You can't spell funeral without F.U.N.

I’ve written a few times about the death of my dad and the impact it had on me. But you know what they say, tragedy plus time equals humour. So, there were definitely a few things from his death that are worth relaying.

Keeping me grounded

The afternoon that I got the call was surreal. Dad had died very unexpectedly; he’d had a heart attack whilst riding his motorbike. Mum rang, and I had to organise to get home quickly and contact a few people, so they knew.

I’d been upset all afternoon as I rang and shared the news about Dad. The next day was my daughter’s first day at school, and I couldn’t believe that I was going to miss it, but this unfortunately had to take precedence, so I could get home and help Mum.

At dinner, I started explaining to my daughter that I’d be away for a week or two and that she’d be home with my wife. She looked at me briefly, then jumped up from her seat, pulling two fists to her side, and proclaiming at the top of her lungs, “YES!”

Both my wife and I were a bit shocked, and my wife said, “Look, Dad is really upset, Grandad has died”. Not understanding what she’d done wrong, my daughter responded, “Yeah, I get that. But this means that you and I can have sleepovers. Do you want to sleep in my room, or do you want me to come into yours?”

It was a beautiful moment of innocence and hilarity amid overwhelming grief.

My Mum’s default setting

When Dad died, Mum was away visiting my sister. I had to fly home to identify the body and get Dad’s belongings from the Police, then I picked Mum and my sister up from the airport. We were driving home, and in the midst of our shared grief, Mum said, “You know, I left your father a list of chores to do while I was away…” She paused briefly, then continued, “I bet you he hasn’t done them”.

I turned to Mum and said, “Look, Mum, I’m going to manage your expectations here. You weren’t due back for another two weeks. Dad would have waited until the day before you came home, and then he would have done them”. I could hear my sister snickering from the back seat, then I continued, “And even then, they wouldn’t have been done to your standard”.

Sure enough, we got home and there at Dad’s seat at the kitchen table was the list. All I could picture was Dad walking out that morning, looking at the list, and saying, “I’ll see you later!”

Writing a eulogy that my Mum would approve of

You might have previously read my story about writing my dad’s eulogy; if not, it’s available here:

I learned so many funny stories about Dad, which I wish I’d known when he was alive. I also had a few funny ones to tell myself, and I knew they would make my Mum frown. She was a lot more serious than Dad.

I also knew that Mum would want to approve any eulogy that I was going to deliver. This meant I had to provide her with a copy of what I intended to say before she would be happy for me to deliver my eulogy.

So, I prepared and printed out a copy of the eulogy for Mum to vet. She read it and gave me permission to deliver the eulogy. Sadly, the version I gave her was not the version I delivered. In embracing Dad’s cheekiness, I had to include a lot more humour, so I did. I also had to talk about some stories that Mum would not have been happy for me to share.

In the end, everyone was happy. Well, not Mum because she realised that I had pulled a swift one, but it’s not like she was going to rip me away from the lectern as I delivered a heartfelt and hilarious eulogy.

Weeks later, Mum said to me, “Well, everyone keeps telling me how good a eulogy that was, so I guess it was alright”. That equates to high praise in Mum’s books.

You've got to do your job

Our family used the same funeral home for all our family’s funerals. They had buried my granddad, grandma, uncle, aunt, and cousin. We always dealt with Jeff, because he had known my family for over 30 years. When it came time to organise things, we rang that funeral home and asked to meet with Jeff.

On the day we went down to talk about arrangements, Jeff met us at the front door and took us through to his office. We all sat down, and he was visibly upset. “I just don’t know what to say”, he started, “Ever since I saw the story in the paper the other day, I’ve been going to the girls at reception and asking them every day, ' Have we heard from John’s family yet?’” I tried to lighten the mood and replied, “Very presumptuous that you’d be getting our business, Jeff.” He seemed a bit shocked, “Oh no, it’s just that if you did need us, I was ready to help in any way I could.” The more I spoke, the more upset he seemed to get. “I just can’t believe it; I was only talking to John a couple of weeks ago…” The more he spoke, the more upset he was getting.

I started to look at Mum, who was clearly getting upset too. I wasn’t in the mood to comfort anyone else.

I had to cut him off, “Look, Jeff, this is your job, man. I need you to get your shit together, or everyone in this room is going to lose it, and I can’t deal with that right now.”

That must have been enough to pull him back to his professional mode. He snapped back to a funeral specialist.

After the funeral, we had a chat, he told me how he was going to retire soon because he’s been doing that job for over 35 years, and now he was burying too many people that he knew. I guess even if you’re around death in that capacity, it can still affect you when it’s someone you care about.

Who are you?

When Dad died, I was 49, and I hadn’t lived in my hometown for over 25 years.

Dad died during the time of COVID, when people were still required to wear face masks at big public gatherings. People who had known my family our whole lives came to the funeral. It was a very big turnout.

I had the job of greeting people as they came into the church. People would come up to me and know who I was, and start talking. The blank look in my eyes must have told them that I didn’t know who they were, and so many of them would say, “Oh, hang on, it’s because I’ve got a face mask on”, so they would pull it down to reveal their full face. My blank look continued.

Eventually, they would say their name, and I would know who they were. It wasn’t that I couldn’t recognise them because they were wearing face masks. I didn’t recognise them because I hadn’t seen them in person since I was about 10, and they had changed a bit in that time.

There were lots of other things that gave me a laugh either at the time or afterwards. Death is hard, but it can also be amusing. Finding those moments of levity can help pull us through our dark days.

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