Integrity
If the word eternity can span Sydney's iconic coat hanger, then the term integrity ought to have been emblazoned upon the chimney at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium on 21 April 2018.
Wearing the same suit, shirt and tie that I donned some five months ago to farewell my mother, I found myself back at the godforsaken place; The East Chapel, Northern Suburbs Crematorium.
Yet strangely there was no wretched feeling in my bones or signs of dread when dealing with the dead. Instead, like wrapping oneself in a doona, by returning to this place of solemnity I felt that I was revisiting an old friend. Despite most of my family's 'old' friends having gone up in smoke at this very place, there is a familiarity about the four chapels that I nickname the "crem". The older you are, the more visits you make.
On this day the dear departed soul was my mother's rheumatologist Dr John Hassall, who first diagnosed her crippling arthritic condition in the 1980s. He along with his wife Liz became mum's friends, forged at a time when there was no dividing line between business and personal life.
I arrived at 11.29am for the 11.30am service and there was standing room only at the entrance to the chapel. Leaning against the door, transferring my weight from side to side in order to avoid any fainting episode that could see me being popped into a casket, I surveyed all that was before me.
A contemplative flock of silver haired disciples were spread amongst the usual suspects who attend a funeral of a devoted husband, father, grandfather, best friend, school mate and colleague;
a man of impeccable humility, grace and compassion; a gentle soul who's genuine interest in others was matched by a passion for the correct use of grammar. He was the last of a dying breed.
He was a man of letters, a scholarly type who after working for 50 years at the RPA hospital published a book RPA & beyond: an unauthorised memoir. He wrote countless letters to his children to his friends and even one to me. Written at a time when he did not have long to live, in it he apologised for not being able to attend my mother's service. That act alone speaks volumes.
At the conclusion of the service, the congregation filed out of the chapel row by row. Grandchildren looked bereft, Liz held it all together like matriarchs do and the oldies huddled together championing the doctor and his 'good' death experience.
Journos and medicos mingled as did other cerebral types who reminisced about the brilliant mind and caring human being now gone.
A friend of mine recently recounted the feeling of happiness that he experienced when attending the funeral of a work colleague. I'd never subscribed to such feelings.
But on this day perhaps there were reasons to celebrate, for I left the 'crem' smiling and having said my goodbyes to a man of letters, where capital I is for Integrity.
Wearing the same suit, shirt and tie that I donned some five months ago to farewell my mother, I found myself back at the godforsaken place; The East Chapel, Northern Suburbs Crematorium.
Yet strangely there was no wretched feeling in my bones or signs of dread when dealing with the dead. Instead, like wrapping oneself in a doona, by returning to this place of solemnity I felt that I was revisiting an old friend. Despite most of my family's 'old' friends having gone up in smoke at this very place, there is a familiarity about the four chapels that I nickname the "crem". The older you are, the more visits you make.
On this day the dear departed soul was my mother's rheumatologist Dr John Hassall, who first diagnosed her crippling arthritic condition in the 1980s. He along with his wife Liz became mum's friends, forged at a time when there was no dividing line between business and personal life.
I arrived at 11.29am for the 11.30am service and there was standing room only at the entrance to the chapel. Leaning against the door, transferring my weight from side to side in order to avoid any fainting episode that could see me being popped into a casket, I surveyed all that was before me.
A contemplative flock of silver haired disciples were spread amongst the usual suspects who attend a funeral of a devoted husband, father, grandfather, best friend, school mate and colleague;
a man of impeccable humility, grace and compassion; a gentle soul who's genuine interest in others was matched by a passion for the correct use of grammar. He was the last of a dying breed.
At the conclusion of the service, the congregation filed out of the chapel row by row. Grandchildren looked bereft, Liz held it all together like matriarchs do and the oldies huddled together championing the doctor and his 'good' death experience.
Journos and medicos mingled as did other cerebral types who reminisced about the brilliant mind and caring human being now gone.
A friend of mine recently recounted the feeling of happiness that he experienced when attending the funeral of a work colleague. I'd never subscribed to such feelings.
But on this day perhaps there were reasons to celebrate, for I left the 'crem' smiling and having said my goodbyes to a man of letters, where capital I is for Integrity.
Comments
Post a Comment