alternative funeral

My uncle's funeral yesterday was ... lovely? I suppose. A good funeral is a good thing. Lovely and gut wrenching. I didn't bring tissues - for some misgotten reason I thought I wouldn't cry. I was sitting right behind my cousins and my grandmother, and beside my brother's girlfriend who was at her first funeral since her father had died the same sudden way, at the same age last May. Even if I hadn't been sad for the loss, the waves of grief bombarding me still would have levelled me to the leaking thing I became, all tears and snotty nose.

I've never been to Glasnevin before. It's nice enough, but the conveyor belt system is a bit alarming. I was worried I'd accidentally crash the wrong funeral - apparently that happened to someone during the one before us. People were dying in droves, it seems, this week. One straight before, and one after. But the sun shone, and it was mostly warm, unusually - I've only been to one sunny funeral, and it was beautiful, a country graveyard in Thurles, with the hills in the distance, and the river, and sheep bleating, and daffodils blooming, and grandchildren playing uilleann pipes and fiddle by the graveside of their grandfather. A happy funeral.

Not so much Oisín's - but his band came and played gentle Beatles' songs in one corner, blocked out by the amount of people crammed in and looking for somewhere to stand. Oisín, not one for pomp, was buried in a willow coffin that looked oddly like a giant picnic basket. Photos were placed on top, and lily of the valley from his garden, put there by his children. Little tokens from his life, his bass, his football shirt and so on.

The minister was a Humanist one, who did little but organise the ceremony - my father made a sweet speech about the happiness Oisín had found, his girlfriend read a poem she'd written and kept it short and sweet and dignified. Then his friend Art, who I'd never met but who had known him since his school days came, and gave the most astounding eulogy I've ever heard.

The man is very suave, dark haired and dapper, with a gentle, articulate, educated voice. he was confident and warm and funny, and at home speaking to a crowd. His speech was the most unIrish thing - it ranged from stories of Oisín as a child, as a youth, funny bits about his habits and eccentricities, affectionate and entertaining. He made everyone laugh, with perfect comic timing - stories of going to festivals with him in their youth - how much he truly loved women - pictures of him sitting outside his aged, tiny tent, shirtless, and bantering with passing women. And then how a sign appeared on the tent itself -

VACANCY-

DOMESTIC HELP WANTED

(FEMALE)...

APPLY WITHIN

.

But he also did what my father was afraid to do - he mentioned the dark days of their abusive childhood, and the damage that my violent grandfather did to their lives. How Oisín had been through a lot that really made it hard for him to be happy. About what sustained him. And most unIrish of all, he was grateful to my father for paying for his brother to go to his therapist, and discussed the peace and happiness he found as a result.

It was long, entertaining, and poignant, and part of me listened with my mouth open. I would be proud to have a friend like that stand up for me, I have to say, it was humbling, and he was a credit to my uncle. I loved that he said what my father couldn't say, and gave him credit that made him happy. And helped people remember and honour the flawed, funny, pained, well meaning man and father my uncle was. It made me wish I'd seen more of him. In just the right way.

I know it's not fair, as I'm not religious, but the average Irish Catholic funeral service leaves me cold at best, angry at worst. There are too many stories of unfamiliar priests getting the deceased's name wrong, etc - the prayers and communion are no comfort to me, they seem impersonal, pointless, to me. And too often the platitudes and remembrances uttered are insincere and saccharine, sentimental. Especially in the case of those who've had hard or unhappy lives.

But this was so real, honest, full of integrity. It was so human. Focused on the man who died, not the afterlife, the glory of a god, things which may or may not be remotely relevant. Friends and family, and their grief and care.

I think the best advice you can take from the story of a stranger's sudden death is this: put your house in order. Now, while it's still painless and divorced from reality. Say what arrangements you want to be made, what music, what surroundings, order your eco coffin! Don't leave it to your loved ones to cast around in their grief, afraid of uncertain guesswork and family feuding like my mother did!


I wrote about this before, but after my mother died, my aunt was so shocked and alarmed, she wrote out all her wishes, down to location and music for her funeral, how she wanted it to be. She wrote her life story, her philosophies down for her grandson, how she felt about him and her family, etc. It was an immeasurable help and comfort at the time, and will continue to be, I'm sure.

I feel worn out. It brings up so much. How different life would be if we had the people who left too early still with us. The absence of grief. It's crippling, that thought. I know it's neither here nor there, and unproductive to think like that. It's hard not to, sometimes.

I got to the afters, yesterday, and god, but I could have drunk a bottle of wine. Somehow salad sandwiches didn't quite do the trick. But I just ate half a tub of Ben and Jerry's, so that will have to do for now :)