It's been a week since my father-in-law's funeral, but I'm still pretty shook up over it. Issues with aging, wondering how I'd cope if John died before me, fear of the dead body in its casket, but mostly just a continuous sadness from facing the permanent loss of someone. I think I'm more upset about his death than I was about my mother's many years ago, which seems a bit odd. After all, I wasn't all that close to my father-in-law; he lived too far away, and was in poor health for much of the time I knew him. But I know why, of course. It's the ongoing coping with my dog's health problems, and my father's cancer last year (from which he is totally recovered, by the way). I thought going through the funeral process was supposed to help a person let go and say goodbye. It seems to have worked for John. It seems to have done more harm than good for me. I can't stop thinking about it. And I'm having nightmares, and panic attacks again.
We don't have funerals in my family. Everyone is cremated. There are no family plots in cemeteries. There might be a memorial service, or there might not be. We say goodbye on our own, quietly, privately. I was kind of curious about attending the funeral because of that. I didn't know what it would be like, really. In some ways I liked it. All sorts of people turned up, old bridge partners, and classmates, and college buddies. Everyone shared their memories, funny stories, kind words. We'd greet them, introduce ourselves, and show them the photos on the two big boards so they could remember Robert as he was when they first knew him, see a lifetime captured on film: baby photos, formal family gatherings, college snaps, army portrait, wedding photos, on through his 80th birthday party which is the last time we'd seen most of the mourners. That part I liked a lot.
One lady turned up who had been in confirmation class with Robert back in the 30's. She was very cheerful and bustled around greeting everyone. She buttonholed all the Bartelt boys trying to figure out which ones they were, and getting them all mixed up. "You're Bob. No, you're Bob. Oh, wait, that's Bob over there." She was good-natured about it. I talked to her about what Milwaukee was like in the 30's, and she thought it was a nicer town then, but she didn't really miss it. She liked keeping up with modern times. She kept busy, she said, doing handwriting analysis. "Go on, write out your name and I'll analyse it," she ordered. I did so with alacrity, whipping out one of my business cards and dashing off my name on the back.
Boy, she was good. She rattled off all kinds of personal information without batting an eye, or, I might add, looking at me to see how I was reacting. I couldn't help laughing as she told me, and everyone else standing nearby, about my habits, attitudes, and current state of mind. Pretty soon everyone else was giving her samples of their handwriting so they could hear about themselves. It was the best party trick I've seen in years. She took it seriously, but she didn't mind people laughing. "Laughter's okay at a funeral," she said. "You've got to let go."
I'm trying. I am tired of deaths, and illnesses, and sorrow, but I am trying.
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