Funerals are weird
Apr. 10th, 2026 08:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
baroque_mongooseThe last funeral I went to before this one was my dad's, a few years ago. He very reluctantly reached the age of 94; to be honest I was a little surprised he didn't make his century, given that his uncle did (and thereby hang quite a few tales - we always referred to him simply as Uncle, and he was quite a character). Having said that, he'd been wanting to go for a while, especially during the last few months of his life, when he was increasingly frail and very crotchety to go with it. He'd spend half his time complaining and the other half apologising for it, which drove Mum up the wall; but in the end he was admitted to hospital with a respiratory problem, and he didn't last long after that. His funeral service, like Mum's, took place at the Catholic church in Kendal, because it's where my sister goes, and it was followed by a wake at one of the local hotels, which I am not going to name because I am not about to praise it. This hotel is very expensive, has ponderously slow service, and does not understand the concept of a "light meal". If you tell them you ate too much at lunch and all you want for tea is a sandwich, they'll still bring you a medium-sized loaf with not only fillings but an entire large plateful of trimmings, and it's frankly outfacing. No wonder Sibyl decided to blow at 1 am on the night immediately following the funeral.
We learnt from that experience. This time, after the short committal at the crematorium (a surprisingly attractive building - it looks pretty much like any large farm in the Lake District), the undertakers ferried us to one of the golf clubs in Kendal, where there was a buffet laid on, so that everyone could eat as much or as little as they liked. It was a good buffet, and they had a very good disabled loo; you had to take the lift, and it wasn't a very large lift (just room in there for one person in a wheelchair plus one standing), but it was nonetheless easy enough to get there and back under my own steam. The doors weren't a problem.
This, of course, is where you see all the relatives you haven't seen for years, and one of them comes up and starts chatting and you think "is this my cousin?", because you haven't seen her in person since she was possibly about two. (I'm pretty sure she was, but of course one doesn't like to ask. She's now divorced with a young son; her husband was violent, so she's had a fortunate escape.) Most of the time, though, I was chatting to my brother-in-law's mother, who's a very nice lady and still doing extremely well despite her age. We hadn't really seen each other to speak to since I was convalescing at my sister's (then in Cambridge) following my serious illness in 2016, so it was good to catch up with her again. And then there was the sweet old Irish lady who's lived just down the road from my parents since 19-oatcake and hardly looks any different, but is noticeably deafer than she was. And, of course, the boyfriend of the niece, who appears to have become an instant fixture (to the extent that he came along with the family to the crematorium, despite having never actually met my mother). He seems pretty nice.
The other major difference this time was that Sibyl behaved herself. All right, she was a bit out of her usual routine, but that's only to be expected; but there were no problems of any kind, or even threats of problems. I was, of course, carrying a full kit change at all times just in case, but no, she was fine. For which I am immensely grateful.
And in the car on the way back, my sister said "So...", and I replied, "...that's that." And thus it was. Everything now settles back into a new normality. My sisters and I are now the senior members of this branch of the family (I was rather startled when the priest said my name first during the funeral service; yes, I am the eldest, but I've never taken priority, so that was weird), they end up with quite a lot of money, and I may or may not. We still don't know whether that can be sorted out, but at least now the funeral is out of the way there's more time to investigate the matter.
I'm glad it was my sister who did the eulogy. She was the one who got the best treatment, so she didn't have to deal with any complicated feelings. She talked about how Mum was her first piano teacher (after which they paid for lessons for her, whereas I wasn't allowed to learn no matter how much I pleaded, because they'd decided I'd be bad at it). I actually have no idea what I'd have said if it had been me. No matter how much you forgive someone, you can't alter the harm they did; and, indeed, the entire reason you had to forgive them is that they did harm. I have very few good memories of childhood, and those I do have generally involve unexpectedly not getting into trouble for accidentally misunderstanding an instruction. I wasn't supposed to make mistakes, and it took me a long time to get over that one.
But I did forgive her a long time ago; and now I just hope God did, too.
We learnt from that experience. This time, after the short committal at the crematorium (a surprisingly attractive building - it looks pretty much like any large farm in the Lake District), the undertakers ferried us to one of the golf clubs in Kendal, where there was a buffet laid on, so that everyone could eat as much or as little as they liked. It was a good buffet, and they had a very good disabled loo; you had to take the lift, and it wasn't a very large lift (just room in there for one person in a wheelchair plus one standing), but it was nonetheless easy enough to get there and back under my own steam. The doors weren't a problem.
This, of course, is where you see all the relatives you haven't seen for years, and one of them comes up and starts chatting and you think "is this my cousin?", because you haven't seen her in person since she was possibly about two. (I'm pretty sure she was, but of course one doesn't like to ask. She's now divorced with a young son; her husband was violent, so she's had a fortunate escape.) Most of the time, though, I was chatting to my brother-in-law's mother, who's a very nice lady and still doing extremely well despite her age. We hadn't really seen each other to speak to since I was convalescing at my sister's (then in Cambridge) following my serious illness in 2016, so it was good to catch up with her again. And then there was the sweet old Irish lady who's lived just down the road from my parents since 19-oatcake and hardly looks any different, but is noticeably deafer than she was. And, of course, the boyfriend of the niece, who appears to have become an instant fixture (to the extent that he came along with the family to the crematorium, despite having never actually met my mother). He seems pretty nice.
The other major difference this time was that Sibyl behaved herself. All right, she was a bit out of her usual routine, but that's only to be expected; but there were no problems of any kind, or even threats of problems. I was, of course, carrying a full kit change at all times just in case, but no, she was fine. For which I am immensely grateful.
And in the car on the way back, my sister said "So...", and I replied, "...that's that." And thus it was. Everything now settles back into a new normality. My sisters and I are now the senior members of this branch of the family (I was rather startled when the priest said my name first during the funeral service; yes, I am the eldest, but I've never taken priority, so that was weird), they end up with quite a lot of money, and I may or may not. We still don't know whether that can be sorted out, but at least now the funeral is out of the way there's more time to investigate the matter.
I'm glad it was my sister who did the eulogy. She was the one who got the best treatment, so she didn't have to deal with any complicated feelings. She talked about how Mum was her first piano teacher (after which they paid for lessons for her, whereas I wasn't allowed to learn no matter how much I pleaded, because they'd decided I'd be bad at it). I actually have no idea what I'd have said if it had been me. No matter how much you forgive someone, you can't alter the harm they did; and, indeed, the entire reason you had to forgive them is that they did harm. I have very few good memories of childhood, and those I do have generally involve unexpectedly not getting into trouble for accidentally misunderstanding an instruction. I wasn't supposed to make mistakes, and it took me a long time to get over that one.
But I did forgive her a long time ago; and now I just hope God did, too.
