Funerals - a poignant reminder of lives lived and lost

 It would be wonderful to say that I had a childhood blissfully ignorant of death and the chaos and heartbreak it sweeps in with. I was eight years old when my paternal Grandmother died. She died unexpectedly, a blood clot that travelled from her leg to her heart and stopped its beating. I have memories of her alive but the most vivid memory I have - over 50 years later- is of her funeral. 

Her casket was open at the front of the country church. We, the family, sat through the service and looked at the body - my Grandma but not my Grandma. At the end of the service we were forced to sit and watched as every person filed past us, final goodbyes murmured, eyes averted from us. And then it was our turn. I watched as my proud Grandpa sobbed , leaned into the coffin and said aloud that he wished he was dead. My Dad, a Momma’s boy, fell apart. I remember being scared and bewildered as all the adults around me were wracked with grief. I didn’t know it was grief, I just knew that my Grandma was dead and nothing would be the same. And it wasn’t.

It was the first funeral of many in my life. Family, friends. The family and friends of friends. Some too young to be buried, some who had long, full lives. None of them easy but some less hard on my heart.

Each one a goodbye of a person who had an impact on me. A person who taught me life lessons - intentionally or not - and shaped my life differently. Even the funerals of people I didn’t have a personal connection with were impactful because of the way they affected the people I was supporting. 

The funeral of the estranged husband of one of my heart sisters was especially hard. Death by suicide brings guilt and remorse mixed with the sorrow. His choice hit her hard and seeing her hurt so badly impacted how I supported her. It was the first time I had attended a funeral where suicide was the cause of death and I was keenly aware of how the anguish of the mourners carried a layer of blame- who could’ve done something differently? Anyone? Everyone? 

I would say that the hardest funerals by far have been My Favorite Husband and my Dad. The two men who’ve had the biggest impact on my life. My Dad’s funeral was open to everyone and there were hundreds of people crammed into the church. I delivered the eulogy and remember thinking that I had never seen so many people in the pews, the balcony, the choir loft, the foyer and spilling down the stairs. It was overwhelming. It was exhausting. It was a “nice” funeral but when the service wrapped up and it was time to go home I had to begin to make peace with the regret and guilt of a contentious relationship.

COVID restrictions played a role in the funeral of My Favorite Husband. At the time of his passing I could’ve had a larger, open funeral but I chose to have a small, private one. A family only gravesite burial, something that I can recall very vividly. I remember the feel of his urn in my arms. The voice of the priest. The stillness of the air. Every moment is locked into my memory. My last goodbye. And then a small celebration of life. Private, intimate. Much like the man himself. This funeral, this goodbye, would be the hardest of my life because it would change the rest of my life forever. I was laying to rest MFH and laying to rest this chapter of my life. 

As I grow older, the number of funerals I attend grows as well. It’s to be expected but it still saddens and surprises me. I age, the people in my life age. Death is part of the deal of life. Still, when the news of someone’s passing reaches me I find myself commiserating about the life ended. About the number of people who’ve passed away and the dwindling family members left. 

Such a conversation happened a couple days ago. A cousin of my Dad’s who was also a family friend, recently passed away. This man has been a part of my life for all of my life. I’ve reminisced about him with my Mom. We’ve “clucked” about the fact he was 84 - the same age my Dad would’ve been. We’ve talked about his health problems and then jumped back to recalling memories from years ago. 

And then we paused, cognizant of the fact that this man died at an age where the calling of death is closer. My Mom,especially, has an awareness that time is passing by. We are both hesitant to speak about the “numbers” of immediate family that have passed - a somber roll call. But we do. Which leads to talking about their funerals. And then our own. And we are keenly aware that someday others will be speaking our names in similar conversations. 

Each death is a reminder of both the brevity of life and the opportunity to live it to its fullest

so that the memories talked about leave smiles that linger.