What happens when …. you can’t talk about it?
In my work as a celebrant, I often see that for some, talking about the death of a family member can create feelings of intolerable stress. The tensions and anxieties around a loss can be overwhelming; added to this, the family must plan the funeral. Anyone who has had to arrange a funeral knows of the paperwork and bureaucracy, and so, often, by the time they have met me to plan the ceremony, they are exhausted.
I meet Graham and his sister Susan in a first floor flat in Harlow. The siblings usher me in, apologising for the mess while explaining that they are still in the process of sending out death certificates to their mum’s bank and building societies and to the council, who own her flat.
a reassuring cuppa …
The funeral director who put me in contact with Graham and Susan has told me only the bare minimum about their mum, Elizabeth, except to say she died of heart failure aged 83. And so, I have a blank canvas. Sue offers to make tea and it is without doubt that a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits is a warm and safe way to start any conversation. I tell them I have some basic information about Elizabeth, but would like to know more. But Graham and Sue seem too shaken to speak. We sip our tea, and I ask about the flat, and they tell me that mum moved in about thirty years ago; she made it her own and covered the walls with paintings she created from evening classes in art. There are life drawings, landscapes and still lives. And on the shelves there are cookery books, travel books and biographies. “She was a reader, your mum,” I offer, and they both nod.
Let’s start at the beginning…
The shock of a death can feel paralysing and the grief which accompanies it can render us mute. In our minds there may be so many images of that person and if our relationship with them has been complicated, the feelings can feel muddled and muddied. So, if our relationship with that person has been problematic, then their death can feel like a double blow. Where do we put all that sadness? How do we begin to pay our respects to someone who may have been, in life, difficult?
I invite Graham and Sue to track back to what they know of their mum’s early life. So, we start at the beginning.
Elizabeth, know to all as Betty, was born in 1937 in Swindon to parents George and Ivy; George worked as an engineer while Ivy ran the home and brought up Betty and her five older siblings. During the war, George went into the army, working as a sapper for the Royal Engineers. Throughout the war Betty played out on the street with her pals and had an unremarkable school career, leaving secondary education at 14 to work as a dressmaker’s assistant. She was the last one of her siblings to survive and she had no friends.
I go on to discover that Betty met her husband Tony at a local dance, and were later married at a church in Ely where they moved for Tony’s work; this was 1958. Graham was born in 1960 and Susan, 1962.
Don’t write that down…
Talking can be cathartic, but sometimes, conversations are difficult; it is different for everyone and every family is different. So, it is important in my work to be sensitive to the energy in the room and to make the family feel safe, no matter what comes up in the discussion.
“If it was now”, Graham says, “She’d have a diagnosis.”
I wait to see if Graham wants to tell me more.
“Her behaviour,” he says, “it wasn’t normal.”
Susan flashes her brother a look, “Don’t write that down,” she instructs me, and then goes on to explain that her mum struggled with her mental health throughout her life. The siblings begin to open up and describe situations from their childhoods when their mum was unwell.
“But you don’t need to write that, I’m just telling you, you know?” Susan instructs me.
I reassure them that what they tell me is in confidence and that the ceremony to celebrate Betty’s life will be an accurate reflection of the person they loved and the person everyone knew.
Help me! My memories are so muddled!
“Tell me about her,” I suggest, “I mean, if she was here with us now, and I walked into the room, how would she greet me?”
At this, Graham becomes animated and sits forward in his seat, “She’d love it! She’d give you a tour of the flat and show you all her art. She’d ask you all about your work, wouldn’t she Sue? She was fascinated by people. And she’d ask you how much you earn!”
“Don’t write that down,” Susan says me quickly and I nod with a smile.
So, I ask what sort of ceremony would be fitting for their mum. The siblings pause, looking at me for a lead. I describe some options and ask them to explore music which Betty loved; I offer them the space to talk to the congregation about their mum, to say something which feels authentic yet, which honours Betty at the same time. There’s no dress rehearsal for this, I tell them, we do it once, and then you never have to do it again; we lay her to rest and you do this knowing you have honoured her memory.
I leave two hours later, my notebook brimming with stories and anecdotes. What I haven’t written are memories the family don’t want; and this is only right, because the Betty we will celebrate on the day of her funeral, is her best self.
Together we can talk about how to create a unique ceremony to celebrate the person you loved: all they were, all they stood for and how they will be remembered.
Thank you,
Ruth
Ruth.silverstone@humanistceremonies.org.uk
07779 719 562
