The 6th of February is the third anniversary of my son’s death. Two recent deaths, one not known personally, only that she died in a care home which did not ‘care’. The second was  tragic. A friend, obstinate know-all, was having falls. Refused a care home, relied on daughter, whom he had treated horribly. She got carers twice a day, but he should NOT have lived alone, but nobody could force him to move. Force majeur intervened; he lit a fire, the house caught fire and he died.

There was an awful plane/helicopter crash in Washington, seemingly through negligence in the control tower. Bereaved relatives were interviewed. In this sort of tragedy it appears that the interviewees are presented with a card. Words might vary, but the victims were all super people, always smiling,  positive, hard working. So ‘Never speak ill of the dead’. But among those 67 victims there was probably one who had a family row and would not speak to parents again or had a miserable childhood. So, you don’t say things like that, but one would like a little anecdote, perhaps about their childhood, to show they were human and not cardboard cut-outs of perfect individuals. Which brings me to the kernel: how do you speak of the dead, there are funerals, eulogies, obituaries. With the ‘famous’ it is their deeds. The Aga Khan has just died, immensely rich, philanthropist, friend of the late Queen.

For my friend’s daughter I felt the need to redress the balance against the last pretty awful years. I wrote to her, attaching a photo of her Dad with Mr G, in shorts, in summer, both laughing. She thanked me, said it made her laugh and cry, healthy response? An anecdote – he was very helpful, but over-enthusiastic, and, yes, bossy. A branch of our hundred year old wisteria was threatening the kitchen door. X said ‘I’ll get the ladder, you get all the rest’. There was a crash. He had put the ladder through the kitchen window. “Oh, I’ll go and get some glass cut’” I flipped. ”This house has been here for 800 years, it has sheltered monks and pilgrims. It has withstood wars and revolutions. Please leave it alone and go and have lunch.”

The tributes to my son on line showed me a side of him I did not know. He had helped African students with their PhD. They went overboard in praise of his hospitality and his cooking (he was an inspired cook, and noted for desserts). I have kept the print-out of another son’s address to his Gran at her funeral. He talked to the coffin, describing her idiosyncrasies during the time she lived with him and his wife. There was much laughter. And why not, she was 99, not cut off in the ‘prime’ of life as are victims of accidents. My friend’s daughter is now thinking of the good times in their childhood. 

I struggle to find positive things to say about my Mum and Ma-in-law. Sad. Thoughts on this? 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member