Confessions of a Free Range Prolapsed Catholic

In light of the recent announcement from the leader of the opposition regarding the benefit of going nuclear, I have been inundated with anxiety about what lies ahead! However, one of my great blessings at this time of my life is that I am in my eighth decade! Even with the longevity genes of the females in my family history, at most I have two decades, perhaps, three left.

Once upon a time. not too long ago, I was convinced that I belonged to GenX. My rationale for this was that I was born in 1951, well after the baby boom post the second world war. I thought the title “Baby Boomers” referred to the post return home bonking which must have happened after the return of the soldiers! My Dad didn’t go to war, he was medically unfit but in the years between their 1943 and 1947, they produced my 3 older siblings. I arrived next in 1951 and my two young siblings were neatly spaced about 4 years apart. Imagine my horror when, within the last two decades only, I found out the “boom” was a post war economic boom. I am guessing there will be little booming of any kind that will go on if the nuclear plan goes belly up in one or all of the six proposed sites, BUT I will have left this mortal coil come time before then I hope!

There is great sadness in grief. The paradox of grief is that there is also joy! The brilliance of “Always look on the bright side of life” in the crucifixion scene in “The Life of Brian” and the counter punch lyric challenge of “always look on the bright side of death” becomes more real and significant to me as I start of my 74th year! What follows are some recollections and learnings from funerals, family and otherwise that I have attended. Sometimes I was among the “chief mourners”!

Which brings me to funerals!

The first funeral attended I was in year 7. It was 1962. A school friend’s father died. It was sudden and very sad. I wanted to attend and some of my class members did too. Parental permission was necessary. I was 11. My Mum took me. I had permission to attend the burial post the Requiem Mass. I watched my friend looking so little and so sad. I was intrigued by the depth of the grave and the straightness of the sides of it. We had to be returned to school for the rest of the day. I remember feeling a bit conflicted because I was glad that my Mum and Dad were still alive and well. In hindsight, I remain grateful for the many years they stayed with us until I was standing by their grave!

My maternal grandmother died in 1974. Mary Kathleen . I loved her with all my heart. She was a force of nature. She was Scottish/Presbyterian, born on a ship when her parents migrated to Australia. Christened Mary Anne she changed her name to Mary Kathleen because her given name was too plain, She became a catholic six days before her marriage to my grandfather. She held out for as long as she could I guess! She gave birth to seven children “my 4 sons” and three daughters. She was the first adult to describe me as ”a good woman”. She was the first person I had seen after death. What I learned at that time was that what made her the person I knew and loved all my life was her spirit, her essence, her stories. It was not her physical anything! I was shocked to see her as unrecognisable as her body lay on the table in the mortuary in the nursing home where she spent her last few years. However, today, to me, as I type this she is as present to me as she has always been.

Her funeral was enormous. A Bishop, Monsignors and more priests than you could poke a sick at. The priest contingent included a son and grandson, five grandchildren who were priests or members of religious orders at the time Great music, great participation. All 7 of her children and all living grandchildren and great grandchildren, including my two youngest children, were present. A parish gathering post burial.

At the age of 26 I was appointed as a teacher in the catholic school system was to a Josephite school. I had worked in the state system for three years. The return to the “flock” was euphoric! The assistant principal was a member of the order. Her sister who had taught me in junior and senior high school. Their Dad died. A couple of colleagues and I went to the funeral mass and burial. The cemetery was a half hour drive away from the church. Rather than become part of the funeral cortege, we decided to zip ahead. It was a hot day. The cemetery is situated close to the coast and the wind was blowing sand all over the place. After about an hour, a car pulled up next to us and out popped the assistant principal. Roaring her head off with laughter she explained the delay!

The hearse had broken down. Fortunately there was a service station close by. However, nothing could get the hearse going. In desperation and of urgent necessity, a tow truck had been summoned! The assistant principal was the advance party. Surprisingly she stuck her head through the window, gales of laughter from her and instructed me to move my car so that the tow truck could navigate the sandy track to the grave site!

My Dad died in 1999. He had “left us” as dementia took over. It was an agonising time for my Mum. Dad had been a newspaper editor. Highly respected and greatly loved. Brilliant! My youngest child and he were soulmates. Dad was a prayerful, faithful man who loved the English language. I never heard him swear. However, towards the end of his life, while in care, his use of the odd expletive or several, would distress and embarrass Mum. “Someone in that nursing home is teaching your Father to swear, Louie” she would say. I stopped asking Dad “How are you today?” because his response was always “Up the shit!” He never used inappropriate language at home when we were growing up and every grammatical error was corrected by him and/or Mum. However, Dad was a journalist and I am sure that he had heard and/or used one or two “blue” expressions when surrounded by his journo mates!

Meeting with the undertaker to prepare the funeral gave me two belly laughs. I can still feel them 50 years later. We were gathered at my youngest brother’s home. We were all very anxious about Mum. She was deeply sad! While filling out the paper work, the undertaker asked ” What was Ken’s mother’s maiden name?” Mum’s attention to grammatical detail was almost as legendary as Dad, the editor’s. “Euphemia Hood” she proclaimed. “Could you say that again please?” “Euphemia Hood…… that’s H…O….O….D”! Obviously she had no difficulty with Euphemia! Perhaps the undertaker may have! Traversing a bit further into the burial enquiry; “Now, Pat, where will ken be buried?” “Oh we have a double plot. Its in the Catholic Cemetery, behind my parents Mary Kathleen and Hammond Joseph .” The undertaker explained that he would be able to find it and went on. “Pat, when you say double plot, is it side by side….” “NO!” she said “its vertical. I will be on top!” Snorting (almost) I could not resist the image of Mum on top for all eternity!

My lasting memories of Dad’s burial were the sight of our youngest child, Dad’s soulmate, lying on his tummy peering into the grave. He was 12 years old and so very sad. I waited till he walked back to me and I was nearly bowled over by my first born, the first of Dad’s grandchildren, as she tore back to the open grave the throw in the text of her eulogy!

Some years later, I drove Mum to her last remaining sibling’s funeral in Canberra. They were very close. Kath was younger than Mum. My siblings were anxious about Mum travelling that distance but Mum was insistent. I was glad I was able to take her. It was quite a trip. We arrived and of course, Mum wanted to view the body! It was arranged . I was determined not to go into the chapel. Mum assured me she would be fine. However, the thought of her collapsing into the coffin and me having to explain to my siblings, who thought I shouldn’t be doing it anyway, led me to sneak in. There she was. Her hand on Kath’s forehead, talking to her as though she was there. She told her what a beautiful sister she had been. Her next utterance floored me! ” I am sorry for biting you on the cheek that day”! I nearly keeled over into the coffin myself! The wake was wonderful. Mum stole the show! As the last sibling standing she was enveloped by four generations of the gene pool which started when Bridget , indentured servant and James convict found each other in New South Wales. and started it all!

On the way home, I was listening to Rod Stewart’s wonderful CD of songs from the past. I love the tracks! Mum was muttering and muttering “Please make it stop. Please make it stop.” Itwas a big distraction at 110 ks on the way home!

“Mum! what are you going on about?” “I can’t stand that woman’s voice!” “Mum! Its not a woman! Its Rod Stewart. I love this music!” “WHO! THAT WRETCH! I thought it was one of those people at the place you go to volunteer. I thought you must have bought the CD to raise money for her!” I turned it off!

Mum died in 2012. From 2007 to 2011 she went through agony beyond description. The last months of her life restored her a bit when she moved into care at a facility where my brother was the chaplain. She became weak quickly at the end. We had a few calls to get ready. I was with her one day and one of the carers came in. Mum was asleep. The horizontally gifted carer cooed “Oh look at her. She’s so peaceful and she’s got her rosemary beads with her.” Just as well Mum was unconscious because she would have gone for that woman’s jugular!

It was decided that there would be no viewing of Mum’s body at the undertakers. However, my firstborn, named after her grandmother wanted to “view her”. This caused some angst for the executors. No one else had expressed a desire to see her body but the viewing went ahead. My two daughters, my younger son and I made the trip. Determined not to go in I caved in of course. There was my first born, leaning over the open coffin expressing pleasure at seeing Mum in a gorgeous nightie, gifted to her by her daughter in law one Christmas. Mum made a proclamation at the time that it was too good for her to wear in bed but that she would greet eternity in it! The mind still boggles!. Trish my daughter and her sister Megan checked out her hands, making sure her nails were tidy, and smoothed a couple of wrinkles in the nightie.

Mum’s funeral was enormous! Left over fractures that found their way into family relationships at the time of Dad’s death, 12 years before turned into chasms. By then there was a new generation of offspring. Mum had lived to see her “children’s children to the third and fourth generation”. Getting around all of that was challenging.

Three of our children were married and our younger daughter was 7 months pregnant. Her relationship with Mum was powerful. I was terribly anxious about how she would manage the funeral. At one stage during the Mass, I noticed her bent over and shaking. I assumed she was sobbing. I was fearful for her and her baby. She and her husband made a quick exit. Terrified, imagine my relief when I found out that the entire back seam, from crotch to waist, on her husband’s trousers, had ripped and they had to make an escape to find alternative clobber!

It is unusual to think of a burial to be an uplifting experience, but Mum’s burial was! The insistence on observing catholic rites in the her funeral Mass was a challenge for my children to the point where one of them indicated he and his family would not attend. It was agony. It was just as well Mum was not around to see it! However, they did attend. At the graveside a slightly less religious rite took place, choreographed by my children, grandchildren, her great grandchildren and me. We had a singalong! Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag.,Mademoiselle from Armentieres, and Its a long way to Tipperary accompanied by the ringing of Mum’s bell collection by all present. My son had organised for the release of twenty helium balloons having checked with with RAAF base to ensure it was legal and the release of helium balloons. One of my oldest brother’s daughters had captured the image of the balloons going up. At the time of her death, Mum was mother of six and grandmother of nine. The image captured 15 of balloons flying free. Astounding!

The cemetery has issues with the water table and on this occasion, the water level did not allow for the grave to be closed. My grand daughter, six years old at the time, was concerned about this. Saying goodbye to her she asked me “Grandma, will GrandPat be cold tonight?” I told her no and reminded her that GrandPat was not there anymore at which point she kissed me, did a pirouette and skipped her way into the hotel her family was staying at. Pure joy!

The funeral of my first sibling to die was agony. Diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer his death followed quickly. He died on September 11th 2014. The day before he died, after a discussion with my sister, we decided to get a lock of his hair , gruesome I know but very catholic in terms of first class relics! As I was leaving, I remembered the lock of hair but I had no scissors. My younger brother did a quick search – no scissors, only an electric shaver and finally suggested that when my sister visited him, she could bring scissors to clip the first class relic! Standing at the graveside my sister handed me an envelope “here it is”. I was grateful and put it in my handbag. The funeral was private at the graveside. Heartbreaking for all who were allowed to attend. The only “able bodied” male pallbearers available to carry the coffin from the hearse to the grave were my younger son, my son in law, my younger brother, and his son. “Women can be pallbearers” and so my two daughters made up the six! At the time I felt poleaxed with grief. We all were! My daughters were magnificent. My older son and his family live interstate and were unable to attend. Agony on top of agony.

When it was over, my younger brother presented me with another envelope. “No” I started “I already have that”. “No you don’t. This is MY in preparation for my canonisation! I punched him before hugging him and on we went!

Some months later, his muse, a simply magnificent woman, a long and beloved friend of his and I arranged a concert in memory of our brother and beloved Uncle and Great uncle.. Held at a sacred site in family history, with wonderful acoustics and an historic pipe organ, musicians and choristers Peter had worked with came together to celebrate and remember his life. The Chapel was full. Melancholy was the emotion of the day for me. I looked up the meaning. “Melancholy is not rage or bitterness. It is a noble species of sadness when we are open to the fact that life is inherently difficult for everyone and that suffering and disappointment are at the heart of human experience.”

Once more the next generation and friends were part of it. Stage manager, videographers, time keepers, ushers, “front of house” managers all there to celebrate. The program included exquisite music lieder, a rowdy singalong, Peter was there! The final choir he had directed was the final item. The repeat of the last verse of Jerusalem by all lifted the roof! Healing.

My oldest brother lived with motor neurone disease for nearly 20 years. He was a force of nature! Educator extraordinaire, writer, beloved Dad. Gifted with a passion for life (the title of one of his books). Radical member of the Labor Party. Immersed in growing up catholic, He died on the feast of the annunciation (March 25th) 2016. Good Friday fell on that day that year! He and his magnificent wife remain respected academics. I had been on my way to visit him in hospital. By the time I arrived, Paul had just died. The generosity of the three women, grief stricken and in shock, that allowed me to spend time with Paul on my own reminded me of the lesson I first learned when my Grandma died. Paul had “left the building” but Paul remained and remains with me!

Feeling useless, I asked if there was anything I could do. Jackie asked if I could let my siblings know. I sat outside the room. I rang my sister. “I have some bad news” I started and was a blubbering hulk in a split second. “Oh no! Is it Gary?” came the enquiry. My husband. Survivor of childhood polio. Smoked like a chimney until he stopped to travel overseas to visit our younger daughter in London in 2001, quadruple bypass post retirement, he remains enjoying his days above ground! That Paul would, could and did die seemed unfathomable to us all.

Paul’s funeral was held in the Great Hall at Sydney University. It was an exquisite testament to every aspect of Paul’s life! Magnificent music. My sister played the massive pipe organ. Magnificent setting, Magnificent oratory. Eulogies from our older daughter and me. Our older son was a pall bearer. Our younger son read the Acknowledgement of Country after our younger daughter was too unwell. Politicians, Academics, Musicians, Artists, Media. A veritable kaleidoscope of luminaries, family and friends lifted the rafters of the Great Hall with “You’ll Never Walk Alone” as his body was carried out!

As ever, when it comes to getting us all together it was complicated! Travelling from Melbourne, Port Macquarie, Newcastle and Sydney we were all there. First born and I stayed overnight to attend the private funeral the next day. Leaving as soon as the Great Hall Ceremony had finished, younger son drove older son and daughter in law.to airport. Older daughter and I had accomodation not far from the University. We stayed on.

Phone call from younger son after he had dropped the flyers at the airport. My luggage was in the boot of my car! “Do you need it, Mum? I’m at the airport.” He returned!

There was a deadline for check in! We weren’t going to get there. Contacted the hotel. Heart in my mouth, I could have kissed the younger son’s feet for getting back. Got the luggage! My daughter was driving a brand new fuel efficient car. Relatively new in 2016. Every time we stopped the engine stopped. PANIC! Neither of us had been told that hitting the accelerator started the engine again. We arrived within a hare’s breath of the deadline. “Evening came, morning came “- WHAT A DAY!

The cemetery was a beautiful place. Peaceful. Deep sadness. No structured farewell in the chapel. We sang The Irish Lullaby. Silent and still was my grief. And then we had morning tea! Tears of laughter, tears of loss, Tales told and he, my Grandma, my Dad, my Mum, my brother were all there!

There is a spot on the drive from Sydney to Newcastle, just before the Hawkesbury River Bridge where the view opens and the river and the bridge are centre windscreen! It was a glorious day. Brilliant sunshine. I remembered my hope as I had travelled down to visit Paul in hospital. I remembered the phone call from his daughter asking me how far away I was from the hospital. I was longing to get there just to be with him and them.

And I knew, right there and then, he was with me “and them”! on the bright side of death”!