You will have had days when ‘nothing has gone right’; I’m
starting to edge towards the opinion that, when something really disruptive is
about to happen, it sends out ripples echoing that disruption and disturbance
back and forth, eventually affecting people who aren’t definitely involved in
the event at all. Our Lay Reader Lillian says this is superstitious thinking,
and a line of thought I shouldn’t pursue, but there you are, anyway.
It seemed, yesterday, like a fairly straightforward funeral
service: that of an elderly lady loosely connected with the church, who’d lived
a straightforward and quiet life. The service was put together by her nephew
and all seemed fine. The day before, however, I realised that, after we’d leave the
church, the family graveyard we were heading to was not at Stonemarsh but at Stonelake which is an entirely different place a dozen miles and an
awkward drive further away. Oh well. For some reason I got my timings out of
kilter and came to church half an hour earlier than I needed to, but that’s
better than half an hour late, and there are always things I can be getting on
with. Then I discovered that there’d been a misunderstanding about the music,
but Malcolm the organist accommodated the mixup brilliantly and all seemed
well. About three dozen people were in the church as I and Rhoda the crucifer
headed out to meet the coffin.
Coming into church and reading the Sentences I was aware of
a commotion to my left. It was Reg, one of the oldest and most loyal members of
the congregation and one of the deceased lady’s neighbours, who with his wife
had been coming to Swanvale Halt church for more than sixty years, and now slumped
in his seat and attended by a couple of people. Once the coffin was in place I
told the organist to keep playing quietly while I worked out what was happening.
Reg was ashen pale: it wasn’t just an ordinary faint. ‘He said he felt poorly
and asked for a glass of water,’ someone said. Under instruction via phone from
the paramedics the undertaker’s men got Reg onto the floor and within moments
we were into a CPR situation (thankfully not done by me). Others swung into
action to sit with Reg’s wife and call other relatives, while I was left to hold
him before God and liaise so that everyone knew what was happening. Poor
Malcolm must have played that organ till his fingers were stiff, but it’s
better than silence. It was only after a few minutes that I remembered that the
old people’s day centre over the way might have a defibrillator (they had,
installed just over a year ago, but I hadn’t given it a thought since). As I
was crossing the car park, however, the ambulance arrived. 'It probably wouldn't have made any difference,' I was kindly told later. No, it probably wouldn't have, but I'll never be sure, now. I should have
cleared the church at this point, if not before (although to an extent people
were already clearing themselves), but I think I was so concentrated on the
drama off to the side, and my mind was so occupied with how to manage events,
that it didn’t occur to me until Rhoda suggested people could be given tea in
the hall. So the church was, finally, cleared. ‘What are the constraints on
your time?’ I asked the undertaker: ‘None, sir,’ he said. Just as well it was a
Friday afternoon.
The paramedics surrounded Reg with the armoury of the
medical battlefield, and fought, but it was clear enough what we were moving
towards. He’d been gone, essentially, almost from the beginning. I spoke to the
paramedic who seemed to be senior. ‘Because it’s an unexpected death in a
public place,’ she explained – and I never knew this, certainly, which is
partly why I’m telling you – ‘he can’t be moved until the police arrive and
have sorted everything. Because he’s already dead and nobody is in danger it
won’t be a priority call and frankly it could take hours.’ There were two
possibilities now, that we move Reg to the church hall and resume the service in
church, or abandon the church service and hold the whole funeral at the
graveside in Stonelake. However the paramedics consulted and agreed to the
first option, while the congregation were taken out again through the side door
and back into the main part of the church. I said the Nunc Dimittis with Reg’s
wife and a prayer over him, marking that cold forehead with the cross. One of
the paramedics was clearly upset: it turned out he’d just had a family
bereavement, and so I spoke to him for a bit. I found myself thinking, as we do
when middle age gets the better of us, They’re so bloody young.
For a minute I thought we would curtail the service and not
sing, but then reflected, no, we need some defiance, some normality. I put what
had happened into context, thanked everyone for their patience and forbearance,
and began – though it was, indeed, taken at a faster pace than normal. From there I made my way to Stonelake (much of the time behind a school
bus squeezing down narrow lanes past Landrovers with their wing mirrors pushed
in) and, on arrival at the picturesque but inconveniently isolated graveyard, discovered
that I’d left the service book at church so I had to make it up. Mind you,
provided you remember to say ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes’ which is the
undertakers’ signal to lower the coffin, you can’t go too far wrong. Then bloody
Trevor called me to talk about demons,
no doubt, and I was left clutching my phone in my pocket to stifle the ring.
What was it doing turned on? When did I do that? The perfect end, that was. ‘That’s
the first time something like that’s ever happened to me,’ said the undertaker.
‘A glass of something might be in order this evening, I think, sir, for us all.’
I got back to church, found Marion the curate, who’d agreed
to sit with Reg’s body, and the police, just as he was about to be taken away. I
tolled the bell - ninety times, for him, sounding out across the centre of the
village – and said Evening Prayer. As I read the Old Testament lesson from
Exodus 13 I found myself exhaustedly saying ‘Pharoah took six hundred pickled
chariots’ instead of ‘picked chariots’.
As well as the loss and the shock, which rippled out through
the parish very quickly, I’m left with stunned gratitude at the way so many
people acted throughout the drama, the professionalism, the kindness, the
courage. God knows what I would have done had it just been me. But it wasn't, it was the
Body of Christ at work, even those who didn’t know they were part of the Body
of Christ. And I will remember the things I failed to do right. It’s
just as well that today is sunny, and has brought more and very different work.
God rest your soul, Reg Hand, our brother, and may we never see another day
like that one.
Vivid, detailed, informative (and - frightening. I'm a funeral celebrant. So - also helpful. I wonder if crematorium staff know half of what they should, in this regard?) Of course Trevor phoned and you'd not turned it off. Trepidation of the spheres. I hope it doesn't sound heartless to say that "pickled chariots" is priceless. As usual you look at what you think you didn't do right, and probably have no idea how much you did do right for everyone there.
ReplyDeleteThe undertaker sounds like a good'un.
It's sad to think of the shock of that loss for those around Reg.
And yes, they are so bloody young...
Thank you - yes, part of the point of posting this was thinking about people who might find themselves in similar positions. We sort of have procedures for an emergency during an ordinary service, but not being very imaginative I hadn't thought about the slightly different mechanics of one occurring at one of the Occasional Offices, and how it might actually proceed. I kept expecting the paramedics to take poor Reg *somewhere else*, as they have with every other person I've ever witness collapse in church, but of course they didn't. And I had no idea about the legal implications. Nobody ever mentioned this at theological college, it never came up while I was a curate, and as far as I know no course in the diocese has ever covered it. I would expect - and I use the word cautiously! - that a crematorium might have more formal procedures in place.
ReplyDeleteIt could have been worse, you might have referred to six hundred pickled carrots. What a Badger's Aunt of a day! ((hugs)) xx
ReplyDelete