Yesterday I went to a great-aunt's funeral. Not only that but I saw a woman who helped look after me when I was a baby. It was all so overwhelming I cried. So did many other people.
Aside from the sermon, my father's words reverberated in my head, like the muffled unwanted bumps I can hear made by the neighbours.
"She said some very hurtful things. You just don't know."
This were his words after I explained that I wasn't happy with his reaction to the news of the death: "Your mother will be richer."
Oh well. I don't need to know what she said. I can guess. Maybe she had a point.
It was a Humanist funeral. We walked in to the crematorium to the sound of Mozart. The Humanist speaker (leader? orator?) was middle-aged, frizzy-haired, and curiously recounting my grat-aunt's life with a dry humour. Our memories of my great-aunt will be the last permanence of her life. Some people spoke, remembering her love of rail travel , good food, thriftiness, the Telegraph crosswords and Scrabble. Interesting mix, all things considering - environmentalist, conservative, gourmand, scrimper and talented wordsmith. She did well on it.
My grandmother, the Little Sister, rose to have the final words. At 88, five foot two and with vertigo she swayed up to the lectern, held on with both hands, and let rip with passion. Of all the people there she had the most reason to cry. I don't know if it's repression, or strength of character, but I don't think she even sniffled. She had written a poem on the way down to London the train. It was about her belief that there is an amazing powerful force, which she wants to think her sister joined. The Humanist frizz was very impressed. "Very rare to hear people speak with such verve."
I think, and maybe this sounds negative in a way, but I don't think I've ever been as proud of my grandmother until then. I hope my great-aunt would have approved. Dryly humourous yet serious appreciation of a person.
I had explained I was attending a humanist funeral to 2ND-In-Command in my office. When I came in today he asked jokingly how the weird funeral was.
"Scientology, wasn't it?"
I think he managed to achieve a moment of odd disrespect and great irritation in just three words. And one of those words was was 'it'.
Thursday 16 October 2008
Tuesday 14 October 2008
The most important letter of my life
Today I should write the most important letter of my life.
Not because I've started writing a blog to be another one of those wailing Screamers over the copper wires, and broadband routers.* But because today I have to write to social services.
My mother, the one, and only one out there who will always love me has been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. She is 60 and was diagnosed just over two years ago. She's a short lady with dyed auburn hair and brown eyes. She also has a predilection from believing that she's a target of thieves, Muslim extremists, my father, her brother, lawyers and doctors. She has shown signs of something not being right for 20 years. That something has been seriously 'not quite right' for the past 7 years. In this blog I shall call her Apple.
My father, a large diabetic accountant with lady friends and a second hand Ferrari does not know of my mother's diagnosis. I think also, that he does not want to know. They are divorced. I shall call him Nero.
Almost 3 weeks ago my mother was assessed under the Mental Health Act. The police had requested the assessment because Apple was being a nuisance and wasting their time.
After her assessment the Community Health Team have refused to carry out any sort of follow-up investigation or offer any further service. This necessitates my writing of a strongly-worded epistle to try to end the comedic-tragic script subtitling my mother's existence. It might be ignored. Even if it isn't ignored, the it is highly probable that my mother would refuse most, if not all of what could be offered.
It seems to me to be one of the most important letters I have ever written, and because of what is at stake I have to try it. Yet it could have an effect so trivial, that it would seem as everyday as the difference between skimmed and semi-skimmed milk in your tea.
*I do however reserve full rights to emulate the painted figure in The Scream (Skrik, 1893-1910, Edvard Munch). It's a good thing you will never see me.
And just how many copper wires are out there anyway?
Not because I've started writing a blog to be another one of those wailing Screamers over the copper wires, and broadband routers.* But because today I have to write to social services.
My mother, the one, and only one out there who will always love me has been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. She is 60 and was diagnosed just over two years ago. She's a short lady with dyed auburn hair and brown eyes. She also has a predilection from believing that she's a target of thieves, Muslim extremists, my father, her brother, lawyers and doctors. She has shown signs of something not being right for 20 years. That something has been seriously 'not quite right' for the past 7 years. In this blog I shall call her Apple.
My father, a large diabetic accountant with lady friends and a second hand Ferrari does not know of my mother's diagnosis. I think also, that he does not want to know. They are divorced. I shall call him Nero.
Almost 3 weeks ago my mother was assessed under the Mental Health Act. The police had requested the assessment because Apple was being a nuisance and wasting their time.
After her assessment the Community Health Team have refused to carry out any sort of follow-up investigation or offer any further service. This necessitates my writing of a strongly-worded epistle to try to end the comedic-tragic script subtitling my mother's existence. It might be ignored. Even if it isn't ignored, the it is highly probable that my mother would refuse most, if not all of what could be offered.
It seems to me to be one of the most important letters I have ever written, and because of what is at stake I have to try it. Yet it could have an effect so trivial, that it would seem as everyday as the difference between skimmed and semi-skimmed milk in your tea.
*I do however reserve full rights to emulate the painted figure in The Scream (Skrik, 1893-1910, Edvard Munch). It's a good thing you will never see me.
And just how many copper wires are out there anyway?
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