Life after the sudden loss of my father... and "how was the funeral?"

Since the life-changing phone call telling me that my dad had died, I have been living in a "bereavement bubble". I swapped the warm evenings and relaxing sunsets over the sea for arranging my father's funeral.  Each time I dashed out to the beach for a quick swim, I wondered why people all looked relaxed and jolly.  Should I warn them to keep their distance from me in case I spoil their holiday vibe?  It has been an intensely focused few weeks, busier than I'd ever imagine and heart-wrenching all at the same time.

When people ask me "how did the funeral go?" I find it difficult to answer.  The first person who asked was a neighbour and I struggled to speak.  I managed to mumble something along the lines of "difficult" and she looked surprised asking "didn't it go to plan then?".  I quickly realised that she wasn't asking how did it feel to be at the funeral.  She was asking about practicalities.  Having spent a week choosing music, hymns, Bible readings, organ music and worked out the logistics of having two services, it ran wonderfully smoothly.  The music was some of my father's favourite and hearing the organ play gave such a deep sense of reverence and poignancy to the service.  The most comforting part was hearing the gentle, caring tone of voice used by the vicar who had known my father.

My second answer to "how did the funeral go?" relates to people attending.  It was moving to see how many people did come even with the pandemic still adding some anxiety about gathering. My cousin, who I've not seen for a few years, flew in from Texas (with lots of PCR testing).  Friends and relatives from different parts of my father's life came.  At the church I looked for some of the nursing home staff that knew my father well and I was touched to see three staff and a few residents.  The difficult part for me was wanting to talk to all the guests, to thank them for their presence while simultaneously feeling a need for quiet and space.

My third response to "how did the funeral go?" would be the more honest description of what it felt like to go through this long, emotional day.  For much of the time, I felt like I was putting on a "front" with social chat and feeling responsible for the running of the services.  This took up much of my energy, while underneath was the simmering grief that barely had space to be felt.  Now and then I could sit with the sense of loss and disbelief, aching to have my father back to talk to and tell him about the service.  I was the only family member who wanted to speak at the church, and I stood with tears in my throat while I talked about his hobbies: steam-trains, boats and bird-watching.  It felt so important for me to speak, to bring in some personal anecdotes and to honor my connection to him.  The hardest part of the day was leaving him at the crematorium, having sat for ages in the tranquility of the garden on a bench after the service, so that he had someone still with him.

And then it was over.  Days later, everything has gone quiet and in some ways this is harder.  The phone has stopped ringing, messages have stopped coming and life is supposed to return to "normal" now.  The only place of solace seems to be in nature, listening and looking for bird-life that my dad loved.  We stayed away for a few days in the countryside and in the evenings I sat outside while dusk was fading and the first stars started to shine through.  With candle-light flickering and a warm blanket around me, this was comforting enough.  But each night I heard the sound of owls, both the distinct screeching sound of a barn owl and the softer, "twit-twoo" call of a tawny owl.  Something about hearing these nocturnal birds overhead in the trees, helped to give me some hope that life will be okay again one day, even without my father's physical presence.