I got a series of calls from Dad. They started just before lunchtime on Friday in Seattle, Friday evening in Guildford. First I was told that mum is coming home and they are waiting for the ambulance to take her home from the hospital. Not exactly smiles all round, but it’s where mum wanted to be.
Twenty minutes later I missed a call from my brother. I called back within a minute or two, dad answered the phone. The message was short and to the point, Mum’s gone.
In my first couple of days back in Guildford I went with dad and we got the death registered, spent time with the funeral directors, made arrangements with the crematorium, met the parish vicar, dealt with the hospital, got all the various pieces of paper to the right place and made many, many decisions about what’s going to happen.
Then all of a sudden it comes to a halt. In the last week we’ve not stopped, but now everything was done and it is just a matter of waiting for the service, getting dressed and turning up.
When we started to discuss the service with the funeral director we felt that someone should talk at the funeral, dad was clear he could not do it with out breaking down totally. My brother immediately passed, which left me.
My parents live in the Parish of Stoughton; the vicar of the Emmanuel church in Stoughton, Rev Frank Scammell would be conducting the service. As a family we sat with, talked about mum, how she was, her friends and how she was loved. After an hour or so we had the order of service set, it was going to be short and intimate.
I’d had some ideas about what I was going to say, but putting my scribbled notes into a coherent speech was a lot harder than it probably should have been. It was after midnight and unable to sleep I started writing, deleting, writing a little more, paring down and trying to be relevant.
On the day of the funeral dad was dressed 3 hours before we needed to leave. He’d pick up the newspaper, stare at the crossword for a few minutes, put it down, pick it up and start over again.
I spent the time pacing back and forth, trying to keep the most severe of the emotions down while I went over the eulogy.
Dad and I made it to the crematorium with plenty of time to spare; my brother and his family were already there. I wandered through the gardens, trying to collect my thoughts, find a calm moment for myself and get some control over my emotions.
The service was short; I paused a couple of times and took a deep breath, but made it through what I had to say. Like many families we’ve had our ups and downs over the years, but there was never any doubt about how we felt about each other.
I saw mum three days before she passed. I was on my way to the airport and she was on Onslow Ward. Our last exchange was the same as the closing statement of my eulogy “I love you”.
“I’m going to make this short.
I’ve talked to a few of mums friends and my family over the last few days. A lot of tears have been shed, and I’m sure there are plenty more to still to come.
For me, the most emotional moment was Monday. Dad and I were at the funeral directors and Dad was asked what should be done with mums rings. He replied “she’s worn her wedding ring for the last 43 years, she won’t want to take them off now”. We both lost the façade that everything was OK, because it’s not.
There were a couple of themes that ran through the conversations and that story illustrates the first one, she was loyal. She knew who her friends were and they in return, knew they could count on mum.
Second was that she lived her life with conviction. She had very clear ethics and taught us the difference between right and wrong, and she lived her life the right way until the end.
There are other stories from over the years, some her love for her family, her sense of humour, sense of adventure and a couple that involved whiskey and should be saved for elsewhere.
As you may know I am a cancer survivor, I know how scary it is to have the first conversation with your oncologist. My mother bore each stage of this disease with much more grace, strength, determination and stubbornness that I was ever been able to muster. I’m so proud of my mother and the way she fought over the last three years.
Thank you all for your thoughts, your wishes, calls and offers of help to my father, my brother and myself. As the weeks go by Stephen and I would really appreciate it if you could keep my father in your thoughts and give him a call occasionally as he adjusts to life with out mum. Thank you.
I love you mum, I miss you.”