I RECENTLY returned to the town I grew up in for the funeral of the father of a close friend. It was a hardy February day, and as the hearse made the journey from the house to the church, the mourners shuffled along behind, quietly acknowledging old friends and acquaintances, and trying to place some familiar-looking faces now crowned with greying, thinning or even no hair. Time stands still for none of us.
The funeral Mass was a solemn yet joyful occasion, chronicling the well-lived life of a popular man, with representatives of his own and other faith groups, neighbours, former colleagues and many friends among the large attendance. The ceremony was enhanced with carefully chosen readings, prayers and beautiful music. It reminded me that even if we leave home, it always lives with us and how quickly images and sounds of childhood are almost magically reawakened by just one voice or sight. It may not always have been sweetness and light, but it will always be home.
After the burial, we lined up to shake hands with my friend's family and wished them well, and even if some of them were not just 100 per cent sure of who each of the mourners were, every sympathetic greeting was warmly received.
It was good to get to spend a few hours with my friend the next day, and he was pleased that everyone agreed that his dad had gotten a good send-off and the family were happy with how things had turned out. My friend, while tired, reflected on the happenings of the previous few days, from the phone call to confirm the worst, to the journey home, to the range of people who called to the house in the days and hours leading up to the funeral.
He was overwhelmed by the numbers of people who got in touch, called to the house, provided practical help in all its required forms and attended the funeral and burial. He marvelled how people calling to the house represented such diverse walks of life… from the world of sport, from political circles, from the workplaces of his family and himself, and from the local community.
He did not seem to be aware that his father, his family and himself are held in such high regard by many people.
Like all bereaved families, the pain of their loss will remain and linger. The month’s mind will bring an end to the first phase of mourning, and then in the further distance, the first Christmas, first new year and eventually the first anniversary.
It can feel that after the first year that time speeds up, and each annual marking of the death seems to come sooner and sooner, and in my case the approaching anniversary of my father’s death does not seem at all like the 30th one, with the memories of him feeling much fresher and immediate.
It’s an odd thing to say but being present at the funeral and spending time with my friend was quite life affirming and comforting, providing reassurance that people can surprise us with their support and positivity at the worst of times for families, and reminding me that as we will all end up dying in any case, the key thing is to get on with living and not be so worried about our imperfections and what does not go well.
Each day is a gift and the only certainty is that tonight we will all be one day closer to not being here.
:: Dr Paul Gaffney is a senior clinical psychologist.
