill the chapel just as I finish; when it’s important to turn off a CD immediately the track has ended in case the mourners catch the beginning of the next, completely inappropriate, song.
On this particular day I was doing a ceremony at Scopthorne, one of my favourite crematoria where the attendants are competent, helpful, professional and friendly. The CD player is in the attendants’ bolthole, a small room next to the chapel, right behind me as I stand at the lectern. My old mate Fred was on chapel duty, and I went through the script with him before the ceremony as usual. Then out to the front to wait for the cortege, Paul from Newell’s soon arrived with the family, we greeted each other with a formal handshake and performed our smooth routine.
The service went fine. I spoke the solemn words of committal, and waited for the music the family had chosen – Everybody Hurts by REM – which I knew would facilitate the floods of tears they needed right then.
And I waited.
And I waited some more.
And I began to wonder whether the CD player had gone wrong.
And the mourners began to shuffle in their seats.
And I thought I’d better do something about it.
But I didn’t know what to do.
And all those people were looking at me.
Surely the music would start in a moment.
I wondered if I could wake up, but I looked down and I’d got all my clothes on so I knew it wasn’t one of my usual funeral-related nightmares.
I could feel my face going redder and hotter by the second.
In the end I said ‘we should be listening to some music right now, I don’t know what’s gone wrong, I’ll see if I can find out’. I left the podium, went round to the attendants’ room and opened the door. Fred and Paul were sitting in there, feet up on the desk, deep in discussion about something or other. I didn’t wait to find out what, I just hissed ‘WILL you PLEASE play the music and NOT leave me standing out there like a complete PRAT’. I shut the door, breathed in and strolled back to the lectern, smiling to the mourners. ‘Slight problem with the equipment,’ I said, ‘should be fixed any moment.’ And sure enough, the music began, and the tears came, and everything else went according to plan.
Fred and Paul were mortified, which was just as well or they might have got a slap.
‘I’m so sorry, Zinnia,’ said Fred. ‘We thought you were on the silent bit, you know, where they can pray or meditate or whatever.’
‘I can’t believe you did that to me,’ I said. ‘Do you know what it felt like out there? I was wondering whether you’d gone down the pub.’
‘We’ve never done it before, Zin,’ said Paul.
As if that would make me feel better!
‘So why do it today?’ I asked. ‘Why not pick on some other poor sod?’
Just then Sally, another of Scopthorne’s attendants, came through with the spray of lilies and carnations from the coffin for Paul to give back to the family. He took them from her, went down on one knee, held them up towards me and said
‘Please forgive us, we’re very very sorry, we’ll never do it again.’
Fred caught on quickly and joined in, kneeling and bowing his head to the floor.
‘Don’t be cross, Miss, please don’t tell us off any more.’
‘You’re a right pair of idiots,’ I began, but couldn’t keep up the severity, they looked so daft and Sally was giggling like a schoolgirl.
But still, when I remember those moments standing at the lectern and waiting for the music to begin, I feel a strange desire to fold in on myself, smaller and smaller, until I disappear completely with an almost imperceptible ‘pop’.
Are you sure?
OK then, here goes.
At humanist funerals we rarely use the organist and never have hymns. Instead, we have music chosen by the family on CD; it can be anything from Mozart to Meatloaf. (I did do a funeral for one man whose family begged for an instrumental version of The Old Rugged Cross because he used to whistle the tune whenever he was pottering around the house or garden. By their own admission they found it immensely irritating when he was alive and an endearing little quirk as soon as he’d died, and this amused them, which amused me too.)
The CD player is operated by the chapel attendant, sometimes from the back of the chapel but most frequently, in the crems round here, from a separate room. The attendants like to have the CDs the day before the service, so that they can make sure they will play on the chapel’s CD player, and check that the correct disc is in the box just in case little Jimmy has accidentally swapped Wind Beneath My Wings for his favourite Busted album.
I always give the attendant a copy of the script with music cues clearly marked, and go through it with them so that they can be sure of what is required – which track to play right through and which to fade after one verse and chorus; where to start a quiet introduction while I’m speaking so that the poignant part of the melody will swell to fill the chapel just as I finish; when it’s important to turn off a CD immediately the track has ended in case the mourners catch the beginning of the next, completely inappropriate, song.
On this particular day I was doing a ceremony at Scopthorne, one of my favourite crematoria where the attendants are competent, helpful, professional and friendly. The CD player is in the attendants’ bolthole, a small room next to the chapel, right behind me as I stand at the lectern. My old mate Fred was on chapel duty, and I went through the script with him before the ceremony as usual. Then out to the front to wait for the cortege, Paul from Newell’s soon arrived with the family, we greeted each other with a formal handshake and performed our smooth routine.
The service went fine. I spoke the solemn words of committal, and waited for the music the family had chosen – Everybody Hurts by REM – which I knew would facilitate the floods of tears they needed right then.
And I waited.
And I waited some more.
And I began to wonder whether the CD player had gone wrong.
And the mourners began to shuffle in their seats.
And I thought I’d better do something about it.
But I didn’t know what to do.
And all those people were looking at me.
Surely the music would start in a moment.
I wondered if I could wake up, but I looked down and I’d got all my clothes on so I knew it wasn’t one of my usual funeral-related nightmares.
I could feel my face going redder and hotter by the second.
In the end I said ‘we should be listening to some music right now, I don’t know what’s gone wrong, I’ll see if I can find out’. I left the podium, went round to the attendants’ room and opened the door. Fred and Paul were sitting in there, feet up on the desk, deep in discussion about something or other. I didn’t wait to find out what, I just hissed ‘WILL you PLEASE play the music and NOT leave me standing out there like a complete PRAT’. I shut the door, breathed in and strolled back to the lectern, smiling to the mourners. ‘Slight problem with the equipment,’ I said, ‘should be fixed any moment.’ And sure enough, the music began, and the tears came, and everything else went according to plan.
Fred and Paul were mortified, which was just as well or they might have got a slap.
‘I’m so sorry, Zinnia,’ said Fred. ‘We thought you were on the silent bit, you know, where they can pray or meditate or whatever.’
‘I can’t believe you did that to me,’ I said. ‘Do you know what it felt like out there? I was wondering whether you’d gone down the pub.’
‘We’ve never done it before, Zin,’ said Paul.
As if that would make me feel better!
‘So why do it today?’ I asked. ‘Why not pick on some other poor sod?’
Just then Sally, another of Scopthorne’s attendants, came through with the spray of lilies and carnations from the coffin for Paul to give back to the family. He took them from her, went down on one knee, held them up towards me and said
‘Please forgive us, we’re very very sorry, we’ll never do it again.’
Fred caught on quickly and joined in, kneeling and bowing his head to the floor.
‘Don’t be cross, Miss, please don’t tell us off any more.’
‘You’re a right pair of idiots,’ I began, but couldn’t keep up the severity, they looked so daft and Sally was giggling like a schoolgirl.
But still, when I remember those moments standing at the lectern and waiting for the music to begin, I feel a strange desire to fold in on myself, smaller and smaller, until I disappear completely with an almost imperceptible ‘pop’.
Monday, September 20, 2004
So Alone
Gill rang from Pemberton’s yesterday. I know she is a big softie but her demeanour is always professional, so I was surprised to hear her voice trembling.
‘I’ve just been to see a man called John,’ she told me. ‘His partner died in his arms this afternoon from a massive stroke, they had been living together for 37 years. Nobody knew about them, everyone thought they were brothers, but he was so upset he had to tell me. I wasn’t bothered, it’s no problem for me, but he was terrified.’
She stopped to blow her nose, and then went on.
‘The thing is, Zin, I’m used to meeting people in all sorts of emotional states. But John was so frightened of what I might think. He must have been 70-odd and I don’t think he’d ever told anyone before. He was so terrified, he couldn’t take in that it really didn’t make any difference for me.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Well, we talked about what he wanted. At first he said nothing, nobody, they kept themselves to themselves and weren’t in contact with either family, so just a burial at the cemetery with us. Definitely no vicars, he said, and he sounded so cross then, something’s set him apart from the church. Well I guess it’s not difficult to work out what. Anyway, I asked him if he wouldn’t like to honour their time together, to include a bit of remembrance, maybe a favourite poem or a piece of music. He was interested in the idea. I mentioned you, said you’d be ideal to help if he wanted someone, and I told him a bit about humanism. I’m not sure if he’ll go for it, but I really hope he does, I think he needs it.’
‘There’s a befriending service for gay people, you know, in the city; they do phone support and all sorts. They’ve got a website, might it be worth telling him about them?’
‘Good thought, I’ll do that. So I’m waiting to hear from him, I’ll let you know.’
I thought all day about that lonely, isolated man. Losing a long-term partner is one of the worst bereavements, and even for people with strong support networks of families and friends it can be hard to work through the deluge of grief. For someone so alone it would be even more difficult.
Gill rang back just after five. Typically, she came straight to the point, her composure back in place.
‘It’s no good, Zinnia, he won’t go for it,’ she said.
‘That poor, poor man.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But he’s made his mind up, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘Did you give him the number of the befriending service?’ I asked.
‘No, he didn’t seem open to anything. But I phoned them, and they’re sending me some leaflets; I’ll find a way to give them to him some time over the next few days.’
It’s not often that my job makes me sad. But now and again it does.
‘I’ve just been to see a man called John,’ she told me. ‘His partner died in his arms this afternoon from a massive stroke, they had been living together for 37 years. Nobody knew about them, everyone thought they were brothers, but he was so upset he had to tell me. I wasn’t bothered, it’s no problem for me, but he was terrified.’
She stopped to blow her nose, and then went on.
‘The thing is, Zin, I’m used to meeting people in all sorts of emotional states. But John was so frightened of what I might think. He must have been 70-odd and I don’t think he’d ever told anyone before. He was so terrified, he couldn’t take in that it really didn’t make any difference for me.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Well, we talked about what he wanted. At first he said nothing, nobody, they kept themselves to themselves and weren’t in contact with either family, so just a burial at the cemetery with us. Definitely no vicars, he said, and he sounded so cross then, something’s set him apart from the church. Well I guess it’s not difficult to work out what. Anyway, I asked him if he wouldn’t like to honour their time together, to include a bit of remembrance, maybe a favourite poem or a piece of music. He was interested in the idea. I mentioned you, said you’d be ideal to help if he wanted someone, and I told him a bit about humanism. I’m not sure if he’ll go for it, but I really hope he does, I think he needs it.’
‘There’s a befriending service for gay people, you know, in the city; they do phone support and all sorts. They’ve got a website, might it be worth telling him about them?’
‘Good thought, I’ll do that. So I’m waiting to hear from him, I’ll let you know.’
I thought all day about that lonely, isolated man. Losing a long-term partner is one of the worst bereavements, and even for people with strong support networks of families and friends it can be hard to work through the deluge of grief. For someone so alone it would be even more difficult.
Gill rang back just after five. Typically, she came straight to the point, her composure back in place.
‘It’s no good, Zinnia, he won’t go for it,’ she said.
‘That poor, poor man.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But he’s made his mind up, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘Did you give him the number of the befriending service?’ I asked.
‘No, he didn’t seem open to anything. But I phoned them, and they’re sending me some leaflets; I’ll find a way to give them to him some time over the next few days.’
It’s not often that my job makes me sad. But now and again it does.
Friday, September 17, 2004
None So Deaf
Bill the biker was smashed to pieces in a collision with an articulated lorry. His biker widow and her three biker brothers had severe emotional injuries that they were trying to mend with stoical resignation: it happens in our community; we’re still living and we are determined to enjoy the rest of our lives despite his death; he would have wanted that; at least he didn’t suffer. Bill’s sixteen-year-old son Andrew was silently and visibly furious – silently because he was deaf and didn’t speak, visibly because he was shouting loudly in sign language. At least, I think that’s what he was doing, as I don’t speak sign language myself.
The adults were, as usual, taking turns to talk; wiping away a tear now and then; working together with me to create a personal ceremony for Bill. And waving their arms around a lot. Two conversations were going on at once – or perhaps a conversation and an argument – and I was only included in one. I tried to involve Andrew to begin with, making sure I was speaking with my face towards him on the assumption that he would be able to lip-read, asking him questions about what he wanted. One of his uncles gently told me that he didn’t want a funeral at all. So I took my cue from them, and carried on as normally as I could with the conversation while trying to ignore the loud, silent argument.
When I got up to go, I turned to Andrew and said ‘Goodbye, Andrew, I’ll see you on Thursday’. He uttered his first sound, a howl of rage and despair, and ran from the room. I looked at the others with dismay.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the gentle uncle. ‘He’s working through it.’
The others nodded.
Yesterday, standing outside the crematorium door waiting for the cortege to arrive, I wondered whether Andrew would be with them. And he was, with an older man who introduced himself to me as Andrew’s interpreter.
‘Would you like to stand with me up by the lectern?’ I asked the interpreter.
A quick flurry of hands.
‘Yes, then Andrew’s friends will be able to understand as well.’
So the interpreter stood next to me, and as I spoke he signed to a small group of young men in the front two pews. But when I stopped speaking, for music or for reflection, the signing didn’t stop – and it became a two-way process that looked like a chat, mostly between Andrew and his interpreter, with others joining in from time to time.
I wish I’d known what they were talking about.
The adults were, as usual, taking turns to talk; wiping away a tear now and then; working together with me to create a personal ceremony for Bill. And waving their arms around a lot. Two conversations were going on at once – or perhaps a conversation and an argument – and I was only included in one. I tried to involve Andrew to begin with, making sure I was speaking with my face towards him on the assumption that he would be able to lip-read, asking him questions about what he wanted. One of his uncles gently told me that he didn’t want a funeral at all. So I took my cue from them, and carried on as normally as I could with the conversation while trying to ignore the loud, silent argument.
When I got up to go, I turned to Andrew and said ‘Goodbye, Andrew, I’ll see you on Thursday’. He uttered his first sound, a howl of rage and despair, and ran from the room. I looked at the others with dismay.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the gentle uncle. ‘He’s working through it.’
The others nodded.
Yesterday, standing outside the crematorium door waiting for the cortege to arrive, I wondered whether Andrew would be with them. And he was, with an older man who introduced himself to me as Andrew’s interpreter.
‘Would you like to stand with me up by the lectern?’ I asked the interpreter.
A quick flurry of hands.
‘Yes, then Andrew’s friends will be able to understand as well.’
So the interpreter stood next to me, and as I spoke he signed to a small group of young men in the front two pews. But when I stopped speaking, for music or for reflection, the signing didn’t stop – and it became a two-way process that looked like a chat, mostly between Andrew and his interpreter, with others joining in from time to time.
I wish I’d known what they were talking about.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Brian's Funeral
Remember Viv’s daughters? I decided the only thing I could do for them was to create and present the best funeral ceremony I could. Particularly as none of the family wanted to be involved, so they had asked me to do the whole thing. I took a little extra care in writing the script and delivering the service. Alice and Emily were both heart-warmingly happy about it, and gave me big hugs outside the crematorium chapel door (as Viv stomped past looking neither to right nor to left).
And that’s part of the delight of this kind of work: I know I’ve done the job well, and I can put it down now, I don’t feel the need to worry about them any more. I haven’t solved any of their problems, I can’t bring back their father, I didn’t make life better for them. But I provided a service that they really needed, when they needed it, and that feels good.
And that’s part of the delight of this kind of work: I know I’ve done the job well, and I can put it down now, I don’t feel the need to worry about them any more. I haven’t solved any of their problems, I can’t bring back their father, I didn’t make life better for them. But I provided a service that they really needed, when they needed it, and that feels good.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Top Ten
A couple of years ago, one of our big chains of funeral directors compiled their Top Ten Funeral Tunes. They were:
Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler
My Heart Will Go On – Celine Dion
I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston
Simply The Best – Tina Turner
Angels – Robbie Williams
You’ll Never Walk Alone – Gerry and the Pacemakers
Candle In The Wind – Elton John
Unchained Melody – Righteous Brothers
Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon and Garfunkel
Time To Say Goodbye – Sarah Brightman
From recent experience, I’d say that list hasn’t changed. It inspired me to compile Zinnia Cyclamen’s Top Ten Tunes That Are Completely Unsuitable For Almost All Funerals (Except Occasionally When Someone Has A Sense Of Humour Even Stranger Than Mine). Here's my first offer:
Burn Baby Burn – The Bee Gees
Smoke Gets In Your Eyes – The Platters
Killing Me Softly – Roberta Flack
Staying Alive – The Bee Gees
Funeral Pyre – The Jam
Light My Fire – The Doors
Buried Alive – Billy Idol
Dawn Of The Dead – Murderdolls
Satin In A Coffin – Modest Mouse
Another One Bites The Dust – Queen
Anyone got any other nominations?
Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler
My Heart Will Go On – Celine Dion
I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston
Simply The Best – Tina Turner
Angels – Robbie Williams
You’ll Never Walk Alone – Gerry and the Pacemakers
Candle In The Wind – Elton John
Unchained Melody – Righteous Brothers
Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon and Garfunkel
Time To Say Goodbye – Sarah Brightman
From recent experience, I’d say that list hasn’t changed. It inspired me to compile Zinnia Cyclamen’s Top Ten Tunes That Are Completely Unsuitable For Almost All Funerals (Except Occasionally When Someone Has A Sense Of Humour Even Stranger Than Mine). Here's my first offer:
Burn Baby Burn – The Bee Gees
Smoke Gets In Your Eyes – The Platters
Killing Me Softly – Roberta Flack
Staying Alive – The Bee Gees
Funeral Pyre – The Jam
Light My Fire – The Doors
Buried Alive – Billy Idol
Dawn Of The Dead – Murderdolls
Satin In A Coffin – Modest Mouse
Another One Bites The Dust – Queen
Anyone got any other nominations?
Friday, September 10, 2004
The Plot Thickens
The whole thing with Viv was so peculiar. At first I thought maybe it was an unusual grief response, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Alice's comment, that if it wasn't me it'd be something else, circled my mind like an irritating jingle. In the end I phoned Paul at Newell's.
'Hi Paul, have you got a minute or are you up to your eyes?'
'For you, Zin, I have all the time in the world.'
'You're a darling. I'm worried about the Sullivan family. The visit was a bit weird, and I'm not sure I'm the right person to be doing this service. Do you know what's going on?'
He was quiet for a moment, weighing my need to know against his duty of confidentiality.
'What happened when you visited?' he asked.
'Viv wouldn't speak to me, she sat with us but she didn't say a word the whole time. Alice told me beforehand that Viv wanted a vicar, or at least a man. Seems odd coming from a woman, but of course she's a different generation. The meeting went OK with Alice and Emily, they were fine, although Alice couldn't get me out of the door fast enough when it was over. I'm just not sure what's going on, whether I'm doing the right thing. Alice said Brian would have been pleased it was a woman doing his service, I wonder if maybe Viv's jealous of me somehow, or whether it's just her grief - you know that can come out in strange ways - but I can't help feeling there's more to it. So I thought I'd give you a call, as you know everything about everyone.'
Paul chuckled. 'As it happens, I was in the same class as Alice when we were at St Luke's.'
'There you are, you see? I knew it!'
'OK, Zin, listen, here's the deal. It's an open secret, really, but Viv is a right bully, she ruled that household with a rod of iron. She can be sweet enough when everything's to her liking, but if she doesn't get her own way she's hell to live with. You know I told you Brian didn't have any chemo? Well, that was her decision, really, although I think he was happy enough to go along with it. But the girls wanted him to have all the treatment under the sun, they didn't want to lose their dad a moment before they had to. I think they both feel guilty that they didn't stand up to her more when he was alive, over a lot of things really. So they're standing up to her now, and making sure he gets the send-off he wanted.'
'Well, that explains a lot. Thanks, Paul. So you think I should carry on and do the service?'
'Yes, definitely. Don't worry about Viv, let the family sort her out.'
I'm following Paul's advice and not worrying about Viv. But I wish I could do something for her daughters.
'Hi Paul, have you got a minute or are you up to your eyes?'
'For you, Zin, I have all the time in the world.'
'You're a darling. I'm worried about the Sullivan family. The visit was a bit weird, and I'm not sure I'm the right person to be doing this service. Do you know what's going on?'
He was quiet for a moment, weighing my need to know against his duty of confidentiality.
'What happened when you visited?' he asked.
'Viv wouldn't speak to me, she sat with us but she didn't say a word the whole time. Alice told me beforehand that Viv wanted a vicar, or at least a man. Seems odd coming from a woman, but of course she's a different generation. The meeting went OK with Alice and Emily, they were fine, although Alice couldn't get me out of the door fast enough when it was over. I'm just not sure what's going on, whether I'm doing the right thing. Alice said Brian would have been pleased it was a woman doing his service, I wonder if maybe Viv's jealous of me somehow, or whether it's just her grief - you know that can come out in strange ways - but I can't help feeling there's more to it. So I thought I'd give you a call, as you know everything about everyone.'
Paul chuckled. 'As it happens, I was in the same class as Alice when we were at St Luke's.'
'There you are, you see? I knew it!'
'OK, Zin, listen, here's the deal. It's an open secret, really, but Viv is a right bully, she ruled that household with a rod of iron. She can be sweet enough when everything's to her liking, but if she doesn't get her own way she's hell to live with. You know I told you Brian didn't have any chemo? Well, that was her decision, really, although I think he was happy enough to go along with it. But the girls wanted him to have all the treatment under the sun, they didn't want to lose their dad a moment before they had to. I think they both feel guilty that they didn't stand up to her more when he was alive, over a lot of things really. So they're standing up to her now, and making sure he gets the send-off he wanted.'
'Well, that explains a lot. Thanks, Paul. So you think I should carry on and do the service?'
'Yes, definitely. Don't worry about Viv, let the family sort her out.'
I'm following Paul's advice and not worrying about Viv. But I wish I could do something for her daughters.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
The Sound Of Silence
Alice met me at the door and whispered that Viv had agreed to be at the meeting, but probably wouldn't say anything. She introduced me to Emily in the hall who was quietly welcoming. They ushered me into a big living room where Viv, a white-haired woman in her 70s, was sitting in an armchair. She didn't get up or look at me.
'You must be Mrs Sullivan. I'm Zinnia Cyclamen. Pleased to meet you.'
Viv didn't respond. Alice and Emily were holding their breath behind me, so I decided not to offer her my hand to shake.
I sat on the sofa opposite a picture window with a beautiful view over rolling countryside. Viv's armchair was on my left, Alice and Emily sat on pouffes in front of me, and a coffee table stood between us all. I made small talk with Alice and Emily for a while - lovely view, yes isn't it, did you have a good journey, not too bad thanks - and then got down to business.
'Have any of you been to a humanist funeral before?'
'Mum and Dad went to a couple, that's where Dad got the idea. Emily and I haven't.'
'OK, let me tell you a bit about it. Here's a leaflet that you can keep, it explains the basics.'
I handed round leaflets. Alice took one, so did Emily. I wasn't sure whether to give one to Viv, so I waved one vaguely in her direction in what I hoped was a non-confrontational way. Alice shook her head at me slightly, so I put it on the coffee table.
They were quiet for a moment, reading.
'The main point is that it's a celebration of someone's life. We try to make each ceremony as personal as we can, while keeping it meaningful and dignified. It can be as short or as long as you like, and anything from very simple to quite complicated. If any of you, or anyone else, would like to do part of the ceremony - read a poem, give a tribute, whatever - that can be included, or I can do the whole thing if you prefer. We'll think about various details today, like music, readings, poems, announcements, and of course the tribute, and we'll make some decisions, but you don't have to decide everything today, we've got a few days so if there are some things you want to think over that's no problem.'
And that was exactly what happened. I was with them for over an hour; Alice and Emily and I discussed lots of options, and they made some decisions; as usual, some were easy and some more difficult; and then the time came for me to leave. Viv hadn't spoken, had barely moved.
'Goodbye, Mrs Sullivan, I'll see you on Tuesday.'
Still no response.
Alice showed me to the door.
'I'm sorry about Mum,' she whispered.
'Are you sure you want me to do the service?' I whispered back.
'Yes, of course. I'm really grateful to you, and so's Emily. If it wasn't you, it'd be something else.'
We heard raised voices from the living room and Alice turned pale.
'Thank you so much for coming, we'll be in touch, see you on Tuesday, goodbye,' and I was on the drive with the door shut behind me.
'You must be Mrs Sullivan. I'm Zinnia Cyclamen. Pleased to meet you.'
Viv didn't respond. Alice and Emily were holding their breath behind me, so I decided not to offer her my hand to shake.
I sat on the sofa opposite a picture window with a beautiful view over rolling countryside. Viv's armchair was on my left, Alice and Emily sat on pouffes in front of me, and a coffee table stood between us all. I made small talk with Alice and Emily for a while - lovely view, yes isn't it, did you have a good journey, not too bad thanks - and then got down to business.
'Have any of you been to a humanist funeral before?'
'Mum and Dad went to a couple, that's where Dad got the idea. Emily and I haven't.'
'OK, let me tell you a bit about it. Here's a leaflet that you can keep, it explains the basics.'
I handed round leaflets. Alice took one, so did Emily. I wasn't sure whether to give one to Viv, so I waved one vaguely in her direction in what I hoped was a non-confrontational way. Alice shook her head at me slightly, so I put it on the coffee table.
They were quiet for a moment, reading.
'The main point is that it's a celebration of someone's life. We try to make each ceremony as personal as we can, while keeping it meaningful and dignified. It can be as short or as long as you like, and anything from very simple to quite complicated. If any of you, or anyone else, would like to do part of the ceremony - read a poem, give a tribute, whatever - that can be included, or I can do the whole thing if you prefer. We'll think about various details today, like music, readings, poems, announcements, and of course the tribute, and we'll make some decisions, but you don't have to decide everything today, we've got a few days so if there are some things you want to think over that's no problem.'
And that was exactly what happened. I was with them for over an hour; Alice and Emily and I discussed lots of options, and they made some decisions; as usual, some were easy and some more difficult; and then the time came for me to leave. Viv hadn't spoken, had barely moved.
'Goodbye, Mrs Sullivan, I'll see you on Tuesday.'
Still no response.
Alice showed me to the door.
'I'm sorry about Mum,' she whispered.
'Are you sure you want me to do the service?' I whispered back.
'Yes, of course. I'm really grateful to you, and so's Emily. If it wasn't you, it'd be something else.'
We heard raised voices from the living room and Alice turned pale.
'Thank you so much for coming, we'll be in touch, see you on Tuesday, goodbye,' and I was on the drive with the door shut behind me.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Wife Of Brian
Brian Sullivan died after several months of cancer, which he had managed on his own terms. Paul from Newell Bros Funeral Directors told me that he had refused chemotherapy, preferring quality of life to quantity; took several holidays with his wife Viv, in places they had enjoyed visiting together before; achieved his aim of living until September so he could spend as much time as possible with his four grandchildren during the summer holidays; and was cared for, and died, at home as he had wished. He also left clear instructions that he wanted a humanist funeral.
This kind of scenario usually makes for an easy family meeting. I telephoned the family, explained who I was and asked to speak to Mrs Sullivan. The woman who had answered the phone told me she was Viv's daughter Alice, and said things were a bit difficult just then, could she call me back within the hour. No problem, I said, and gave her my number.
When Alice rang back, she explained that she had made an excuse to go to the shop so she could phone me on her mobile. She told me that Brian wasn't at all religious, and neither was she nor her sister Emily. Nor was Viv, really, but she wanted the vicar to do Brian's funeral in their local church, because she knew the vicar and it was a familiar setting. And if she had to have a humanist funeral, because Brian had been so definite about what he wanted, she certainly didn't want a woman doing it.
This was clearly not the time for a feminist diatribe, and Alice was very apologetic. I offered to give her the names of some of my male colleagues, but she said no, she and Emily were very happy for me to be doing the funeral, and Brian had been a bit of a ladies' man - nothing untoward, just a big friendly flirt - and they thought he would have been delighted to know that I would take the service. She asked me to come to visit her and Emily at their parents' house, and said she would try to persuade Viv to be present.
'But I should warn you,' she said, 'Mum probably won't speak to you.'
So I'm going over there tomorrow, albeit with some misgivings. I'll let you know how it goes.
This kind of scenario usually makes for an easy family meeting. I telephoned the family, explained who I was and asked to speak to Mrs Sullivan. The woman who had answered the phone told me she was Viv's daughter Alice, and said things were a bit difficult just then, could she call me back within the hour. No problem, I said, and gave her my number.
When Alice rang back, she explained that she had made an excuse to go to the shop so she could phone me on her mobile. She told me that Brian wasn't at all religious, and neither was she nor her sister Emily. Nor was Viv, really, but she wanted the vicar to do Brian's funeral in their local church, because she knew the vicar and it was a familiar setting. And if she had to have a humanist funeral, because Brian had been so definite about what he wanted, she certainly didn't want a woman doing it.
This was clearly not the time for a feminist diatribe, and Alice was very apologetic. I offered to give her the names of some of my male colleagues, but she said no, she and Emily were very happy for me to be doing the funeral, and Brian had been a bit of a ladies' man - nothing untoward, just a big friendly flirt - and they thought he would have been delighted to know that I would take the service. She asked me to come to visit her and Emily at their parents' house, and said she would try to persuade Viv to be present.
'But I should warn you,' she said, 'Mum probably won't speak to you.'
So I'm going over there tomorrow, albeit with some misgivings. I'll let you know how it goes.
Friday, September 03, 2004
It's A Gamble
Alfred died at the age of 86 after just two days of illness. His wife had died some years earlier. His adult children were grieving for his loss, but glad that he hadn’t suffered for long. I worked with them to create the ceremony, and as he had requested burial, I suggested finding something personal to cast into the grave. They took to the idea, but couldn’t think of anything, and there was much scratching of heads and furrowing of brows. I was beginning to worry, when one of them suddenly said
‘I know – his betting slips!’
They showed me the pile of betting slips beside his empty armchair, and told me that after retirement he’d had a pound bet every day; when he had a win he’d use it to buy a round in the pub.
Alfred’s funeral was well attended. During the service, I explained to everyone about the betting slips, and there was a ripple of laughter in recognition of how appropriate this was for Alfred. So at the burial I solemnly stood at the head of the grave with my carved wooden bowl full of betting slips, and invited people to come and cast one into the grave to say their own farewell. And what amazed me was the different ways people chose to do this. Some crumpled the thin paper into a ball and threw it into the grave; some simply let it float down on the air; some kissed it before letting go; and some even squatted at the graveside, pulled pens from their pockets and wrote messages on the slips. It seemed to give people a real feeling of closure. You could almost call it a happy ending.
‘I know – his betting slips!’
They showed me the pile of betting slips beside his empty armchair, and told me that after retirement he’d had a pound bet every day; when he had a win he’d use it to buy a round in the pub.
Alfred’s funeral was well attended. During the service, I explained to everyone about the betting slips, and there was a ripple of laughter in recognition of how appropriate this was for Alfred. So at the burial I solemnly stood at the head of the grave with my carved wooden bowl full of betting slips, and invited people to come and cast one into the grave to say their own farewell. And what amazed me was the different ways people chose to do this. Some crumpled the thin paper into a ball and threw it into the grave; some simply let it float down on the air; some kissed it before letting go; and some even squatted at the graveside, pulled pens from their pockets and wrote messages on the slips. It seemed to give people a real feeling of closure. You could almost call it a happy ending.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
The Ghosts At The Wedding
I have to thank Maljam for alerting me to this story of a dead couple’s marriage and funeral. I hope I never get asked to do one of those. I don’t do weddings anyway if I can help it; I would do a deathbed one if asked, but I would definitely prefer both partners to be alive at the time. I don’t mind being around dead people, but I prefer them to be put away in boxes with their orifices plugged.
Some people have made comments on this blog along the lines of ‘I don’t know how you can do your job’. I feel like that about funeral directors, who deal with people immediately after bereavement; I don’t know how they can do all the icky stuff with the bodies. In fact, I feel much the same about most jobs when I think about it:
· nurses and doctors (don’t know how they can be so nice to sick people)
· airline pilots and crew (don’t know how they can spend all that time in planes)
· builders, plumbers, mechanics (don’t know how they can do all that physical, practical stuff)
· emergency service personnel (don’t know how they can handle the stress levels)
· outdoor pursuit leaders (don’t know how they can bear all those cold, wet, scary activities)
· cleaners (don’t know how they can stand doing the same job over and over)
· bar/hotel/restaurant staff (don’t know how they can cope with working so hard in crap conditions for people at leisure in luxury)
and so on.
When I started doing this job, several of my friends asked me, with tones ranging from the mildly curious to the completely incredulous, what on earth I liked about it. And I know what was behind the questions, because my friends are well aware that I am the biggest wimp in the world. I won’t go on theme park or fairground rides. I hate travelling by plane and I’m not keen on boats either. Creepy-crawlies make me scream and run away. You would never find me parachuting out of a plane or abseiling down a building, climbing a mountain or exploring a cave. Even Top Bloke wandering into the living room of an evening makes me jump sometimes (this annoys him a bit, as he isn’t really scary, but he tries not to show it because he knows I don’t do it on purpose).
And yet I love having the opportunity to walk into a house full of bereaved people I’ve never met before and help them plan a funeral. Sure, it’s a bit nerve-racking at the doorstep stage, and I get terrible stage fright before each ceremony. But it’s so very rewarding.
I guess it’s the nearest I’ll ever get to a bungee jump.
Some people have made comments on this blog along the lines of ‘I don’t know how you can do your job’. I feel like that about funeral directors, who deal with people immediately after bereavement; I don’t know how they can do all the icky stuff with the bodies. In fact, I feel much the same about most jobs when I think about it:
· nurses and doctors (don’t know how they can be so nice to sick people)
· airline pilots and crew (don’t know how they can spend all that time in planes)
· builders, plumbers, mechanics (don’t know how they can do all that physical, practical stuff)
· emergency service personnel (don’t know how they can handle the stress levels)
· outdoor pursuit leaders (don’t know how they can bear all those cold, wet, scary activities)
· cleaners (don’t know how they can stand doing the same job over and over)
· bar/hotel/restaurant staff (don’t know how they can cope with working so hard in crap conditions for people at leisure in luxury)
and so on.
When I started doing this job, several of my friends asked me, with tones ranging from the mildly curious to the completely incredulous, what on earth I liked about it. And I know what was behind the questions, because my friends are well aware that I am the biggest wimp in the world. I won’t go on theme park or fairground rides. I hate travelling by plane and I’m not keen on boats either. Creepy-crawlies make me scream and run away. You would never find me parachuting out of a plane or abseiling down a building, climbing a mountain or exploring a cave. Even Top Bloke wandering into the living room of an evening makes me jump sometimes (this annoys him a bit, as he isn’t really scary, but he tries not to show it because he knows I don’t do it on purpose).
And yet I love having the opportunity to walk into a house full of bereaved people I’ve never met before and help them plan a funeral. Sure, it’s a bit nerve-racking at the doorstep stage, and I get terrible stage fright before each ceremony. But it’s so very rewarding.
I guess it’s the nearest I’ll ever get to a bungee jump.
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