DIY Funeral
You Can Mourn Your Own Way... Own Way!
I like to plan things. People who know me will be thinking that this is a gross understatement.
So when I decided I wanted to visit my ex-husband’s grave for the first time, planning mode kicked in.
What flowers to take, what poem to write, what words to say. Should I write him a letter? Maybe I’ll ask friends to submit readings!
I asked his best friend what was read at his funeral. I Googled typical poems used at such events. I ChatGPT’ed songs I could play. (Had me sobbing to Let It Be by The Beatles on a recent dog walk.)
I asked myself, what do I want from this? What do I need to tell him? Who do I want with me?
After mapping out the practicalities I sat in front of a blank journal page.
Maybe less doing, more being was needed?
I told a friend I was going to visit the burial ground, and she replied, “Can you tell him I’m very angry at the hurt he caused, but also have many happy memories together.”
The simplicity of this made me exhale. That’s exactly right. You created a lot of pain and we had lots of fun. I’ll tell him that.
I decided to listen to my body and follow whatever it instinctively drew me to.
A poem I wrote a while back shuffled its way out of my brain’s filing system, I’ll take that.
I bought flowers from a gas station that were the same as our wedding flowers. Don’t overthink it.
I texted a few friends, “Going to the grave on Monday. Wanted to tell you.” I felt like letting them know, so I did. Faces I can recall if I need them when I stand at his burial plot alone.
I had my partner by my side on a sun-baked afternoon, entering the county he was buried in. A part of the UK he spent many heady teenage escapades in, somewhere he loved. I told her how it filled me with sadness knowing he wouldn’t enjoy these narrow country roads anymore.
After checking in to the AirBnB, the dusk light started to creep in and I noted that the sunset was going to be glorious. Postcard conditions to visit a burial ground.
No time like the present my body told me.
I asked my partner to drive me to the address, “If you’re sure, let’s do it, take your time,” she said.
I’ve never visited the grave of someone I knew. I’ve been to funerals, and so am familiar with those traditions. This was different. I had hours at my disposal to do things as I pleased.
For someone with complicated grief, it was just what I needed.
No requirement to stifle tears or comfort anyone else. No need to perform or please or edit.
I could speak directly to him. I could play the songs that meant only something to us. I could just sit in silence. I was allowed to laugh. I could stretch my limbs when the tears dried up. I could stare at the trees.
And I did.
(If you couldn’t face a public funeral, I highly recommend curating your own as I did. Permission to do and say as you please, and take your time. Whenever you’re ready, the resting place will be waiting for you.)
I looked up and saw that a bird feeder was pegged to the tree at the neighbour’s grave. I smiled thinking of the birds that would be merrily feeding above his plot. A consistent stream of birdsong and lively visitors.
These things are a comfort. To know he rests in this orchard, with chirping friends, silver birches and the cooling sound of the wind.
For nearly two hours I spoke to him, I told him about his friends and about my new life, I told him that I got a Jack Russell puppy called Hectore and that I’m happy.
I asked him if I could now release him.
The air stilled, the trees stopped whispering and I think that was his way of saying yes.
It seemed obvious in that moment that it’s not the deads’ hold on us that prolongs grief, but the hold we have on the dead.
As much as I was focussed on him not letting me go, I realised I wasn’t letting him go. I was now his trap. Maybe that was revenge for the years I felt stuck, or maybe I just wasn’t ready.
I said out loud, “I’m sorry” and then I let myself smile as the message came, “no, we’re sorry”.
As the sun was setting over the nearby field and my nose needed blowing, I said that I’d be back tomorrow and ambled down the length of the burial ground, past two mammoth oak trees guarding the rows of precious loved ones in their final resting places.
Without words I cried into the arms of my partner waiting patiently for me by the car.
I returned the following morning with the question, “how do I release you and hold you at the same time?”
I guess what I was really asking was how can I say goodbye? A man I spent 13 years with. A large, loud, rugby playing, fun loving, boundary pushing, wild ginger man who died at 38 from alcoholism. A man I was hurt by but no longer angry with. A man who taught me how to cook an egg, how to always ask for the best seat in the house, how to break rules and how to love despite everything suggesting I should do to the contrary.
I asked my partner to join me at his grave to attempt this goodbye.
I introduced him to her and we stood hand in hand and gently wept as I read the poem I wrote.
As I finished, on this hot August day, the sound of rain filled our ears. Up there in the skies oceans he sent us some cooling drops.
We smiled at each other and sprinkled some petals on his mound.
“Goodbye Mark.”
We walked hand in hand away from plot 12b, to the sound of the wise words of John Lennon and co:
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be
Finding solace in sharing my grief, and also from hearing from those who are also suffering. Sending out love from my heart to yours.
I am a Somatic Coach and through my writing attempt to capture the human experience, through our minds and bodies. If you’re interested in what Somatic Coaching is or would like to try it, find out more about it here.
Truly beautiful, I felt this very much in my body. Thank you