No Way to Behave at a Funeral. Noel Braun
vied with the other for the high ground, my rational self forced into dark retreat. I was losing the war. I was succumbing to despair.
Brother Damian, Father Brendan’s assistant and the proverbial knight in shining armour, came to my rescue. Damian is a member of the Passionist Congregation. They are an order of monks who administered our parish of St Anthony’s. A person of great compassion, he has the benefit of counselling training.
I remember removing my glasses, smearing my wrist over my eyes, squashing the tears, although I felt an occasional stray escape and slide down my cheek. ‘I should have taken Maris straight to hospital,’ I cried to him.
‘Sure, you could have taken her,’ he said, ‘but, with limited resources so overstretched, they would have taken one look at Maris, who presents so calmly, and either sent her home or just kept her overnight.’
I told Damian of my conversations with Maris.
‘It’s sounds as if she’d made up her mind to go. If she was intent on suicide, nothing would have stopped her. You could have done nothing.’ After a pause he added, ‘Perhaps God told her it was time.’
Damian’s reassurance banished those horrible demons for a time, as if he had administered another anaesthetic to deaden a pain that I knew was bound to return and counterattack with reinforcements.
‘Would you like an announcement made at the weekend Masses?’ he asked me.
‘Yes, I want our total parish community to know.’ I wiped my eyes. ‘Maris was loved and respected. Many people would wish to attend her funeral.’
We were fortunate, if that is the right word, that a weekend was intervening between Maris’ death and her funeral. The word would spread easily.
I thought of our Stephen. Poor bugger! His bucks’ party cancelled, his wedding plans wrecked. What a tragic lead-up to what should have been the most joyful day both for him and Anthea! How we protective parents hope to shield our children from sharp arrows.
I had flashbacks of little Stephen trying to play sport. When God lined up the children of the world to hand out sporting prowess, He stumbled as he passed Stephen. I remember the jeering of the St Ives parents as he swung his skinny five year old legs at the soccer ball and tripped, the impatience of the head teacher at his primary school, the irritation of the tennis coach at Stephen’s claims that his tennis racket had a hole in it. Fortunately, God handed Stephen a few brains which he made good use of at secondary school and university.
I could see how happy he was with Anthea. I wanted them to have a great day, to shield them from Maris’ suffering but my efforts were a devastating failure. If there was any good news that day, it was Stephen and Anthea’s decision.
‘Dad, we’re going to go on with the wedding,’ Stephen announced later in the afternoon.
I was so relieved. ‘That’s great. I was worried you might want to postpone it.’
Angela, Jacinta and Tim agreed.
‘Life has to go on.’ I added. ‘I know it’s an old cliché, probably quoted after every death, but it’s full of wisdom.’
A huge wave of emotional turbulence had struck the family. We were devastated, striving to make sense of the day. My four children were with me. If ever we needed to cling to each other, this was the time. We sat around the kitchen table where Maris had served so many meals. Tim ordered pizzas. Jacinta found some beers. We needed them.
‘Mum was so intense last night, the way she spoke to us,’ said Tim.
‘I think she was saying good-bye,’ added Stephen.
As the beer started to lift our sombre spirits, we told a few stories.
‘Mum loved the Sydney Swans,’ Jacinta reminisced.
‘She sure did. We went to all the home games.’
‘Mum was always telling us of your behaviour, Dad. It was embarrassing.’
I found myself laughing, actually laughing. I couldn’t disagree with that. I am a passionate supporter, shouting for joy and waving my arms when the Swans score a goal, and loudly abusing the umpires for their countless mistakes.
‘Membership for next year’s due this week. I’m going to renew Mum’s ticket,’ I said in between slices of pizza.
‘I’ll come with you, Dad,’ Angela and Jacinta chorused.
The kids wanted to discuss Maris’ sisters, Catherine and Loretta. As young children, they were only vaguely aware of the problems they created. Both had died of suicide, Catherine fourteen years previously, Loretta the year before. Catherine was diagnosed as bi-polar, Loretta suffered from depression and compounded her illness through drug and alcohol addiction. Their problems were evident in the dramas they created.
‘Those two were crazy,’ Angela said, drawing on childhood memories. ‘Mum was always the sane one.’
‘Yeah, Mum kept her suffering to herself. She’d drop everything to respond to their cries for help,’ I said, filling in some of the detail. ‘I don’t know how many times Loretta was admitted to hospital. It got so routine I was almost blasé when I took the call on the latest calamity. I’d get into trouble with Mum for forgetting to pass on the message.’
Father Peter McGrath arrived and shared our pizza. He, too, is a member of the Passionist Congregation, known to Maris and me since our arrival in Sydney twenty-five years previously. Once the Pastor at our church, he lived apart from Brendan and Damian. His amazing gifts of compassion enabled him to bring solace to the most distressed of people.
‘Gosh, Father Peter was in a mess,’ commented Jacinta, after he had left.
‘Yes, he was more than just a priest to Mum. He was a friend. He’s had problems with depression himself. He understood Mum’s internal struggles. He knew what she was going through.’
As we retired to bed, I realised that this night would be the first on my own. Maris would never share the bed with me again, a thought I could not grasp. I stood in the doorway staring at the bed. Despite her anguish that morning she had made it neatly as she did every other morning. It looked so ordinary, this essential tool of our life together.
Maris’ clothes from the day before were still draped on a chair. A basket of ironing stood in the corner. The walk-in wardrobe was full of her clothes. She dressed well, my Maris. The cupboard was full of her cosmetics and toiletries. She took care in ‘doing her face’.
For her birthday that year I bought her some talcum powder. The sales lady talked me into buying some shower mousse saying it was like velvet to the skin. The price was outrageous. Maris hadn’t used it. I handled the container and thought about that birthday and many others. I wanted to keep everything as it was, as if Maris had only gone on a holiday.
The demons returned in full force. Like an invading army, desolation and guilt took possession. As I lay in bed conscious of the space next to me I was powerless to stop the recriminations and blame. Why didn’t I stop Maris from driving off for that supposed appointment at Terrey Hills? All night long the battle raged. I slept fitfully and each time I woke the realisation flashed through my mind like a streak of lightning. I reached out and felt nothing. At one time, in my half-awake state, I reached over and felt something but it was only her pillow which had somehow travelled down the bed.
We would normally cuddle one into the other and find comfort in each other’s body warmth. She would chide me for my cold feet and complain if I placed them on her before they had warmed up. I would run my hand over her bottom and whisper to her how lovely it was. I would feel her breasts and tell her what nice tits she had. I remembered the soft down on her neck. Our gentle conversations, dancing in whispers, came back to me.
I would begin a request with, ‘Sweetheart?’ and she would reply, ‘Yes, my love.’ I indulged myself in sweet memories of the many times we made love.
One occasion stands out. In the days when I was a yuppie