No flowers. No comforting hugs. But a webcam broadcast and Abide With Me. Our lockdown farewell to my dear old dad...
MY DAD had a good and long life. Happily married to my mum for 65 years, Eddie was a father of five, grandfather of 12 and great-grandfather of 16. But now, after his death at the age of 88, it was time to say goodbye. A gentle and funny man, he had served his country as a sergeant in the Army before working in the construction industry. He had also served his family, and he deserved a good send-off.
The crematorium should have been full of family, friends and neighbours. There should have been lots of tears and hugs, especially for my mum, Edith.
Later, there should have been drinks, stories told, memories relived. Then smiles, laughs and glasses raised as our sadness gave way, at least for an hour or two, to a celebration of his life.
But just six of us were there to see him off because of the coronavirus lockdown.
The tragic irony is that Dad wasn’t even a victim of the disease, at least not directly. He, like so many others who have died during the pandemic, was a victim of restrictions put in place as Covid-19 threatened almost every aspect of life in Britain – including funerals.
He died from Parkinson’s disease complications just as concern about the coronavirus was beginning to turn into panic.
Dad had been in hospital, but very shortly after he died it closed its doors to visitors, having discovered there were Covid-19 carriers on the wards.
It meant Mum couldn’t see her husband in the hospital’s chapel of rest, or even in the mortuary. All she wanted to do was ‘make sure he was OK’ after he had slipped away, holding her hand. Later, the hospital chaplain was kind enough to say a prayer with him, but Mum wasn’t allowed to go.
At least, she said, we were able to be with him right to the end, unlike so many other families now facing the unbearable pain of being kept apart from their dying loved ones.
By the time we were able to begin arranging the funeral, Britain was in lockdown.
Funeral directors were sympathetic but said nothing could be planned as the rules about the number of mourners were constantly changing.
Mum was horrified to find out there were funerals around the country being held with no one present, but she wasn’t having that. She said she would be there come what may, despite, at 87, being classed as vulnerable and advised to remain at home.
Funeral directors told us that we could face a long wait to be given a date and time for the cremation, which gave us a hint of what was happening to countless other families suffering bereavement.
At last, about a month after Dad died, six of us gathered at the crematorium. There was my mum and my sister, who has been staying with her since Dad’s condition began to worsen before the lockdown, one of my brothers and his wife, and my son and me, who live together. Other members of our family and countless friends were unable to pay their last respects because of the restrictions on public gatherings.
THERE was no hearse for Dad and no limos for us to make a grand entrance to the crematorium ahead of a convoy of mourners. Instead, Dad had arrived in a blacked-out private ambulance. We six mourners arrived in separate cars, parked two bays apart in the empty car park, and spoke to each other from inside our vehicles with the windows down.
There were no tearful huddles to comfort each other as we made our way into the chapel and to six chairs, each 6ft apart, in three rows of two. At least the seating arrangement helped us fill out a little bit more of a chapel that could easily hold 75 mourners.
The coffin was already on the dais but no one was allowed to touch it.
There were no flowers from family with messages of sympathy. The rule seemed to be that the fewer things that could be touched, the better, to protect us and the crematorium staff. A humanist celebrant agreed to conduct proceedings. We sang Dad’s favourite songs and there were a couple of readings.
One of the tunes was Abide With Me – and we got round the lack of mourners by playing a recording of it from an FA Cup Final. Dad was a football fan, a Lancashire lad who supported Wigan Athletic. It turned out to be rather moving as he was seen off by 90,000 fans singing at Wembley.
One other saving grace was that the ceremony was broadcast via webcam – a service that many crematoriums now offer so absent family and friends can take part.
It was some comfort but it wasn’t the same as having family with us to say goodbye.
Outside, in the spring sunshine and staying the regulation 6ft apart, we unzipped the cool-bags we had brought along containing small amounts of our favourite drinks and raised a glass – a plastic one, at least – to Eddie.
Later, as we drove away after our bizarre little ceremony, still without the lingering comfort of those hugs that mean so much at times like these, there wasn’t really sadness or many tears, or even a sense of relief that we had got through what in normal times is a major part of the grieving process.
We were just one confused family among thousands who have been terribly cheated in so many ways by Covid-19.
He had served his country and also his family – he deserved a good send-off