Читать книгу No Way to Behave at a Funeral - Noel Braun - Страница 13

Dear Noel,

I can’t begin to understand how you and your family are feeling or what you are going through at this time, so I will only talk about my own feelings. I spoke with Maris last Wednesday at Mass. She explained that she hadn’t been at meditation because she had been caught up with things at home. She went on to talk about the photos I had taken at the fete and other ordinary things. She seemed so calm and normal that the news on Saturday was just totally unbelievable.

The shock and grief suffered by so many of us is a testament to the beautiful person that Maris was. I will remember her for so much — her calm presence at our Wednesday morning meditations; her lovely, warm and empathetic sharing at Time Out where she talked a bit about her struggle with depression — but didn’t give away very much; the warm comfort of her hugs at the Kiss of Peace.

Your Maris was a beautiful and loving presence in my life whose calm face belied her pain. For her to end it the way she did, she must have been suffering terribly. My faith tells me that she is safe in the warm embrace of our loving God and that she is totally at peace. I take much comfort from that and my memories of Maris will be precious ones of the very special person she was.

Noel you are a wonderful man and I hope and pray that you may find much comfort in our God and in the loving prayers and support from the many people who love you.

Love and prayers always,

Miriam

St Anthony’s has a beautiful setting. The building itself is simple. It is set on a large, open block with white trunked eucalyptus giving it a feel ing of space and peace. Inside and outside merge through large glass walls and the sounds of nature, the bird calls and the wind in the trees, are never far away.

I was thankful that the Catholic Church showed more understanding these days and had changed its attitude towards suicides. Not long ago the church forbad the burial of suicides on ‘sacred ground’. How countless families must have suffered from this astounding lack of compassion. No wonder people were ashamed to admit their loved ones had died in this way. I sometimes wonder why I still belong to the Catholic Church for the atrocities it has committed down the centuries in the name of religion. In contrast, the church Maris and I knew at St Anthony’s welcomed everyone — sinners, divorcees, gays, suicides, the lot. The Passionists placed people before rules. My pastors, Peter, Damian and Brendan, had shown great understanding and compassion. Equally, I knew many people had gone out of their way to make Maris’ funeral a fitting farewell.

The church was full. Every seat was taken and people had to stand outside and look through the windows. I saw many familiar faces. There were many I didn’t recognise.

Angela, Jacinta and some of their friends stood at the entrance and gave everyone a booklet and an orchid. I worried there wouldn’t be enough.

My pain was sharp when I saw Maris’ coffin. Up to this moment, everything seemed so unreal, but we now were facing the harsh cold reality. An enlarged version of the amputated photo sat on the lid, together with her Sydney Swans cap and scarf.

Father Brendan, as the Parish Priest, welcomed everyone and then handed over to Peter. The large crowd, Peter said, was an indication of the love and esteem with which Maris was held. He admitted he had been deeply affected by Maris’ death. They were kindred spirits in their fight against depression. He invited me to deliver the eulogy.

I was not nervous as I stood at the dais. I read in my friends’ and family’s faces support, warmth, love and compassion. It did not matter if I broke down and wept in front of everyone and messed up my delivery. They were all on my side.

I knew exactly what I wanted to say.

I thanked everyone for coming; their presence was an acknowledgment of the way Maris touched so many people. I explained the reason for her photo on the back cover of the booklet. She was a self-effacing person who preferred the background to the limelight. She used to say she would rather go to Siberia than speak in public. I mentioned the orchids. They were a symbol of Maris. I invited people to take them home. It was very fitting that Maris was being buried from St Anthony’s in the Fields. This was her beloved church. She loved the Passionists, the people, the family groups. She had been involved in developing and promoting the Family Group Movement. She had been a member of various committees over the years. When our family came to Sydney 25 years previously, Maris gave the place three years. St Anthony’s kept us here.

I could read the question in people’s eyes: why did Maris take her own life? I offered them an explanation.

Depression is a vicious affliction. Maris used to say, ‘Give me a bout of cancer any day.’ Early morning was the worst time. I read the poem. Few people knew of her anguish, but I knew and felt helpless as I watched her daily struggle. She never gave into herself but reached out, helping people in her quiet unobtrusive way.

She tried everything — hypnotherapy, acupuncture, medication, tapes, meditations, exercise, gardening, innumerable self-help books, attending courses, even sardines for the omega3. I had to eat the sardines, too. I’ll never eat another one.

She worsened over her last two weeks. I tried to walk with her, but her pain was unbearable. I saw all the signs of her terrible anguish.

I told the gathering I was a Lifeline counsellor. That I had talked to many suicidal people, attended training courses in suicide intervention. Part of my motivation for joining Lifeline in the first instance was to give me an orientation that might help Maris one day because of her family background. I spoke of her two sisters, Catherine and Loretta. It was a sad irony that despite all my awareness, I failed to save my own wife. Even though I had been trained to help people with suicidal thoughts, I couldn’t prevent tragedy in my own home.

If ever there was good timing for her death, it was now. Earlier in the year, only Angela was in Sydney. Jacinta was in Idaho, Stephen was at Perisher, Tim in Melbourne.

But the family was all in Sydney for Stephen’s wedding to Anthea. I mentioned that Maris lying in her coffin was dressed in her ‘mother of the groom’ outfit, including the silver scarf, and that Anthea would wear Maris’ engagement ring on her day. We had had a lovely gathering the previous Friday evening, the first time all the family had been together in four years. Maris spent time with each of the children. In retrospect, we felt she was saying goodbye.

It was time to conclude. All of my words are so inadequate, I said. After forty-two years I could not imagine life without Maris. But it was not the end. Maris was still here in the way she had touched all of us and in our memories. She left us an example of bravery in handling this incredible affliction, as noble as another person’s fight with a terminal illness. The memory will live on. We will remember her for the lovely person she was. Besides, we are people of faith. How despairing and empty it would be without that faith. We hope. We believe. We use beautiful poetic images like going home safely, resting at peace, being in the arms of a loving and forgiving God. I believe Maris still exists, we don’t know how. We believe she is still with us. We use words such as soul and spirit to describe her presence.

I was thankful for my eloquence, my ability to articulate and express my feelings, to be open to and about my emotions. In earlier years I would have bottled up and been more stoic. Maris had taught me so many things about expressing my emotions. She told me it was alright for men to cry.

The eldest of our children, Angela was the next to speak.

‘Mum always said that Jacinta, Stephen, Tim and I were her greatest achievement. Her life’s work. I am sure you will agree she did an excellent job. She gave us space and freedom to spread our wings whilst always remaining close by ready to comfort, support, laugh, cry, cook, clean, baby-sit, chat, nurse. The list never ends. What lucky children Tessa, Hugh, Eliza and Brody are to have such a devoted Gran. When I asked my six year old daughter Tessa last night what she loved about Gran she said her hugs and kisses.

‘I don’t need to tell you what an amazing friend she is. You already know. I don’t need to tell you what an amazing woman she is. You already know. But I will tell you how privileged we are to have received the unconditional love of our beautiful mother.’

I asked Janne to deliver a final reflection. Maris always regarded Janne as her best friend. They had shared so many confidences over the years. Janne was not well and struggled with a debilitating illness. I remember when we came back from Melbourne after attending the funeral of Maris’ sister Loretta, Janne had said to Maris, ‘Don’t ever do that to me.’ Maris assured her that she never would, just as she had assured me.

Janne hated public speaking as much as Maris, but she agreed despite her concern that she was likely to break down in public. But she managed and delivered her message beautifully.

‘Many years ago Maris and I did a course together studying Scott Peck’s book The Road Less Travelled. It was the beginning of a journey for us both, endlessly searching for ways of dealing with difficult moments in our lives. My healing started when I was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease but for Maris the problem wasn’t as easily addressed. Maris went looking everywhere for something or someone to help ease this wicked illness called depression which kept overwhelming her and dragging her down. On the way to work recently I heard Petria King from Quest for Life talk about living in the moment and I rang Maris to tell her about it. And in her matter of fact way she said, “I’ve tried that.” We laughed about it together, she had tried everything.

‘So many of us here today will have experienced the Angel in our midst who phoned everyone in the family group to chat and catch up on their news, who listened to all our woes, who dropped around with a chicken casserole if she thought we needed one, who gave of herself always without expecting anything in return, who never took sides, who welcomed us all with her wonderful smile, who accepted us all equally and unconditionally, who was suffering from this terrible, terrible illness.

‘We all tried so hard to keep her with us but it was not to be.

‘Maris, you are still an angel in our midst — and I love you.’

Father Peter called the four kids and me to the altar and presented us each with a candle, a large one for me and smaller versions for the children — symbols of Maris. Another occasion for tears. I already knew where I would place my candle.

The service concluded with I can see clearly now, lyrics and music by Johnny Nash. As I followed Maris’ coffin outside, my feelings of sadness, loss and abandonment intense, I realised just how many people were present. The farewell service was to take place at Frenchs Forest Bushland Cemetery.

Most people I expected would not follow us but remain at the church for afternoon tea. However quite a few piled into their cars as we did. Guy drove me and the four children. As we left the church grounds I was amazed to see a guard of honour at the entrance. It was the Catenians. I realised they were there for me, one of their fellow brothers.

I felt the sensation in my chest as we followed Maris down Forest Way. ‘I know what a broken heart is,’ I said to the kids. I had kept my emotions more or less in check during the service. I needed a release. ‘Fucking bloody hell,’ I said through tears and running nose.

‘Fucking bloody hell,’ Angela repeated. The other kids joined in.

‘Fucking bloody hell!’ we shouted, all the way to the cemetery, indifferent to the sensitivities of the occupants of other cars.

We could not stop our hoots of laughter. They cleared the head as we bent over and rocked, pressed hands to our faces, turned red and spluttered. Why were we laughing? It wasn’t funny at all.

‘No way to behave at a funeral,’ someone recovered enough to say.

‘Who cares? Fucking bloody hell.’

We composed ourselves by the time we arrived at the cemetery. Again we farewelled Maris. I threw a flower into the grave. Through my tears the words flowed. I can’t remember exactly what I said. I remember the feelings — sadness, regret and guilt. I was up to my neck in grief. I thanked Maris for the life we had lived together but added, ‘You shouldn’t be here, Maris. You should be home, getting dinner ready.’

The family embraced and huddled like the Sydney Swans before the ball bounce. Chris gave me the cross from Maris’ coffin. That would be part of the shrine along with the candle.

Back at the church afternoon tea was still in progress. It was as if I was a guest of honour, a notoriety I would have swapped for anything. Things were hazy. A succession of people spoke to me. Most talked about Maris and what a wonderful person she was. One parishioner hoped that what happened to me would never happen to him. That was one comment I didn’t need. It made me feel like an inferior being. Many people are confronted by death, particularly sudden death and wonder how they would cope. I remember discussing the Sydney Swans 2004 season. Besides Maris and me, a number of passionate Swans followers attend our church. We used to analyse each game and joke that once the football season was over we had nothing to talk about. We returned home where there was quite a crowd. The conversation was comparatively light-hearted.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Janne, ‘for your wonderful tribute.’

‘The music nearly broke me up, but I managed.’

We talked about sardines.

‘I’m never going to eat another,’ I said.

‘Actually, I quite like them,’ Janne replied.

As she was leaving, I said to her. ‘Janne, I have a gift for you.’

She eyed me warily.

‘What is it?’

‘Six tins of sardines.’

Melissa was wonderful. She had only met Maris and the Sydney branch of the family on Friday, which would have been scary at any time, but the next day she was thrown into a family in deep crisis. Another girl of less maturity and character would have been overwhelmed. But not her. She threw herself into all the jobs and helped the girls with meal preparation, minding the grandchildren and keeping them busy. I said to Tim, ‘Don’t let this one go.’

‘I don’t intend to, Dad.’

Tim did a great job, too, with all the practical tasks — picking up people from the airport, attending to errands for the girls, assisting with shopping. He often put his arms around me, particularly when he saw me distressed and said, ‘I love you, Dad.’

* * *

In retrospect, it is impossible to underestimate the importance of the funeral, a place of public ritual. So many friends were present, prepared to immerse themselves in the rituals of mourning. We did not have to face our loss alone. It was inspiring to be involved in the selection of prayers and songs. I did not want a cold, passionless, impersonal funeral full of dull prayers and platitudes. I wanted an inspiring tribute to Maris, recognising her for the person she was. It gave us, the family in shock, the opportunity to tell her story, express our love and her magnificent contribution to our family and the world. We gained an immeasurable amount of support. Our loss was acknowledged. The funeral was a most fitting farewell, a very sad occasion, but full of passion, inspiring us for the long, long harrowing journey ahead.