I’m not morbid. I had emotional steadiness during the worst fortnight of my life thus far…
There is a strange moment after somebody dies where the world continues exactly as it was, whilst your own world quietly splits in two.
The dog still needs walking, and the bins still go out. Emails still arrive. Children still ask what it is for dinner and half term was about to arrive, and the washing machine never stops…
But on Friday 15th, my life changed completely emotionally … yet not at all on a day-to-day basis. ‘He’s dead’ Mum said on the phone. There it was : Friday, my darling dad died suddenly from a fatal, unexpected, and unsuspicious heart attack. It was a shocker of a phone call to receive.
It’s odd. It hasn’t sunk in. The police were at the door, but I had the school run to do and the children were on speakerphone.
Whilst my mum dealt with the emergency services, I spoke to the children about the deep, deep gratitude there can be for such a peaceful death (in his sleep holding mum’s hand) having had such a wonderful life. I knew that how I reacted would steer how the children would cope with the sudden death of their gentle quiet Grandad. He had been on a wonderful holiday and was genuinely living his best life.
I think grief will creep in and get heavier and heavier, till one day, it changes direction and starts to get lighter again. That’s what I feel will happen, and that’s what I see happen, but we shall see. I know it’s different for everyone. It – being our own grief journey.
Two weeks today. Yesterday felt very heavy. Today I’m writing this feeling loved, steady, and supported.
As an independent celebrant, I have spent years supporting families through funerals, grief, love stories, endings, and goodbyes. I understand ceremony. I understand logistics. I understand what needs to happen after somebody dies. By the time I was 21 I had spent many an afternoon sitting on a friend’s bed at a hospice. Having been in the church choir since I was eight, I had also sung over many a coffin. So I grew up with it and I knew all my paths in life had lead to my celebrancy work …..
But this last fortnight, I have experienced it all as an adult, but mainly, have had to understand what it feels like to become the daughter in the room of the deceased, and daughter to a mother who was suddenly widowed, as well as a sister, and as a mother to 3 children.
I can now say, hand on heart, that emotional steadiness during grief, mourning and funeral arranging does not come from “holding it all together.” It comes from flow and riding the wave in a genuine, truthful, fearless way – for me, anyway. Of course, I can only speak for myself.
Having space, support, conversations, and systems already in place before the worst happens has enabled me to do that. It’s that plus, I’m not scared to feel. I seem to be able to lean in to what I’m feeling at the time I’m feeling it. I’m so incredibly proud of myself. My work, over 14 years as a wedding and funeral celebrant, has given me incredible inner strength. It’s also given me the tools to have ‘those’ conversations before the point of need. And I shall be FOREVER grateful to my own swan song programme and my departure lounge talks!
Five years ago, Dad and I had conversations about his funeral, His wishes and his attitude to life and death. ‘Of course she did!’ I hear you say! Well, yes, I do walk my walk and talk my talk. Our ‘departure lounge’ chat wasn’t morbid in any way. I don’t think I could actually be morbid if I tried.
I asked google. What does it mean to be morbid?
‘An unhealthy interest in disturbing or gloomy subjects, like death.’ Well, that makes perfect sense to me. I don’t find it gloomy or disturbing, and I certainly don’t think exploring the magic of mortality is unhealthy.
Neither of us were fearful – because Dad had a very deep faith. We also were not expecting anything imminent. We chatted over Sunday lunch simply because we believed that love should make space for honesty, and he heard my plea to not be silent and add to the trauma that would inevitably come. I reminded him that we were a family that could make anything possible – so what did he truly want?
We talked about music.
Faith.
Bells.
The church.
The atmosphere.
What mattered.
What didn’t matter
And what the non-negotiables were.
He’s answer – ‘As long as your Mum is happy’.
And now, in the middle of shock and heartbreak, half terms and heatwaves, I have found myself unbelievably grateful for those conversations, so relieved I did talk about his funeral wishes with him. That is what has held me steady, and I hope it has helped my brothers and Mum too.
The steadiness has come, not because grief is easier for me, of course It isn’t – I’ve never had my dad die before, But because the potential trauma has been reduced because I don’t have the ‘what if’ to deal with on top of it all. There is No ‘I wonder’ , no, “I don’t know’s’ ., no ‘is this what he might have wanted?’
I know, as we know, above all, we’ve got this right.
When somebody dies, families are often expected to make huge emotional decisions whilst running on almost no sleep, no emotional bandwidth, and a nervous system flooded with shock and anxiety.
People search for practical answers:
What do I do first?
Who do I call?
How do I organise a funeral?
What would they have wanted?
Why can’t I think clearly?
Most of those questions actually also have an underlying edge:
“How do I get through this without falling apart?”
I think the answer is rarely perfection. Mostly, if I’m brutally honest, it’s adrenaline and knowledge! Thankfully, I have buckets.
It is however also
Support. Community. Ritual. Flowers cheering me up. Food arriving at the door. And overwhelming kindness. Things like The dog being taken for the weekend so one can simply sit with your family. Friends stepping forward quietly without needing to be asked twice. Children continue to live and grow around grief, reminding you that life is still moving, and playdates being organised for you so you can have a chance to breathe.
The world keeps turning, and thankfully I live in a world surrounded by love stories and lovely people.
Weddings still needed rehearsing.
Families still needed care.
Mentoring conversations still continued.
Life does not pause neatly for grief, It simply asks us to carry both, but – and this is a big but – with a sound track of white noise at times.
It’s this ‘white noise’ zone that I feel ceremony matters so much because it gives the pain somewhere to go. I keep seeing quotes like “Grief is love with nowhere to go.” But I disagree. You channel it into creating and capturing the most amazing ceremony, tribute, and legacy that you can.
This week, as arrangements are complete and starting to take motion, and the content of the ceremony itself is starting to get created as we begin planning Dad’s funeral service, I have No doubt, it is about holding space to let people grieve in the way that feels right for them.
A night vigil.
Music.
Silence.
Bell ringing.
Prayer.
Lighting a candle
People keeping watch.
Presence.
Although my own faith quietly underpins much of who I am, my work has never been about imposing belief onto others. It has always been about making space for faith in whatever form it exists for the people I serve. I know that my dad felt the same, And I know that I got my sense of ceremony from him.
We reach for meaning, and a channel to express our love and our loss in many different way and all of it matters,
So I want to say thank you.
Thank you To our friends, family, couples, clients, colleagues, church community, and wider community who have wrapped themselves around us this past fortnight, with such gentleness and kindness.
The messages. The meals. The flowers . The practical help. The understanding.
The quiet check-ins. The wonderful wonderful letters my Mum has received and the cards – Surprise, surprise, as a scriptwriter myself, the words have been particularly important.
All of it has mattered more than you know.
There is a phrase I often return to in my work:
“Grief is the evidence of love.” for me, it is not love with no where to go. The love is pouring out – it is what funerals truly are
I know the funeral ceremonies I have created over the years and will continue to create, as well as the one I am helping to design for my family now, are all visible evidence that somebody mattered deeply and changed the shape of the world around them.
My Dad certainly did.
