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.
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