Arranging my mother’s funeral – a great achievement

My mother was sick for a long time. This photo is from when I was 25 and she was 50, just before she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Her deterioration was gradual, and for a long time she had a good quality of life, but the deterioration became much steeper in the last year or so of her life.

That was a busy time for me, as I’d been her carer until she couldn’t live at home any more, and then I became her advocate, assistant and connection with the outside world. I was also juggling work and family life.

I spent a lot of time driving around, managing all these things, and often during those drives I would find myself planning her funeral. I knew that this role would fall to me but I couldn’t understand why I kept thinking about it at this time. It seemed somehow wrong. Those thoughts weren’t upsetting, though. Rather, they soothed me. I didn’t understand. Now I suspect that I was, without realising it, processing anticipatory grief.

The last weeks were very hard and it was in many ways a relief to begin to arrange the funeral when the time finally came.

Some unexpected hiccoughs turned up to challenge us. Mother hadn’t specified much, but she expected to be buried in the family cemetery, near to her childhood home, in the same plot as her mother. Unfortunately, we found out that the deeds had not been transferred into her name and it would probably take months of legal work to make this possible.

Change of plan. She was entitled to be buried in the village cemetery, the village I’ve lived in for decades and where she had lived for fifteen years. In contrast to the manicured family cemetery on the edge of a big town, the village cemetery is surrounded by countryside, somewhat straggly at the edges and often buffeted by inclement weather. Just the sort of setting Mother loved. It turned out to be the right place.

Hiccough number two. Although the funeral director booked the Church in the village for the funeral date, he didn’t realise that he hadn’t automatically booked the minister – a long-standing family friend whom Mother had requested for the service. Luckily, I phoned our friend to discuss the service. To my consternation I discovered that he had no idea about the plans and would be at a conference in Germany.

Another change of plan, this time the minister’s. He arranged to move his talk to the previous day and fly back to the UK in time to take Mother’s service. We were so grateful.

Hiccough number three. I had assumed that, when the Church was booked, the other rooms in the building would be available also, for refreshments after the service. Lesson: don’t assume! Luckily I found out with a little notice that the other rooms would be used for Tai Chi lessons that afternoon. It was too late to change the date of the service, so, guess what…?

Yet another change of plan. We set up large tables in the back of the big hall, where the service would be held, covered them with white table cloths and many vases of flowers. We would return here for tea and cake. It worked well. The Tai Chi people were so quiet we never noticed them!

Many other things, however, unfolded perfectly without any hiccoughs at all. My brother and I, who are very often of the same mind, agreed on a beautiful wicker coffin, pale, natural and gentle, dressed with autumn flowers. It was so lovely. We also agreed not to have any photographs on the Order of Service. In the UK these days, it’s customary to have a recent photograph on the front and a more youthful one on the back. But Mother never liked having her photograph taken and she wouldn’t have enjoyed being on the front of the Order of Service. So, no photos. Easily agreed.

Then it came to organising the ceremony itself. I will never forget sitting with our friend the minister in my mother’s own living room (she had always hoped to return home even though we all knew this couldn’t happen) and making all the plans. She hadn’t asked for any particular music but we, her children, knew what she would have wanted in terms of hymns. I also asked for us to sing the Prayer of St Francis, which I had played on a CD in her room during her final days.

Readings. I chose verses from Ecclesiastes that reflected my own feelings around the time of her passing and the poem ‘Do not stand at my grave and weep,’ which I felt articulated the sense of release from disability and pain, and her love for the outdoors.

I asked two of her cousins to read these pieces which they did, lovingly, gently, respectfully.

My uncle (her older brother) and I both wanted to speak. I agreed with the minister that I would type out exactly what I wanted to say and then if I couldn’t continue he would simply take over. My uncle, however, doesn’t do notes and would speak from the heart. That made me a little nervous but it was ok!

I wrote out a life story for the minister to turn into a eulogy. I wanted to be as helpful as possible, and thought this might be easier for him than listening to me ramble on while he took notes.

All of this meant it would be quite a long ceremony. This was ok because we were using a church that had no other services booked that day, followed by a burial. Services in crematoria are strictly time-limited and a ceremony as lengthy as this would necessitate a double booking if using a crematorium chapel.

The day came. The weather was beautiful, and although it was late October, we didn’t need coats. Family gathered in my house and at the Church. Some of us walked the couple of minutes from one to the other together, and it wasn’t long before we were walking behind the beautiful coffin, held easily by only four pallbearers, to take our seats at the front.

Everything went as it was supposed to. My uncle said his bit and I said mine. The cousins did their readings. Everybody sang. It was gentle and low-key, just like my mother. As I listened to the eulogy, I realised that most of it was in my own words. My dear friend, the minister, said afterwards that he couldn’t really improve on it so decided to read out exactly what I had written, almost word for word, apart from adding in his own memories.

We walked out again behind the pallbearers with their delicate load, to move on to a really special aspect of the day. The cemetery is only about 1/3 of a mile from the Church and we had asked to walk behind the hearse. So that’s what we did. My brother, myself and our children first, then the other 40-odd congregation, some less mobile ones creeping along behind in cars. All the traffic stopped for us and people came out of their houses to stand in respect.

At one point, my brother said to me, ‘turn round, Harriet, just look.’ I turned round. For as far as we could see there were friends and family walking and quietly chatting, filling the road from one side to the other. The solemn mood temporarily lifted. I said to my brother, ‘it’s like a victory parade.’ A moving moment next, as, having just walked past my own house we then reached my mother’s. As arranged, the hearse stopped still for a few seconds outside the house Mother had so longed to see again. We all stopped as well. Just for a moment.

Arriving at the cemetery we milled about on the grass, standing around the freshly dug grave, in the spot I had chosen, waiting for the coffin to be placed above it. For me, the most significant part of that ceremony was the moment, after the coffin had been carefully lowered, when we were able to gently sprinkle a handful of earth onto it. Symbolic of letting go. An important moment.

Did I feel emotional and was there grief? Of course. I might have cried during the service if I didn’t need to keep it together in order to speak. While the coffin was lowered I was holding on tight to my adult son’s hand. Throughout the day he was next to me almost constantly, tall, strong, supportive.

More chatting, with people who had driven many miles exclaiming how lovely the rural setting was, and how they could see the estuary glinting in the sunshine not far away. The walk back to the Church was more relaxed, and we used the pavements this time instead of taking up the whole road! Then more talking, catching up, expressing gratitude for people driving a long way and/or giving up a day’s work to show their respect and support.

The sandwiches and cakes had been made by the tiny baker’s right next door to my house, another spot on the route from the Church to the cemetery. Even the bread is made on the premises so it was all local and personal. Some friends made endless cups of tea until the last person had left and someone must have cleared it all up afterwards.

I’ve been needing to tell this story in full for some time. I regard that day as one of the greatest achievements of my life. Everything we arranged was appropriate to the quiet, understated and thoughtful life that my mother had lived. Every decision was made with love and care for detail. Although desperately sad, the day itself was a beautiful reflection of the woman we loved and the way we felt about her and now we have it as a special memory that we can hold close, and discuss often.

I now realise that I poured my heart into making the arrangements and that this helped me to begin to transform my relationship with my mother. That relationship will never stop, but it had to change because she wasn’t here in person any more. Taking all the steps I have described helped me to know, in my deepest self, that she had died, and creating a beautiful and treasured day to frame and ease the letting go helped me to do just that, with love.

After this experience, my advice to anyone who finds themselves needing to arrange a funeral is to pour themselves into it. Yes, it will hurt, but it will hurt just as much if you avoid being too involved, let others make decisions, try not to think about it. Creating a beautiful and appropriate day and ceremony has helped me and my family to work through the grief and to turn the necessary letting go into a special and comforting memory.