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
