Summary

Recalling the more quirky side of his Mum’s final wishes Philip reveals a measure of the “can do” attitude required to find solutions to ensure all is satisfactory.

As well as revealing his thoughts and feelings on the day his mother is laid to rest.

Transcript:

I don’t think she meant it as a challenge as such, but it certainly had the three of us scratching our heads; Mum wanted a wool coffin and her Order of Service not to include any photographs of her.

A wool coffin. Or potentially a wicker one, which I think was Dad’s expectation of a more realistic option and I imagine he would have pushed for this second choice. Wool because Mum was always cold; though interestingly when she had dementia less so.

Bless you Mum, if a wool coffin is what you want then a wool coffin we shall find. As I started to look on the internet I had visions of a group of knitters hard at work in the corner of a village hall being coerced into fulfilling this very odd request.

I’ve knitted a few scarves, and part of my brain was trying to calculate time required, while the other wondered about structural integrity.

Little did I know that a quick Google search would reveal wool coffins were a real thing, a proper commodity. And better yet, the Co-op, with whom Mum and Dad had funeral plans, offered them.

I was amazed. I had no idea. As with learning Executor ropes, every day was indeed a school day.

Wool coffins come in grey or cream. Collectively we chose grey. It had a tight carpet weave with a strong recycled cardboard frame; suitable for burial or cremation. All I needed was Mum’s height and width, as wool coffins come in a few select sizes.

A note here; height is not standing-against-a-wall height. For when lying down the body elongates slightly as the toes “stretch” away. I had to ring the morgue at the hospital where Mum was to get exact measurements. The door was swinging very wide at this moment and I wrote down the details with tears streaming down my face. Fortunately the person I rang was very understanding.

Mum’s second challenge was an Order of Service without her photograph in it. Dad dropped that bombshell late one day. It arose because Mum disliked having her photograph taken, which was news to me.

An Order of Service with just words would look very odd. I mused a pen and ink type cameo portrait but thankfully it was dismissed as being too much going against her wishes; which I agreed with.

We were stumped for a while until my Sister came up with a solution. Over her long life Mum had done needlework. Her work hung up around the house, from one of her earliest work finished for their wedding to one she had completed sixty years later as their anniversary approached.

Instead of having a photograph of Mum we would have photographs of her needlework.

So, taking one of my Compassionate Leave days from work I drove over to Dad’s with camera, tripod and lights and photographed the lot. Then printed them for Dad and posted them to him; same time I emailed them to my Sister so we could all agreed which ones to include.

Then I used software to cut around them so they were a PNG file as opposed to JPEGs. Which is to say each image was just the needlework; the wall and other background was excluded so the Order of Service printer could place them without any background information.

Getting the images to the lovely people at the Co-op was tricky. Their system allowed JPEGs, it didn’t allow PNGs due to their potential for viruses. I tried email, tried a USB stick and finally a CD-ROM. The latter only worked because the employee took it home to extract the file and email it to work using his own “trusted” account.

As with all things, it’s the people that make things happen. People know what’s important, understand the emotions of the moment in a way no system ever could. And although I understand and accept the firewall their IT system required it proves that it pays to go with an organisation that has people at the heart of it. I don’t know if there would come a time when you could organise a funeral the same way you can buy groceries on-line but I for one value the human touch, especially in such an important moment.

Funeral Day was the day I’d been dreading. The final goodbye to Mum and when the moment came I was in bits and didn’t care who knew it.

In front of my Dad and my Sister I managed to hold it together, but it was tough, really tough.

Collectively we were going through Hell for I knew they too were hurting and I don’t think any of us wanted to be the one to break.

Having other family members there helped. It eased the tension, made it more a gathering, albeit just one with Mum not in the vicinity.

Mum’s funeral was a relatively long time after her death; mostly down to calendar coordination. And I was well aware of the pressure building in me as the day approached.

It was strange too, after so much preparation that neither of us had tasks to do, just be “present” and ready when the hearse arrived and then be carried along, guided by ushers and so on. That day was one of the few times in my life I was not responsible for anything, we were clients of the various factions of a well-rehearsed process. The three of us were so used to be the ones organising things it felt an oddly surreal. And lets face it, for us and everyone else given the emotions at play it is a better thing that we left it to the professionals. This was not the time for improvisation.

I remember seeing a respectful crowd of friends and the wider family as the three of us got out of the cortege at the church to follow Mum’s casket, the famed wool coffin inside. Then I remember little of the service itself as all I could do was stare as if mesmerised at her coffin as the tears flowed.

Remembering all she had done, all she meant to me and that now the world was changed forever.

I cried, uncaring who knew it, my Wife’s hand griping mine tight for moral support.

Saying my final goodbye at Mum’s graveside the tears stopped. The pressure I and the others felt to ensure we did Mum proud was gone, all her final wishes attended to as she had requested.

She could finally rest in peace, all worries, all responsibilities discharged with honour and pride of a job well done; Dad supported and loved as she in turn had been, a true partnership. And my Sister and I equipped with skills and mindset necessary for us to forge our futures.

Goodbye Mum, and thank you.

At the wake, as I looked around the room at friends and relatives, some I’d not seen for years, I realised for the first time that the objective was not to eat and drink, but to depressurise. To reminisce about Mum and the good times.

At almost eighty-seven she had had a good innings.

Much to my own surprise I found I could function as though someone had turned the clock back. Yes I was sad, still heartbroken, but no longer incapacitated or tearful. The funeral had temporarily shut the door and I had a kind of reconciliation. I think the funeral had helped heal the chasm her passing had opened in me, leaving me reflective; that she would be forever part of me and that I will occasionally cry, as I am crying now. Because I loved her. I’m so glad I had the foresight and courage to tell her so before it was too late.

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