I’ve always believed that there is such a thing as a GOOD funeral.
Yes, they are sad but they also hold the space for people to grieve, to remember, to honour, to celebrate, to say goodbye ... and a lot more… When done properly a sense of transition happens. The family and friends who gather may be in a state of raw, heartbreaking grief when they arrive, but hopefully they will leave with the beginnings of the courage they will need to face a new world that no longer has their loved one in it.
When my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer back in 2013, she said that she didn’t want a funeral after she died. I was like, “What are you talking about?!” Her reasoning was that she had never enjoyed attending funerals. She found them false and hypocritical: people saying how wonderful a person was when the truth was that they weren’t. Okay…not sure where that came from?
Don’t get me wrong, there is such a thing as a BAD funeral.
Truth is a good thing, but I’ve actually been to a terrible funeral because it was TOO cheerful. If the celebrant said one more time how wonderful it was to celebrate this woman’s life, with a huge grin on her face, I was in danger of standing up and screaming, “This is a tragedy! Acknowledge it!”
Said funeral was for a 44-year-old mum of three whose end of life came too quickly for her family, or her, to make sense of it, or for any plans to be made. So, in haste, and in the deepest of grief, a ‘Celebration of her Life’ was created. People travelled from all over the country to attend her funeral and I think many of us left hurting and disappointed. The family had not been guided to allow space for grief. For the large number of people gathered this was their only opportunity to mourn this beautiful woman and they were robbed. We didn’t feel happy; we weren’t at a stage of celebration – we were shocked, disbelieving and hurting. I consoled myself with at least it was SOMETHING, I guess.
Creating a well-balanced funeral is tricky, but it is ABSOLUTELY worth the effort, every single time. Funerals have a vital function in the wellbeing of those left behin
Anyway, back to my mum.
I was 42 when she died and experienced enough as a celebrant to have been able to put together a fabulous ‘send-off’ for her. She was having none of it. I offered her mates rates (that made her smile), promised to talk of her faults and failings (actually she was a great mum, so that may not have actualised) and tried to change her mind with the knowledge that her funeral would be honest, simple and appropriate. No. She was having none of it.
So, with an uneasy heart at her vehement decision, I threw myself into spending as much time with her as I could, supporting her journey towards death in whatever way I could. My mum was brave. She faced death with honesty and courage. The only thing she was sad about was not seeing her grandchildren grow up. In the logical part of my mind I understood that she would die and as a family we were blessed with seven months’ notice.
We made her last Christmas extra special. We all made the effort to cherish her remaining time with us. She loved to reminisce and I loved to listen, sitting holding her hand. We had a standing joke that she wasn’t allowed to die on a Saturday afternoon as I had weddings every weekend. She promised she wouldn’t.
The thing you need to understand here is that I had travelled and lived all over the world, but when it came to having my own children in my thirties I wanted to live near my mum; so I ended up living around the corner from her. She was the most amazing mum and grandma – hands on, almost daily contact.
And then she died.
On a Saturday afternoon during my last wedding of the season.
As a family we took our time to be with Mum’s body. We didn’t call the funeral director until the next day. Sitting with Mum and having a good cry was a much needed part of the process for everyone, so you would think that a funeral wouldn’t matter so much after all that; we had done a lot of ‘processing’ through the previous seven months.
WRONG. Massive learning curve ahead.
Mum’s written instructions gave us permission to gather at the funeral home and decorate her coffin. Family only, no service. She was embalmed and in an open coffin so that the family from further away could see her. Fifteen people in total. Dad read a poem she liked. I read a card I’d written, as did my niece, but it was all very haphazard and felt awkward. We were just kind of standing around in a clump. That was it. Twenty minutes with a marble version of my mother and the others left. I looked at my husband completely lost. What now? Sadly, I remained lost for quite a long time.
This person who had been in my life since day one was gone and I felt that we had not honoured her in any way at all. In fact, I felt like we had insulted her. She was my number one fan and supporter in life. She was my friend and had made me feel special and loved for 42 years and that was all we were going to do????!!!
A few months later I joined a counselling group offered by Nurse Maude.
Not only was I grieving for my mother but I felt a secondary loss of being distant from my family. They all seemed to be getting on with life, no problem, and here I was having nightmares of Mum’s face melting off from cancer, unable to get the image of her dead body out of my mind, crying on a daily basis, and it felt like no one in my family wanted to talk about it. By having just family at her funeral the only rule, Mum had excluded all her friends from acknowledging her death and the awkwardness that created was never healed. I didn’t see her best friend for two years because I still felt so bereft from the loss of my mother I just couldn’t face her.
Then Mum’s dear friend contacted me to say that she was dying and could I please write her funeral. I am so grateful that she reached out to me. We spent some lovely times together reminiscing and planning her send off. I was very proud of that funeral, because I knew in my heart of hearts it was a GOOD one.
I did many things to try to heal my distraught heart.
I ran a marathon and raised funds for Nurse Maude; I did special things on the anniversary of Mum’s death, on her birthday, at Christmas; I tried to reconnect with my family and soldier on like they did, but for some inexplicable reason none of my efforts worked. They helped, but they weren’t the solution. I was starting to feel like a bit of a nutter. Eventually, I became resigned that this was just how it was going to be.
As time went on I did regain equilibrium, thanks to the love and support of my friends and celebrant colleagues. They all encouraged me to have a memorial service for Mum and five years later I was ready to do such a thing, knowing that my family might not be into the idea but that didn’t matter. I wanted to celebrate the woman who had raised me and given me a terrific sense of belonging. I wanted to heal the ache in my heart that I had not honoured her when she died. Just my husband and children would be there, with a few friends, and that would be okay.
And, then it was Dad's turn.
So, I was all geared up to put together a ceremony in memory of Mum and then it transpired that Dad had begun his own journey towards death. He indicated that he didn’t want a funeral either. Oh no, I was not going through that again! I pleaded with him that we be allowed to have him at home after he died. I asked that we be given time to grieve for him in a familiar place. If he wanted to keep it to family only that was fine, but I needed something that honoured him and Mum.
Dad died in the same bed, in the same room as my mum, five years after her.
Once again, we didn’t call the funeral director straightaway but spent time with Dad’s body, processing the fact that our family had now lost both its mother and father. Thankfully, my siblings were happy to listen to their little sister and were open to my suggestions on what we might do in the wake of Dad’s death.
Dad was embalmed and brought back to the family home; a place that held an abundance of memories for our family. He was perched up in the dining room and we decorated his coffin with lots of happy images of him as a father and grandfather (our equivalent of a visual tribute). He was never alone – people sat with him, talked to him, ate their meals beside him. Sometimes there would be one person with him, at other times a small group. He stayed the night at home in his open coffin.
The next day 15 of us gathered again.
We ate a traditional Christmas brunch in Mum and Dad’s honour, even though it was May. We watched home videos of Mum and Dad from before the arrival of grandchildren. And then we watched footage of them being the wonderful grandparents they were. Wine was drunk; we laughed, we cried; we gifted ourselves the space to remember these two people who had played a huge part in our lives from the day our lives began.
Mid-afternoon, I gathered the family in the dining room whilst Dad’s requested song played at full volume - “Another One Bites the Dust.” I had written a service that allowed reflection time, tributes, laughter, sadness, but above all honoured my parents for the tremendous job they did in raising their family. Several people spoke. Others had written down memories and put them in the memory box prior, which I read on their behalf. There was no rush.
When the funeral director came to take Dad away we gathered at the hearse. I said a few more words while we placed cuttings from Mum and Dad’s garden onto his coffin. Fifteen people walked up the driveway behind the hearse and stood in solidarity as he was driven away. We quietly headed back to the house where my brother raised the flag to full mast again. And then we returned to more home videos and wine until it felt the right time to go to our respective homes.
It is difficult to express in words the difference between Mum and Dad’s funerals, other than it was vast.
Dad’s funeral helped to heal my family’s grief for my mum. It helped us to remember a man when he was vibrant and astute (no nightmares this time). We all had the time to say goodbye and share our memories in whatever way suited our personalities (verbally, written down, kept quietly within but with someone’s arm around you). It united us again. Dad’s funeral prepared us all to face this new world with neither of our parents in it. I am so very grateful that Dad let me do that for our family.
The intangible happened that day.
I loved my mum very, very much but she was wrong when she denied us a funeral. A funeral is for those left behind, and is an expression of the love and gratitude they feel for the deceased. It is not kind to ask them to be quiet, as though you never existed. That can cause heartache and distress.
My mum would have done anything for me: travelled to any country in the world to visit me, jumped in her car to come help me at any time of day or night, yet she asked me to be silent about how much I loved and appreciated her after she died. It didn’t make sense to me.
Eighteen months later we gathered as a family once more, to scatter my parents combined ashes into the Marlborough Sounds. All the family contributed to the small service at the end of the jetty. A treasured memory, and a place we can visit to think of Mum and Dad.
If a loved one says that they don’t want a funeral don’t listen to them.
Do what is right for those left behind. I know it sounds disrespectful, but really, the deceased will never know. When I meet my beloved mum again one day I’m going to tell her how stink her plan was to not have a funeral. It made the grief unbearable.
Just recently, I had the heartbreaking task of taking my nephew’s funeral. I can’t even begin to express the pain of grief his death has created for his partner, immediate family, extended family and friends. But, I can say that his funeral was beautiful. It was sad. It was funny. It was FULL of love and gratitude. All the key people from his life spoke and he was remembered well and truthfully.
A funeral is the beginning of the journey towards reconciliation.
It is the first, but vital, baby step towards making sense of the question, ‘What now?’ The grief that follows a funeral is as vast, varied and individual as the love felt for the person who died.
So, PLEASE, have a funeral/farewell/memorial/celebration/gathering after someone you love dies.
To be silent may invite years of heartache that is difficult to lay to rest.
