I had a great aunt and uncle – Oom Sybrandt and Tannie Barbie. They were, as my mother described, enthusiastic funeral attendees. They never missed a funeral, ever. They would drive all over the city and even cross provincial borders to attend memorial services, wakes and burials. We suspected they lived on a diet of egg mayo sandwiches, koeksisters and sausage rolls. In our family we joked that if you wanted to see Oom Sybrandt and Tannie Barbie, a sure-fire way to get their attention was to kick the bucket.
For all the funerals Oom Sybrandt and Tannie Barbie attended, they never appeared at the sickbed. They didn’t bring casseroles or drive anyone to a chemo session. They never checked in to see how people were doing or sent messages of encouragement. They never even ordered a Netflorist-bouquet online. It was almost as if they believed that they did not have a role to play in the long, difficult days, but only on the single day when everyone gathered to say goodbye.
I go to a fair number of remembrance ceremonies myself. Usually, I sit somewhere in the back as an outsider honouring a patient to whom I’ve allowed myself to get too close. From this vantage point, I get to observe the people in the pews. I think there are two ways to show up. One way is to support the loved ones and to be there for them physically on a tough day, to remind them that despite the massive loss, there are people and bonds and love that will carry them through these dark times.
The other way is to be there for yourself: to mourn, to cry, and to start the difficult process of closure; to sift through the memories and celebrate the person you love, to sit with your grief among others, sharing your pain.
On Thursday, I drove far out of Sandton to the “life celebration” of Nadine, a gentle Irish beauty. It was pouring with rain and I kid you not, I had a planned playlist for my journey, knowing it would be long and wet, and that there would be a good chance I’d get lost.
We cared for Nadine for many months. She was young, unmarried and had a well-paying job as an environmental lawyer. Her cancer was cruel and left her embarrassed and totally dependent. I did not have any idea of what the service would be like, and throughout the months she was with us, I met only a few friends and family members.
I was surprised to find the church packed. Extra chairs were brought in, and still, many of us had to remain standing. A Christian minister led the service, despite Nadine being an atheist. A friend I never met gave a beautiful eulogy. Nadine’s brother flew in from Australia for the memorial. He never visited her in the months she was with us, yet he made a moving speech. I recognised a few of the faces, particularly the friend who came every week to drive Nadine to her oncologist. She still showed up later on when Nadine got so weak that we sent a carer with her to all appointments. I saw Nadine’s sister sitting quietly next to their mom. They held hands. They were at the Lodge every single day. Even on the days that Nadine just slept, they sat with her. Their presence at her bed was a constant reminder of their love.
I scanned the rows of people and played a game to pass the time during the hymns we battled through. Which people had showed up in the months before today? Who sent WhatsApps, remembered when test results were due, or popped in with her favourite dirty Chai from Seattle coffee?
I was grateful for the many people who showed up on the day of the memorial. The social media tributes to Nadine were impressive too, but I did wonder why the majority of the people did not show up when Nadine’s fear was at its loudest, when she was in pain, and when she was definitely lonely?
I wonder if it is simply safer to show up when everything is under control – when we know what to expect, when there is an order of service, a photo collage, flowers, and a pretty printed funeral program with some moving words. At a gathering where everything is scripted and secure, you don’t have to meet the eyes of the person dying anymore or figure out what to say in the awkward silence.
We often hear the excuse that people don’t like hospitals. I reckon many miners don’t like working 1km underground, but they show up. Another excuse is that we feel the person won’t know we are there anyway. Do you seriously believe that humans are only two-dimensional, and that because they don’t communicate in a way YOU are comfortable with, they don’t know you are there? Or do you just say this to ease your conscience?
A favourite excuse is that we’ve already said goodbye. This is almost the worst in my opinion because it feels like you’ve decided that person is already invisible! People also say they don’t know what to say, and I understand that. No-one does. We’re all here doing life for the first time, often getting it wrong. Life is hard, but we do it anyway, and we should show up for those we love.
If we only arrive at the last moment, to display our public grief and nibble on a sausage roll, we’ve missed the end of the story. The funeral is not the last chapter. The months leading up to it are. This is where the heart of gentle caring and raw honesty lies, where hands are held and where we gather wisdom and grace right on the edge of the edifice. In the silence and brokenness of those sacred moments we are vulnerable enough for our souls to really connect.
The journey of grief is not a one‑day event, and it is not a sprint. It is a long‑distance race, and we need our people on the sidelines to cheer us on, even if we can’t respond like we used to. Oom Sybrandt and Tannie Barbie missed so much true connection because they only showed up for the grand finale instead of being part of the entire production. Let’s be different. Let’s show up for everything: the good, the bad, the messiness, the grace, the goodbyes, the silences and the hurt. Let’s show up even when it’s awkward, painful and hard. That’s when it maybe matters most.