I hope this doesn’t come across as macabre. It’s certainly not intended that way.
Last Friday I went to Melbourne to attend the funeral of a true gentleman named Alex Whamond. Alex met my mother in 1987, two years after the death of my father. They’ve been close companions ever since, not married or living together, but definitely …….. together.
I was 17 years old when they met and like most 17 year old fatherless boys, I had chosen my own father figures and was reluctant to let Alex into my personal life in any meaningful way. He was muscling in on my Mum, after all, and my Dad’s memory was very fresh in my mind. It wasn’t meant to be personal, but I guess it was.
That attitude remained mostly in place for all of the last 25 years. In my defence, I’ve lived in a separate state for 17 of those years, so I haven’t seen the family anywhere near as much as I’d liked to have seen them since 1995. I certainly grew to like Alex, however, and I’m sorry that I might have been an occasional bastard and a difficult nut to crack.
I’m thankful for the companionship and loyalty he shared with my Mum over that time. Alex came to all our family events over the years, saw kids get married and have children of their own, and witnessed the growth of a generation of Wades and Johnsons.
Last Friday, the chapel was a standing-room-only affair and it was a wonderful service in remembrance and celebration of Alex’s life. He was eulogised by people from various corners of his life and I was honoured to be asked to read some verse as part of the service.
It shames me a little to say it, but last Friday was the first time I’d met either of Alex’s two children, their partners and his grandchildren. Alex had always come to our family events, but we never had any combined family events (to my knowledge) and his children and their families are all wonderful people. There were many wonderful words spoken and many memories shared.
I don’t want to sound too callous here because it’s all quite recent, it really was a wonderful service and I’m very pleased that I was there for it – but none of what happened last Friday was of any benefit to Alex.
Funerals are for the living.
We have an innate need to send off our loved ones with an event that we deem fitting for them. It’s our chance to gather together, share our grief and maybe a few stories about the recently departed. What I hope, however, is that Alex got to feel some of the love that was in the room on Friday during the last months/weeks/days of his life.
I don’t know what can be done about this because there’s no way to tell the those about to shuffle off that mortal coil what they’ve meant to you without feeling like you’re removing their hope or condemning them to a shorter future than what they might have envisioned.
I’ve known a few wonderful men who have passed away in the last few years – Bob Sinclair and Curvin O’Rielly – both fighting their disease until the last. I didn’t get to express my appreciation to them before they went and am now left slightly incomplete and disappointed knowing that there was more that we might have shared. I met them late in their lives and live on a different continent, but still…..
The slightly Pythonesque solution would be to get the not-yet-deceased to agree to a funeral, say, a week before they felt like they were actually going to go. Telling those gathered the truth about the event would be optional, but the IV drip next to the casket might be a giveaway.
The mourners would get to share their feelings, thoughts and stories, and the subject of the occasion would actually get a greater appreciation of their impact on the lives around them. It might lift their spirits for the journey to come. I have a feeling Alex had a much greater impact on the people around him than he ever knew.
Of course, the much more serious suggestion is to make sure that the people around you know how much you care about them on a regular basis. I’m not suggesting you should turn up at their door reciting a tender piece of poetry once a month, but perhaps some genuine random acts of kindness amongst your friends, some more catch-up time, a few more dinners and genuine conversations might just let the people around you know how important they are to you on a day-to-day basis.
I’m speaking more to myself than to anyone else here. Most people are good at all that stuff. I’m a terrible friend, slightly socially awkward, a narrow conversationalist and completely devoid of a memory for important occasions and anniversaries. I have a small circle of true two-way friends and some of them are scattered in (what are, to me) far flung places around the world.
It’s not always easy to be an open book, or to feel free enough to read The Book opened by others. But I humbly hope that we can all do what we can to let those close to us know that we care for them and appreciate them – even if just in some small way, everyday, without leaving it all to a rush at the finish.
I sincerely hope that no family members reading this take offence at me making some lighthearted remarks in the wake of Alex’s passing. I think that in better times, he would have had a laugh at the Pythonesque suggestion. The sense of humour that old friends spoke of so freely last week would suggest so, too.
It’s just a somewhat meagre attempt to lighten a serious subject at a serious time. And the ultimate conclusion is as sincere as is possible – SW