Have you ever had THAT chat with your partner or your family? You know the one where you lovingly joke about what you want to happen if you died, what kind of funeral you’d want, and where you’d like to be buried or have your ashes scattered?
You know when you’re having this chat, that it’s not really a joke, and that quietly you’re tucking the information away in case you need it. Even though you promise yourself that it will be years and years away, so it doesn’t seem too real and too scary.
I know the music my husband wants played at his funeral. I hope I don’t lose the CD because the only thing I remember is that it’s Track 5. I will do something more permanent with that piece of information now though. Especially as CD players may be obsolete before I need it (or at least I hope so.)
My Mum died when she was 56. Years too young, and far too soon. Although she died unexpectedly, she’d been unwell for ages. Not dying unwell, but unwell. So when it happened, in our grief, my sister, Dad and I seized the opportunity to make sure that everything that happened afterwards was as perfectly “Mum” as we could make it.
Mum walked her own path in life and we celebrated that. We had artwork from her favourite artist on the funeral notice. Not being one for large gushy bouquets, we had a floral piece of lichen, berries and driftwood made for her coffin. Her favourite song played. We wrote the funeral completely. We carried her out. And we made sure that the nibbles for the wake were catered from a swish, catering company, as Mum always liked things done nicely. But what we were most proud of, was having a tree planted in the local Botanical gardens, overlooking a stunning view. It was a native tree with a plaque. My Dad and I went up one sunny Saturday morning with a cardboard box of Mum’s ashes, a shovel and lovingly buried her under her tree. She would have enjoyed that we did that, especially as my Dad was beside himself with worry that we’d get busted.