Planning a funeral is incredibly hard. An understatement of the year! Firstly, it’s an expensive event, with the typical funeral costs in the UK coming in at £4,141. It’s also an emotional time with the stress of organising everything to the nth degree taking its toll. For many people they are happy to leave it all to the Funeral Directors, which results in the unforeseen sting of an enormous bill once the dearly departed has long gone. In my family, however, we decided to do things slightly differently. I would like to point out that we would refer to this involvement as a unique and personal touch, but I believe the funeral directors would use alternative adjectives.
It started with the initial appointment, with my mother unclear about the vast number of decisions that needed to be made at such a sensitive time. Overwhelmingly complex and seemingly endless, these decisions ranged from what my father should be dressed in, to the type of coffin and urn, and if we would like him embalmed. A lot to process when a loved one had just abruptly and unexpectedly left us. But, we persevered, and rattled through the comprehensive list.
Then was the question of whether we wanted anything put in the coffin with my father, to which my mother asked for a chicken wishbone, complete with dried pieces of chicken meat still clinging to it. This request appeared to tickle the funeral director, who clearly could not wait to rush upstairs and inform the rest of the staff.
It was a sweet tradition of something my parents always used to do when consuming a chicken Sunday roast, and the wishbone had sat on the kitchen window sill for a good two weeks, looking abandoned and forlorn. My mother had voiced that she felt unable to dispose of it, and felt comforted that although the chicken wishbone wouldn’t be pulled, it would accompany my father in his coffin.
Next was the question of limousines. Highly recommended, this suggestion fell on deaf ears when it was explained that you couldn’t smoke in a limo, and that it would be inappropriate to ask them to pull over mid procession for a fag break. So that decision turned out to be fairly easy. The order of service quickly became a looming overarching focus, consuming our lives entirely our next few weeks.
Which photograph of my father should we have on the front page? Which hymns? Readings? Would we like the traditional or alternative Lord’s prayer? This ‘booklet’ as my mother referred to it as, – to the amusement of the reverend – became my project whilst I tasked her with a brief daily list she could satisfyingly tick at the end of the day. Tasks included phoning family members and friends, choosing the flowers, and choosing photographs of my father.
I shared my father’s organisational skills, and he had thankfully written a basic funeral plan for himself that including the music for entering the church, the funeral he wanted and the hymn he would like us to sing.
It did come as a shock to mother that he had also lovingly planned hers too without her knowledge, but then that was my father’s excellent management skills continuing after his death. What my father hasn’t planned for was the volume of mourners wishing to pay their last respects to him, as the tiny village church barely holds 60 people. We have a list of over 150 contacting us wishing to attend.
The problem was that my father had been a prominent and well thought of local primary school teacher who had taught two generations and is leaving sport and musical accolades and legacies in his wake. He did not believe anyone would turn up at his funeral, but then that was the kind, caring and selfless man he was. His organisational spreadsheets certainly didn’t account for the large number of attendees wishing to be present at the church or the wake.
The planning of the wake however, was partially more straight forward, with a helpful pub owner who seemed to be delighted that he was earning a big bonus for the apparent inflated price of a few sandwiches and sausage rolls. I did negotiate tea and coffee urns to be thrown in for free, although it did feel this was the least he could offer with the extortionate price for a defrosted snack.
In true mother style, she insisted on informing the manager that she would be providing Haribos and Gummy Bears on every table. You know, ‘for the children.’ It was unspoken that this clearly was not the case. In fact, I was surprised she hadn’t insisted on chocolate buttons on each table too, but didn’t want to push my luck with the pub manager.
The meeting with the reverend was pleasant and comforting to talk with an ex teacher in the same profession as my father, and who coincidently was an RE teacher of mine. Thankfully he didn’t remember me, as I remember sleeping a lot in that class.
Our conversation turned to the eulogy, which I’d also prepared and asked him if he would read aloud at the service. He seemed impressed that he had little to do, and was satisfied to enjoy the chat, his cup of tea and leave us with a passing prayer for my father.
We are still to decide on my father’s exiting music, and with only two days to finalise the order of service, it’s a decision that is looming over my mother. Should it be ‘Time to say goodbye’ by Il Divo, or a Bryan Adams classic and favourite of my father’s, ‘Everything I do, I do it for you?’. We’ll find out next week.