Saying Goodbye

So I am going to have to admit it, I was naive. Naive about how much work was involved in planning a large funeral. Zoë’s popularity was another one of her parting gifts to me. I mean that; her friends have been an incredible support to me since her passing. She had already planned most of it herself: the music, hymns and readings – so all I had to do was execute the plan. In reality the whole thing reminded me of planning a big wedding. It was like we were celebrating Zoë’s life, as well as ending our physical (but not emotional) relationship with her on this Earth. Unlike most weddings, there was serious time pressure and my wife was unavailable to answer difficult questions. Like an unhumorous version of “Don’t Tell The Bride“. There were so many questions…

Questions like: curtains open, curtains closed, translucent curtains? Like creating a sandwich at Subway, but with an (emotional) hangover; the questions just kept on coming: what type of bread? Which filling? Lettuce? Quiche or cream tea? A white or mahogany coffin? The most humorous moment occurred when discussing interment plots. The funeral planner leaned over and said: “you could be interred there too, Mr Wilson” – thanks Karen, I wasn’t planning on popping my clogs just yet, but great upsell! Planning a funeral really does make you think about your own. My advice: If you have strong views, make sure they are written down (especially cremation or burial) in your will – it’s not fun to think about, but it really does help out those left behind, so it is important, says the voice of recent experience! (You don’t have to leave Prince Phillip levels of detailed notes!)

The planning wasn’t gloomy. It was exhausting, emotional, draining and cathartic. I was very well supported by both of our families; especially Zoë’s sister, who was a rock for me, as she was throughout Zoë’s illness, and continues to be. It wasn’t gloomy because we were planning a celebration of life, a life which she herself described as a “full and happy” one, so I really really wanted us to celebrate it well! One of the keys to success, it seems, lies with the funeral director and we had a good one – Chris. Throughout the process, I came to appreciate how special a job funeral directing is, and how it is so much more than arranging funerals. They have duty of care for the deceased, and they (or at least Chris did) take that role VERY seriously, and perform it with such respect. The one person who always had Zoë’s back throughout the whole process, was Chris. He was responsible for her corpse’s safety, security, and above all, dignity. It’s no surprise to me that many in the funeral directing profession often come from a service background: a familiarity with death along with military precision – planning, checking the plan and executing the plan seems to be the key to success and the avoidance of any misunderstandings, especially at what is an immensely emotional and therefore pressured time. As Chris himself put it tactfully: “we only get one shot at this” as he asked me to repeat my preference (for something I perceived as trivial) for what seemed like the fourth time that week!

I didn’t feel that the funeral would be as useful to me as it would be to others. I arranged for us to have a small private committal the following day, and I saw that as being my time to say goodbye. I did feel very strongly that the funeral was important, for all those who had known and loved Zoë. What right did I have to deny them (however many there may be) their opportunity to say goodbye to her? To me it was paramount that it was inclusive and accessible: both in person and remotely, and for those with and without faith.

To many people’s surprise the funeral took place on my 39th birthday. Chris wisely counselled that people generally avoid birthdays, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt that the funeral was not a date we would mark in future. Yes Zoë’s birthday, or the date of her death or Mother’s Day or all of the above – but I couldn’t see the date of the funeral being that significant in the future. To some extent the date chose itself, finding myself a victim of family members’ holidays and half-term. It was the best attended birthday party I have ever had, with over 200 people on the day, as well as at least 60 people watching live online and many more since.

The hardest part of the arrangements was creating the slideshow that followed the eulogy. Zoë’s sister and I did it together, and to distill such a rich and splendid life into 45 or so photos felt like an impossible task. It was a heart-wrenching process and affected me deeply – but it was definitely worth doing, and I have no regrets.

Despite saying I expected the committal to be more significant for me, there were some extremely poignant moments on the day of the funeral. I had explained to my children about the sequence of events and the funeral director’s role. As they hadn’t met him before, I was keen they felt comfortable with him from their first meeting. John suggested I do “Jazz Hands” to Chris when he arrived. The doorbell rang and there was Chris looking sombre and dignified in his morning suit with top hat and stick. I “Jazz Handed” Chris, followed by a hasty explanation. Chris invited me outside, alone, where the hearse and cortege were waiting. Through the glass, Zoë’s coffin (chosen by John and Mark) looked resplendent, basking in the sunlight and adorned with beautiful flowers weaved into the wicker. A very very large lump developed in my throat.

As we processed I was acutely aware of the symbolism of Zoë leaving the family home for one last time. It was even more poignant than when she was transferred from the hospital to the hospice – and on that journey, deep down, I knew she would never leave and would die there. As we moved slowly through the local neighbourhood, with Chris paging away – an old mark of respect, and we saw the occasional bowed head of a neighbour, our limousine (containing myself, my children and my parents) was full of questions: “why’s that man got a stick”, “why’s that man walking in front of the car”, “when is that man getting back in the car”. Through that large lump in my throat I tried to answer the questions the best I could. I understand the atmosphere in the limo behind us, containing Zoë’s family, was more silently reflective. The day ran like clockwork, a testament to Chris and his team, and I was comforted by everyone who came to show their respect and say goodbye. For me, it being a shared experience made it significantly easier for me, even though I did feel very “on show”. Zoë’s family and I were so very pleased with how it felt like exactly what she wanted.

I won’t go into too much detail on the committal to respect the privacy of those in attendance, but I want to mention one thing. At the end of the service, tradition dictated that I, as principal mourner, was the first to leave the chapel: I knew this as Chris had briefed me accordingly. The service ended and I felt an overwhelming urge to leave, but in my haste I tried to leave by the wrong door (who doesn’t love a one-way system), and so Chris directed me to the correct exit. On the way out I felt compelled to touch the coffin, to feel one last physical connection to Zoë. Eyes welling with tears, I whispered the words “goodbye my darling”, then my three-year-old, who was in my arms, started waving goodbye to her. My heart (and no-doubt that of everyone in the chapel) once again shattered into pieces, and I doubt future sadness will ever be quite so acute as that moment was for me.

As I stepped outside into the glorious sunshine I removed my wedding ring for one final time. I love the symbolism of a wedding ring – the representation of the eternal love between a couple. So the symbolism of my action? Our marriage has ended, especially the physicality of it and the ring is the physical representation of it. I no longer have her to hold, I no longer have her to look after (as she did me) in sickness and health; and death definitely has done us part. Our love is eternal and I will always carry Zoë around in my heart, but I no longer feel the need to carry a reminder around on my finger: a constant reminder, especially when we were apart that I could upset her, betray her as well as honouring and cherishing her. I definitely did most of those during our ten years of marriage but I don’t think I can do these things any more. My biggest hope is that Zoë and I will be reunited in heaven and hope is a wonderful thing, my clinical psychologist even gave a seminar on it recently!

Hopeful is how I feel about my future and that of John and Mark.

A couple of hours after the committal, we had a wonderful pub lunch to celebrate my (the day prior) and Zoë’s mum’s (the day following) birthdays. It was a joyous occasion filled with good food, good wine, laughter and fun. I remember saying to my mum: “I hope the next funeral I plan is yours or Dad’s”. I think she thought I was willing her to an early grave, but far from it mum – I simply meant that I would quite like it if natural order could be restored next time there is a death in the family.