Sad But Beautiful

A scattering of memories sharp and clear like shadows on a sunny winter's day:

Standing waiting for the hearse, wearing as little black and as much purple as possible. My first granddaughter trotting happily up and down the path in a dress like a bridesmaid's.

The arrival of the hearse and limousine: solemn faces, top hat and cane. Glimpses of the pale wood coffin under a sea of flowers, a photo of Rosemarie leant against the coffin facing out the back window, smiling.

Climbing into the limousine and  suddenly it all becomes very real. Coasting along behind the hearse through quiet suburbs looking through tears at the photo of Rosemarie looking back at us, smiling.

The sedate arrival at the Crematorium, drawing to a halt in front of a line of serious-faced friends and family. They went in to the strains of Bette Midler's The Rose, as the pallbearers eased the coffin from the hearse and led the family through the doorway.

The Celebrant doing the introduction and opening address, then Celia reading a eulogy to Rosemarie's life working with children. Tears coming with the memories, an aching sense of loss with the words.

Then my son, my daughter and me reading poems we had chosen: not quite daring to look up from the sheet of paper, engulfed in a sea of emotion. Hardest thing I have done for years.

Jacqueline Du Pre's peerless rendering of St Saën's The Swan soaring hauntingly through the silent crematorium as everyone reflected on Rosemarie's life.

The tribute, then a closing poem read by the Celebrant, and the closing words and committal.

The curtains closing with a whisper of finality.

The opening strains of Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.

*

The cremation ceremony was sad and very emotional - there was no way it couldn't be - but we tried as hard as we could to make it how she wanted it. Everyone was invited to wear bright colours and quite a few people did. The music and the poems were as far as possible positive and life affirming, and the tribute had some jokes.

The viewing of the flowers started to loosen people up and by the time we reached the pub the celebration she would have wanted had truly started.

There were people she had worked with, people whose children she had minded, family and friends of decades, and most of these people had never met before. I had compiled a slideshow of pictures of Rosemarie from babyhood right up to the point where the first stages of the disease showed in her eyes. This ran on a loop in the area of the bar set aside for us and attracted a lot of attention; it showed a different side of her to most of the people there.

There was food and a free bar and a steady buzz of conversation. People mingled and shared their memories of her, and everywhere I went there was a feeling of warmth and love.

Just like she was there.

Empty Time

I couldn't write for a while. It has been a heavy but empty time, though I now feel I can bring things up to date.

I pressed the buzzer to summon a Care Worker because I didn't trust myself to go walking in the corridor. I could have pressed it twice to indicate urgency but there didn't seem to be any point.  My son was a hero and went to call my daughter: I could hardly speak.

They came and washed her and dressed her in some bright clothes selected by my son, and for the first time in probably a couple of years she lay straight in the bed. They brushed her hair and wedged a cushion under her chin so her mouth didn't hang open while rigor mortis set in. I just sat there like a zombie.

My daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter arrived at 1245 and there were a lot more tears. We then began the necessary torture of phoning round to let people know.

Care workers and nurses from all floors started coming by to pay their respects and, usually, to give a hug. It became very clear how Rosemarie had touched their lives with her smiles and her gentleness. It was very moving.

We had a long wait for the doctor to arrive to certify her death, and this magically became a healing time and we all sat in her room talking and remembering. It was helped by my granddaughter, barely a year old, trotting around knowing nothing of death and loss, continuing to explore a room she had started to know well. On all previous visits she had been constantly encouraged to give Rosemarie kisses and she plainly thought this time was no different. She pointed at Rosemarie and made kissing shapes with her mouth. So we let her. Again and again. It was beautiful.

It wasn't until after 6 p.m. that the doctor arrived to certify the death, and only then could the Funeral Director be called. They arrived an hour or so later.

There was something cold and final about Rosemarie's body being removed from the room where she had spent most of her time for the last three years. The room seemed to have an extra sense of emptiness.

We said a few goodbyes and made our shocked way back to my daughter's house. 

*

I stayed the night at my daughter's house, and most of the following day. I don't remember much about it. We must have eaten something, and we certainly talked about the funeral arrangements: it was like my brain kicked into action without keeping me informed.

There were lots of things to start off but the first week seemed to crawl. Monday was about clearing out Rosemarie's room at the Care Home. We had a week but I wanted to get it over with; her stuff being in the room just felt wrong when she was no longer there.

Tuesday was about picking up the Death Certificate from the Doctor's Surgery, and starting to compile the list of people to invite to the funeral and the subsequent celebration, and starting to contact anyone on the list who had not been told.

Wednesday was about registering the Death, and an introduction to some of the problems I might face. I had lived with Rosemarie for 37 years and fathered both her children. All the utility and council bills were in our joint names and everyone knew us as a couple.

Apart from the state. I was nothing. Forms had check boxes for Spouse and Civil Partner, but nothing else. I was reduced to merely someone who knew her, and the Deputy Registrar informed me that if my son and daughter had not been with me she would not have allowed me to register Rosemarie's death. She also argued about my address, claiming her local authority postcode software was accurate and the Post Office one wasn't.

Thursday was about meeting the Funeral Directors and planning the Funeral in detail. We had discussed this at length, and since a member of the extended family had in the past run a funeral business, we had received plenty of good advice. They were lovely, helpful people and the meeting was not as stressful as it might have been. Because of the Bank Holiday weekend the first available date for the funeral was 13th June, nearly three weeks away.

Friday was the beginning of the process of officially notifying agencies and banks and so forth, making phone calls, filling in forms and sending out documents. It quickly became clear that nothing much would happen without Probate so I was plunged into the bureaucratic nightmare of form filling and guidance notes associated with that.

*

I had problems with the internal alarm clock that kicked in every day about lunchtime warning me to stop what I was doing and start getting ready to go to see Rosemarie at the Care Home. However busy I made them the afternoons felt wrong. 

But of course the biggest thing was just not seeing her any more - even the sad, damaged shell she had become was a link, however tenuous, to the woman I loved. There was no hope - there never really had been - but there had at least been physical contact: a hand I could hold and a forehead I could kiss. Gone now.