The Worst Day

I’m not sure which is the worst day: learning that the person you love most in the world has passed away, or the ceremony of reducing their body to ash. Both are very traumatic events. The fact that they invariably occur within close proximity to each other is particularly bastardly.

I was one of the pallbearers at my Mum’s funeral, this morning. I had to stoop a little because the other three were a bit Hobbity in comparison to my height of 6’4”. I met my siblings at a hotel for breakfast and my hands were shaking, then, when I was trying to sip from the coffee cup…  and a couple of hours later, I was entrusted with my Mum’s coffin. I think the mild panic of not wanting to drop it distracted my mind from the realisation that I was carrying a coffin with my Mum’s body in it.

It was a bitterly cold morning with flecks of snow thrown around in the wind, refusing to settle on the ground. It’s been like this for days. It seems reflective of the bite of loss in my heart, though I’m warmed and strengthened by the same love that makes this loss so terrible.

The service was really lovely, as these things go. There were quite a few people from the village, and, otherwise, close family and friends, but it was a small affair. Most of my Mum’s family is from Birkenhead – some 120 miles away – so we’re having a larger memorial service there in a couple of weeks.

After the minister had read some wonderful, inspiring and funny words from my eldest brother, Paul, my Dad got up and spoke. Immediately, his voice broke, but he pushed on through his short tribute, sobbing and wiping away tears. They had been separated for around thirty years and I understood today that he’d always loved her.

I wimped out on reading the eulogy I’d written for my Mum, with another of my brothers, Steve, taking on the task instead. He spent around thirty years with the Army and he’s one of the toughest guys I know, but I think standing there today and reading it was one of the most difficult things he’s ever done.  

This is what I wrote for her:

“The last words my Mum spoke to me - almost inaudible, but so familiar - were: “I love you.”

Stephen wasn’t so lucky. Mum’s last words to him were: “Tell Paul to put the chicken pie in the oven.”

She had been in hospital for over two months.

There was no chicken pie.

She was on morphine.

Paul was comforted on another occasion when Mum said she could see her late brothers - our uncles, Dessie and Bernard, I think it was - standing at the foot of her hospital bed, but that comfort was quickly torn away when she said:

“But they’re not here for me, they’re here for you!”

It was almost a relief that Paul hadn’t made a surprise departure of his own before she passed away, and that we know she hadn’t been making prophecies, or we’d all be wondering, now, what the true relevance of the chicken pie was.

Mum and Dad celebrated their golden wedding anniversary in January. For most of those 50 years, they were very happily married, due to the fact they separated three decades ago, but never got round to divorcing. And it helped that they lived at opposite ends of the country and barely spoke to one another.

Although they may not have been a match made in heaven, their union brought five children and, so far, five grandchildren into the world, and I know Mum felt blessed by us all, as we felt and feel blessed by her.

Amongst my first memories of her were of ‘Magical Mummy Fibs’, the majority of which, I learnt in later life, were advanced psychological tactics for deployment exclusively against small children, in order to manipulate them into giving their mother just a little bit of peace in their day.

These included the Sweet Fairy, who would leave Curley Wurleys and such under the pillows of her bed, and we could only have them on the condition that we lay down and napped for half an hour or so.

I also remember her telling me that Brotherhood of Man’s Eurovision winner – ‘Save All Your Kisses For Me’ – was written about me. I was only two at the time and she would kiss me all over my face when she told me. It’s one of the cheesiest pop songs ever recorded, but whenever I listen to it, part of me is drawn back to those halcyon days of childhood where there wasn’t a care in the world.

It is tough to comprehend that we’ll never see her again; that no more will we hear her voice or listen to her laughter; we can’t call her; we won’t be able to hold her tightly in our arms one last time and let her know how much she is loved…

I feared, for many years, that Mum’s passing would be the single most devastating event in my life and that I’d struggle to carry on without her.

Now that awful time has come, and through the sustained period of limbo between her leaving us and her funeral, the greatest solace has come from the legacy of love she left us – and we were truly loved.

We were not a financially wealthy family and we went through some extremely tough times, but what we were never starved of was love. We always knew just how much Mum loved us, and she always knew just how much we loved her.

I always thought that losing Mum meant losing her love, but I realise, now, that the love is never going to go away and it’s as greatly cherished as when she was here with us.

Sure, the past week or so has been tough on all of us - as have the two and a half months previous, when she was ill in hospital - but as much as I understand and have come to terms with the truth that she’s physically gone from this world, forever, what’s also true is that her spirit has not. It endures, within us and around us. It really is like she’s just gone into another room. There has been no disconnection of that bond of affection we’ve always felt with her.

There may be the sadness and fear of grief in our minds, but our hearts are still packed full of that love she radiated for all the years we were fortunate enough to have her with us.

When she was frail and her mental faculties began to decline, out of the blue, she dictated a text message to Paul, to send to me. It read:

“Forgive yourself as we forgive you. I love everyone in the world. I hope God loves everyone even half as much as I do.”

Yes, she was on morphine… but…

Our Mum was an angel of a woman; a gift to all of us here – such a special and beautiful soul to have graced our lives…

So, I hope, rather than mourn her loss, today, we can all celebrate her life and remember the great things about her, of which there were many.

Thank you all for coming here today. Your love is a great strength, too.”

I simply couldn’t have read that out loud, in front of all those people. It was hard enough to hear the words in my own head when I wrote them. Also, funeral crying works faster than a zombie virus and I didn’t want to be the one to start that particular apocalypse…

Steve stumbled through the words, at times… fighting back tears… later telling me it was because I’d used too many big words. He did what I couldn’t, though, and for that I’m so grateful.

My sister was inconsolable, bless her beautiful heart. She was sobbing so hard when the minister delivered the committal and the curtain closed around my Mum’s coffin. We all remained British and kept to our seats, when I know that everyone in the room – myself included, of course – wanted to go over and wrap our arms around her. She had her own sons beside her, though, and we knew they were looking after her as well as we could hope to.

We children of Brenda Veronica Floyd lined up, shook hands and hugged those who had attended the ceremony, then the close family went to a pub in Carlisle to reminisce and contemplate life without her.

I know what I’m experiencing isn’t unique to the world, but it’s unique to me. I have been offered so many comforting words from others, relating to the passing of their own parents and family, and I have now learnt through experience a more acute sense of empathy with the countless other souls on the planet who have faced this greatest loss.

Present awareness has saved me. I know that the ‘old me’ would be wanting a rope right now… and not because he’d just read 50 Shades of Grey.

Instead, I want to do more with my life, in tribute to the woman who gifted me this whole Universe and made it my playground.

I want to thank everyone for their inspiring kindness and comforting words.

Life does go on… love does go on…