“The best portion of a good man’s life is his little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love.”
Wordsworth
It was my father’s funeral today. I haven’t mentioned it before because everyone has their own challenges at the moment and many of you have your own parents to worry about.
However, it’s a significant day in my life, and part of my record of lockdown.
He died after a short illness, having tested positive for Covid 19 several weeks ago. He was moved from the care home to the hospital as he became weaker and, after a brief rally, died peacefully, without experiencing any of the breathing difficulties reported in the press.
Last time we visited he beat us all at dominoes. He may have lost his ability to remember people, but he still retained his facility with numbers. He was still competitive, too, and retained the will to win that had led my mother to hide the Monopoly board each Christmas was still there.
I will remember that visit, with the sound of a distant TV and the click of dominoes, and my sister telling me it was only a game.
It is a matter of great sadness, but he was ninety one and you cannot complain at that.
The funeral was a strange affair. We could not use the village church because it is closed during lockdown, and simply met at the crematorium for a short service. Numbers were limited to ten, and we had to tell many friends and family members they must not travel, as we want them all to stay safe. There was, of course, no gathering afterwards, which made the whole thing seem incomplete.
There was a list of people who were allowed to attend posted near the entrance. This includes partners, children and grandchildren but excludes friends. If you aren’t on the list, you aren’t even allowed in the grounds.
Our group included three family members and five friends.
In doing this we weren’t actually breaking government guidelines, as close friends are allowed if family members do not attend. Most of the friends attending had known him for between twenty and fifty years and seen him more often than most family members.
It seems that the crematorium is making up rules to suit itself.
Having checked the regulations to ensure I am accurate in reporting, I can also add that the figure of ten people seems to be an arbitrary figure decided by the crematorium, rather than a government figure.
My father loved singing and, in his youth, he had been asked to join a professional singing group but my grandmother had been unwilling to let him go. Sadly, we are not allowed to sing tomorrow as excessive exhalation is considered a health hazard.
The service was available on webcast and a number of people have already been in contact to thank my sister for her efforts in organising a meaningful and dignified service in the face of several difficulties.
It was an uplifting service, celebrating a life, without being boastful. This summed my father up. He achieved many things in life. Starting from a position of disadvantage, he educated himself in the Royal Navy, worked hard, and won several prestigious awards. He also found time to work for charity, serve in a soup kitchen for the homeless, and stay married for 60 years. My mother, it has to be said, played a large part in his success.
He was known for being blunt, being good company and working hard. Mainly, it has to be said, for being blunt.
As we left the crematorium a large group of socially distancing mourners we lined up outside the gateway to pay respect to another funeral. This is how we mourn in times of lockdown.
Flowers
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I have just discovered this post, Simon and I am so sorry you are grieving the death of your father. The thing I find most touching is your silence about your father’s last illness. You must have been suffering deeply for many weeks and not to be able to visit one’s parent as their life comes to an end must be almost unbearable. I am glad he didn’t struggle for breath and his passing was gentle. From your description of him, he sounded a most interesting and energetic man. May he rest in peace.
Thank you Clare. My last memory of him was a smiling man who had just beaten me at dominoes. He waved me off from the doorway of his room and that was the last time I saw him.
In some ways it is easier to bear when you can remember him on top form, rather than in a hospital bed.
I think you are right. What a lovely memory of your father!
I am sorry to hear about your father’s death. Not being able to have the service you would have liked–or be comforted by the many family friends–has likely added stress, which nobody needs now (or ever, really, but again, the compounding). I send my sympathies, and hope you find comfort in family and good memories.
Thank you. We will be gathering after the lockdown to tell stories and remember the good times.
That will be good.
We will be laying the ashes of both parents to rest in the yard of the church where they married. It is next to the school where they first met.
Now that’s nice. Full circle.
Yes, far better than the local crematorium.
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I have been feeling a sense of loss in your recent posts and that is fully explained now. Thank you for your consideration for your readers but few of them can have a more sad story than yours. Funerals in the lockdown must be very hard to bear so we both send you our deepest sympathy.
Thank you. We will be taking mum and dads ashes back to Lancashire after the lockdown. They will be interred in the churchyard of the church where they married. This will redress the industrial nature of the cremation.
A good scheme.
My deepest sympathies. The restrictions placed on us during these times just adds to the burden of grief. May his memory be a blessing.
Thank you. It was all rather strange but, at the same time, uplifting.
This blog post was so poignant—my sympathies.
Thank you.
So very, very sorry to read about your father’s death. The loss of a parent, no matter how old, leaves a terrible hole in the family. And oddly enough, when the last parent dies, you feel like an orphan, regardless of your own age. At least I did when my mother died. Your description of mourning in times of lockdown so vividly captures what is happening right now.
Thank you. I had been dreading it all through lockdown so, to be honest, I feel slightly better now than I have done for the last few weeks. However, there is plenty of time for it to catch up with me.
Yes, grief is hard.
The strange thing I find about it is how it keeps coming back.
And you can’t fight it. You just have to let it come. As one wise pastor noted, grief will have its way. Finally, to be mourned is to be loved. How terrible for a person not to be mourned when he dies.
The answer to this is a post in itself, but the short answer is yes, it will take its course, and yes, it would be terrible.
Sorry for your loss. It does all sound rather surreal. 😔
Thank you. It was a little strange, but it went off as well as could be expected.
The initial shock was replaced by profound sadness as I read this most moving post, Simon. You retain your consideration for the rest of us as you describe what you have been experiencing. I send my love.
Thank you Derrick. I hope you and the family are all staying well.
We are, thank you.
That is good to hear. 🙂
We send our deepest sympathy to you and your family, Quercus. It is always hard to say goodbye, no matter how they died, or how many years they lived. Their passing leaves a hole in one’s life. The memories live on, played back in mind’s eye, and heart. May you, and all who cherished his life, find solace and peace in your remembrances of him.
Your father will get daffodils planted in his memory here this autumn.
Thank you. He liked daffodils and would often recite Wordsworth’s poem, which he had learned at school. This is why it is one of the few poems I know more than a few lines of. 🙂
I remember that poem from school as well. I enjoyed the imagery.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Wandered_Lonely_as_a_Cloud
An interesting article. Thanks for the link.
my condolences. I am sorry to hear about your loss. May he rest in peace
Thank you.