Dialogue Issue 47 Autumn 2010

Dialogue
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
WN BULL
Dialogue
Contents
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
WN BULL
Dialogue
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
WN BULL
Editorial
Editorial Office:
164 King Street,
Newtown NSW 2042
Phone: (02) 9519 5344
Fax: (02) 9519 4310
Email: [email protected]
ABN: 67 001 593 746
Regulars
1Editorial
20
Staff Profile
22
Recommended Reading
Dialogue Publications
© 2010
ISSN: 1832-8474
Dialogue is published
quarterly by
Dialogue Publications
- a publishing division of
W N Bull Funerals
Editorial Board:
Richard White
John Harris
Patsy Healy
Production:
Phillip Pavich
Email: [email protected]
Copies of Dialogue
can be obtained by
calling (02) 9519 5344
Features
2
Lest We Forget
4
Is Humpty to have the Last Word?
A Story about Erica Greenop
8
Are Cemeteries on the Way Out?
12
Don’s Decision
14
Fit at Fifty...
Dignified when Dead
16
In the Zone
18
Death, My Father and Love
written by Richard White
Autumn. This is a time for checking through memories and seeing if there is anything there to carry you
through the Winter. And, there is. It is like watching Casablanca again and meeting up with Humphrey
Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Rick and Ilsa in the film.
Ilsa really said, “Play it once, Sam. For old time’s sake.”
Not, “Play it again, Sam.” And Rick’s toast throughout
the movie was, “Here’s looking at you, kid”. But, the
quote I was struggling to remember had to do with the
insignificance of three lives, caught up in the events of the
Second World War.
“. . . it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of
three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this
crazy world . . . “
It’s the sort of quote you can fall back on when the car
won’t start or you’ve run out of wine at a wedding. It brings
things into perspective and everyone settles back into the
insignificance where they belong. But, that isn’t the thrust
of the movie, nor is it the stuff of our dreams or of our lives.
Our problems, our lives, our sorrows and our happiness
have a startling and enduring significance. That is the tone
of this edition.
Geraldine Heffernan’s account of a meeting between
some survivors of the 2009 bushfires and newly-discovered
friends in a sea-side town is a story of a small connection
making a world of difference, to two communities. How
trivial could a collection of alphabetical collages be, unless
you link it to chronic pain, as Erica Greenop does?
Cemeteries might be the “dead centre of town” (ho hum .
. .) but they are on the fringes of our thinking, until Philippa
Hair did some research. Cecile Yazbek graces this edition
with another of her well-observed stories with implications
for all of us caring for sick or elderly relatives.
“How I look when I’m dead” is no joking matter for Deb
Moyle and her friend, Renee. Then, Dave Jory, a comedian
of all people, takes us into the war-torn Afghanistan and the
lives of the people he meets.
Tristan Guzman has written a number of articles for
Dialogue. There is a fresh, personal character to his stories
and this is no exception. And, Janise Beaumont’s little book
on angels is making the editor easier to live with, not to
mention, easier to live.
There you have it. Nothing of mind-blowing significance.
Rick from Casablanca would have said, cynically, “hardly
a hill of beans”. But, then again, he did put his life and
his love on the line for Ilsa and arrange her escape to
freedom. It’s just a movie, with lots of memorable quotes,
and yet, the movie and the quotes are memorable for the
selflessness and the love that underlie the cynicism and
the “insignificance”.
There is selflessness and love, ordinariness and familiarity,
in all the stories to follow. As they said in the movie, “skip
the credits and cut to the chase.” Happy Autumn.
Cover image:
Autumn Forest
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
1
...“it is a lot harder now
than it was just after the fire.
Then, the adrenaline kept
things going. Now, people
are having to plan their
houses, make decisions, get
things done. Everyone is so
depleted. There is no such
thing as ‘normal’ anymore.”
written by Geraldine Heffernan
Geraldine Heffernan
The following account is a personal response to people effected by the bushfires that ravaged Victoria
in early February, last year. Geraldine Heffernan, the writer, lives in the coastal town of Inverloch, South
Gippsland, about an hours drive from Wilson’s Promonotory National Park. Editor
The bushfires that hit Victoria in February last year have
had a profound affect on many people. At the time, I wrote
in my diary . . .
Saturday 7th February – “Temperature reached forty six
degrees, worst fires in Victoria, ever.”
Sunday 8th February – “Tonight they think eighty six
people have died in these terrible bush fires.”
Monday 9th February – “The death toll has risen to one
hundred and thirty one today.”
Tuesday 10th February – “Toll today, one hundred and
seventy one.”
Wednesday 11th February – “Death toll one hundred and
eighty one but expected to rise. Marysville wiped out.”
One of the paramount feelings at the time, apart from
horror and grief, was a feeling of guilt. What could I do?
How could I help? I read Father Vince’s article, “A Fearful
Baptism” (A reflection by the Parish Priest of Alexendra,
in the middle of the region devastated by the fires at the
beginning of last year) and was relieved to discover that
guilt was one of the feelings that he experienced in the
aftermath of the fires. Strangely enough, when I finally
connected with “The Ladies of the Black Belt” (see below
for who these women are) it was guilt that was the feeling
expressed by one who had lost everything, apart from
her house.
Wanting to do something is one thing, finding something
to do is another thing altogether. I rang people, schools .
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Issue 47 Autumn 2010
. . but everyone was overwhelmed with support. So, I just
waited. It was probably July before I came across an article
on “The Ladies of the Black Belt” in The Age, Melbourne.
The “Black Belt” refers to the scorched landscape that
surrounds the township of St Andrews, about thirty six
kilometers from Melbourne CBD.
‘On 7th February, 2009, a major bushfire destroyed
houses on Ninks, Muller, Jacksons and Wild Dog
Creek Roads, as well as Buttermans Track and Olives
Lane. Its progression towards the town centre was
halted by a southerly wind change, which saved the
rest of the town, but drove the fire front further east,
destroying the towns of Kinglake and Marysville.’
Wikepedia
“The Ladies of the Black Belt” had lost their homes and
twelve of their neighbours. Some seventy families from
the fire ravaged hills were now dispersed in suburbs of
Melbourne. They had lost their homes, loved ones and
their life style. They were fighting to retain their identity.
Because the township of St Andrews was largely
untouched by the fires, the area was rarely recognised
by the Victorian Bushfire Reconstruction and Recovery
Authority. People were frustrated by what they felt as a
blatant disregard of their loss.
Once every three weeks, the women of outer-St Andrews,
“The Women of the Black Belt”, meet in one of the few
surviving houses to share their experiences. “We don’t want
a lot of attention, but we do want to be mentioned”, was the
feeling that the ladies expressed to The Age reporter. When
they gather together, there are often tears, and understanding
and acceptance.
As one lady put it, “it is a lot harder now than it was just
after the fire. Then, the adrenaline kept things going. Now,
people are having to plan their houses, make decisions,
get things done. Everyone is so depleted. There is no such
thing as ‘normal’ anymore.”
The ‘normal’ that the older residents knew included mudbrick homes they had built themselves, orchards, vegetable
gardens and olive groves, coaxed from unpromising soil, and
a most self-sufficient lifestyle. These ladies felt overlooked
and in need of some recognition.
When I read the article in the newspaper, I had been
an enthusiastic member of the local “Living Longer,
Living Stronger” group for some time. We were united
in our opposition to the council’s plans to downgrade our
activities. Seeing the photo of the ladies united and wanting
recognition struck a chord with us. We talked about it
and decided to invite them down to Inverloch for lunch.
We could organise a bus, they could come down, catering
would be easy, everyone would contribute.
So, we made contact. As well as recognition of their
story, we offered them a luncheon in an idyllic setting,
Inverloch Anglers Club Hall. In speaking with the ladies
from St Andrews, I let them know that there would be no
pressure to talk or socialize. This peaceful setting was an
ideal place to walk, think, reflect or shed a few quiet tears.
Initially, we wondered whether they would be interested.
However, the response was overwhelmingly in favour of
the idea.
Unfortunately, as Christmas drew near, other demands
pressed in and the lunch had to be postponed. Not to be
deterred, we offered to do some Christmas cooking. This
offer was gratefully received.
I didn’t need to encourage people to cook. There were
plenty of volunteers who responded to the notice I put on
the gym notice board. Then, I needed to collect tins to
store the cooking, which I did by visiting all the Op Shops
in the area.
On one visit I was walking to my car juggling the tins.
I met an old man who offered to help. When I explained
what I needed the tins for, his response astounded me.
“What bushfires? We haven’t had any yet. Are you cooking
just in case?” Lest we forget.
In early December, my husband and I delivered fifty plus
tins of home cooking to St Andrews, including eight dozen
cookies made by an eighty year old neighbour. We stood
on the top of the hills and surveyed the area now covered
with fresh re-growth.
We shed some tears with Cathie, our contact in
St Andrews, and listened to the story of her family’s
close encounter with the fire. The ladies we met were
overwhelmed by our cooking just as we were overwhelmed
“...for now they will not
leave their homes during the
fire season. My last contact
with Cathie was a very
excited one. Quite a few
of the “girls” had moved
back into tin sheds on their
own land and this was cause
for celebration.”
by their experience. Cathie rang me several times after she
had delivered the cooking and expressed her thanks and that
of the other ladies. But, the main sentiment was appreciation
for the kindness of people and the acknowledgement that
they could not have survived without this. “Knowing that
we haven’t been forgotten, knowing that people still care
has gotten us through.”
The ladies will still come down for lunch, but for now
they will not leave their homes during the fire season. My
last contact with Cathie was a very excited one. Quite a
few of the “girls” had moved back into tin sheds on their
own land and this was cause for celebration.
We hope to forge some ongoing connections with these
people and learn from their strength and resilience.
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
3
Is Humpty to have the Last Word?
A Story about Erica Greenop.
Erica Greenop is a regular contributor to Dialogue. In the last, Summer, edition, she brought to a fitting
climax the series on backyard chooks. These homely tales, light-hearted and affectionate, captured a
time in Erica’s family where chooks ruled the roost. That is, chooks were a part of the family routine,
amusement and education. Erica was able to weave her magic and give us vivid accounts of neurotics,
thespians, narcissists – the “full catastrophe” as Zorba the Greek once said.
That’s what Erica did. She took the images and
impressions from her back yard and created names and
characters that were unforgettable. In this Erica is in good
company, Beatrix Potter and The Tale of Peter Rabbit ,
Richard Adams and Watership Down, William Horwood
and the moles from Duncton Wood, even Woody Allen
and Ants and Nemo from the Finding Nemo movie.
Ordinary, everyday places and creatures come to life in
the imagination of . . . all of us, if we let them.
In a conversation the other day, Erica showed me a
book she had created for her grandchildren. (Like all good
books, it was really created by, and for the author, many of
the images are autobiographical, expressions of something
of herself.) It is a series of collages, on the letters of
the alphabet.
Erica pointed out that the rich, red roof of a toadstool
and the welly boots of the child under the Umbrella are
from a glamour photo of botoxed lips; a hen’s henna comb
is Pauline Hansen’s hair; a vulture’s neck, Nicole Kidman’s
stockings and so on. Bits and pieces from everywhere
had been brought together. There was colour and flair. A
lion’s mane and tail ablaze was from scenes of bushfires. A
brilliant parrot with its glistening green back came thanks to
a Cascade beer bottle. Something from everywhere brought
together and . . . bingo! There was a Parrot, an Emu, an
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Issue 47 Autumn 2010
Imp and a Scarecrow. All of which brings me back to
Humpty Dumpty.
You know the rhyme.
Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
We all know this ending. In the spirit of Erica’s stories
about chooks and the wonderful book of collages, I
thought of Humpty Dumpty. It is about someone falling
apart, literally and no one being able to put him together
again. And, that was why I had gone to see Erica in the first
place. She wrote something for the Winter 2009 edition of
Dialogue about a person in chronic pain. This is an extract,
written in the first person.
“I have lost myself. Living with chronic pain, I have
lost the person I used to be, and this is going to last forever.
My pain limits my mobility . . . it limits my ability to do the
usual things that have defined my role. It takes its toll on my
emotions; it takes its toll on the people who care for me.
I have lost control over my life; I have lost my intactness,
my sense of wholeness and completeness. I have lost my
familiar world, the world I created to give my life meaning
and purpose.”
Erica had put herself into the mind and experience
of someone in chronic pain. It was an experience of
brokenness, a shattered self, one that even “all the King’s
horses and all the King’s men/ couldn’t put . . . together
again.” Now, Erica is on the National Advisory Panel of
Chronic Pain Australia and head trainer and project manager
for their Telephone Support Volunteer Programme.
matter of my making sense of it all. It is more the wonder
how Erica makes sense of it all. How does a person write
stories about chooks and create Imps and Emus and Lions
from pages torn from glossy magazines and then immerse
herself, equally creatively, in the world of people suffering
from chronic pain? How does she do this?
The answer is there, under our noses, like most answers.
Erica takes the ordinary sights and meetings of her life,
observes them closely then lets her creative imagination
Where some one else would see dust and rubbish, Erica sees
a story or a picture. When a shattered person sees broken,
scattered pieces, Erica can image a life, can believe in a life.
She comes to this position with over twenty five years
experience of work as a volunteer and professional adviser
in hospices and community organizations, in programme
development, training, workshops and support groups in
the community, government and private organizations;
in professional counselor programme development and
training, and in private counselling practice.
All this sounds very impressive and certainly Erica has
the professional qualifications and experience to be of real
service to Chronic Pain Australia and those who make use of
its services. However, I couldn’t get away from the collages.
At one stage in our conversation after I had spent most of
our limited time admiring some of the images that illustrate
this article, Erica said, “how are you going to make sense
of all this?”
I didn’t say it at the time, but I realise that it is not a
go to work. The bits and pieces of paper and a chook with
a broken wing become the stuff of drama and wonder. The
broken bits are put together and bingo! There is new life.
This is a presumptuous thing to say. But, I’ll take the risk.
I think I know what motivates Erica and what leads her to
play with images and colour. In fact, “lead” is too tame a
word. Like Janise Beaumont, featured in Recommended
Reading this time, Erica is driven to create. If either of these
women did not write or collage they would not be true
to themselves. They would become grumpy, ill or untrue.
So, I could understand when Chronic Pain Australia was
advertising for a person to train volunteers that Erica put
her hand up.
As Erica explained to me, people in this sort of pain are
in pieces. Like people who are grieving or in any kind of
emotional pain, the sort of people Erica has worked with for
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
5
many years, there is a fragmented feeling. What is worse,
when the pain becomes particularly intense or wearing, a
sense of hopelessness overwhelms them. For the person
themselves and for those who love and care for them, this is
a most fearful time. This is when the walls press in and the
sun disappears. There is no brightness in this world.
Erica knows this world, from personal experience, like
so many creative, caring people, and from her professional
involvements. She cannot not be a part of this world. It is
such a familiar place for her. It has the ordinariness of her
backyard and the challenge of pages torn from a magazine.
Where some one else would see dust and rubbish, Erica
sees a story or a picture. When a shattered person sees
broken, scattered pieces, Erica can image a life, can believe
in a life.
The person with the pain does not need “all the
King’s horses and all the King’s men” or their therapeutic
equivalents. They need people who can listen to them, offer
whatever practical assistance and information they can and
believe in a future with them.
Such a belief is a deeply creative and spiritual quality.
It is not pompous or patronizing. It is in touch with light
and possibility. It is not afraid of pain or distress. Humpty
Dumpty does not have the last word. I think that is
what Erica was telling me when we were distracted the
other day.
Contact Chronic Pain Australia:
www.chronicpainaustralia.org
And the National Phone Support
and Information Line: 1800 218 921
Specialists in Funeral Stationery
Design and Printing
Order of Service Booklets
Return Thanks and Memorial Cards
Natalie and Cheryl offer a
personalised service to make this
difficult time a little easier for the family.
We will come to the family home to
assist with the order of service booklets
or memorial cards for the funeral.
We can also offer this assistance via email.
For convenience, we personally
deliver to the funeral director.
(02) 9519 5344
8814 7896 or 0431 360 404
www.wnbull.com.au
[email protected]
AUSTRALIAN FUNERAL DIRECTORS ASSOCIATION MEMBER
24 HOUR HELP LINE
lgAdv DIAL_070
6
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
Are Cemeteries on the Way Out?
written by Philippa Hair
& Richard White
Philippa Hair
Philippa Hair sent me the following article towards the end of last year. Her observations have set me
thinking a number of times. Eventually, I had to do something about it.
You may remember from the last Dialogue that Philippa featured in the piece on Christmas out at
Tangmalangmaloo. It was Philippa’s reflections on her father’s funeral, where the John O’Brien poem
had been used, that prompted me to do my own bit of reflecting.
Philippa has been the researcher in the Law Library at
Macquarie University. Her role has been to note staff and
students topics of need and interest and to sift through the
copious material and provide the references and items that
are relevant. Having tried to retire at least twice, I gained
the impression that Philippa was both appreciated by the
university and she enjoyed her work.
Here is an excerpt from her article on the future
of cemeteries.
of polished timber. The mood, as fitting, was respectful
and dignified.
A notable change over time has been the increased
acceptance of cremation, originally frowned upon by some
churches. The services in a church held prior to a cremation
are sometimes omitted now, replaced by services in the
crematorium chapel, equally respectful and dignified.
The traditional timber casket still dominates, but
some families are choosing more personally significant
“...some of the solutions the government is considering include
allowing “natural burials”, that is the use of bushland and privately
owned farm land as burial places...No headstones as we know them
would be used and GPS coordinates could identify the burial sites.”
From the Necropolis to the Paddock
– A Step in the Right Direction?
Thirty years ago the mostly Catholic funerals I attended
followed a pattern. Firstly, there was a service in the
church followed by a procession to a cemetery grave site,
more prayers, then burial. The casket or coffin was always
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Issue 47 Autumn 2010
conveyances for their deceased. A friend recently chose a
plain pine coffin and spent the time between her husband’s
death and his funeral covering it with photos and mementoes
of their happy life together.
Fitting somewhere between the traditional and the more
personal are wicker baskets and environmentally friendly
ecopods. Ecopods, developed in the UK, are made of a
compressed newspaper shell finished with a layer of paper
made from recycled silk and mulberry leaves.
In New South Wales there may be more radical changes,
quite soon, as the government considers how to respond to
a predicted shortage of cemetery space. Council sites will
be full by 2019, it seems, and crown land sites by 2035.
According to the Daily Telegraph, on 26th October, 2009,
some of the solutions the government is considering include
allowing “natural burials”, that is the use of bushland and
privately owned farm land as burial places. Farm animals
and the like could graze on the surface with no disturbance
to the remains two metres below. No headstones as we
know them would be used and GPS coordinates could
identify the burial sites.
Natural or green burial sites in Australia are few at this
point. In New South Wales, there is the Lismore Memorial
Park, in Victoria, the Lilydale Cemeteries Trust, in Tasmania,
the Kingston Cemetery and, perhaps best known, Wirra
Wonga at Enfield Memorial Park in Adelaide. By contrast,
in the UK there are about two hundred green burial sites.
Supporters of these “natural” sites often see them as more
environmentally friendly than cremation which releases
into the atmosphere a variety of pollutants including dioxin,
mercury and sulphur dioxide.
The use of cardboard coffins, not all that popular up until
now, may be preferred in natural burial sites, accelerating
the break down of human remains. For the same reason,
there has been the suggestion that bodies to be interred in
green sites be buried in shrouds only. This practice may
not take on, although this is an accepted form for Muslim
burials. Where a simple shroud is used, the bodies of the
deceased are transported to the burial sites in reusable
stainless steel coffins.
Another significant change relates to family burial sites
in cemeteries. Currently, graves that are purchased allow
for multiple burials, at different depths. There is a move
in some cemeteries to introduce renewable tenure. This
implies an initial right to use a site for a designated period
which, if not renewed, could be sold on.
It is hard to imagine that in a country as vast as ours that
we could run out of space to bury our dead . . .
In the past, changes to funeral practices have been
gradual, but some of the changes under consideration
now will be particularly challenging. Should they be
implemented, it will take time for them to be accepted.
Philippa Hair
O
ne of the things that prompted my thinking were
Philippa’s comments about Green and Natural
funerals. I had come across The Natural Death Centre in
the UK and I had bought their book, The Natural Death
Handbook, so I was familiar with the terms.
This is hard stuff, for me. I work for a traditional funeral
company. I have been involved in the funerals of both my
parents. They were “traditional funerals” and as far as I
can remember, my sisters and I were happy with the way
we honoured their lives and mourned their deaths. So, if
something is working, why fix it, as they say in the classics.
Then, I started reading The Natural Death Handbook.
I would not call myself a Greenie, but I do the odd bit of
re-cycling. I sort-of regret I use a car as much as I do and I
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
9
resist some of the pressure towards consumerism. However,
the spirit of the Natural Death Centre goes far beyond this
tinkering at the edges.
When this organisation advocates a green funeral they
are contrasting it with one that involves cremation and
the pollution associated with the process and also with a
traditional burial in a formal cemetery. A green funeral
acknowledges that we are a part of nature and our dying
should be consonant with this. So, the aim is a minimum
of adverse impact on the environment and a maximum
opportunity to blend with and nourish the earth and all it
contains. This is where natural burial centres come in.
The natural burial centres are spread across the United
Kingdom, one hundred and eighty of them at the last count.
Instead of cemeteries, with walls, headstones, formality,
the natural burial centres are in rural settings, woods,
farmland, orchards. Coffins are simple and biodegradable
or people are buried in shrouds, sometimes with a tree
planted over the body. The emphasis is on returning to
nature and avoiding the harm of man-made and artificial
disposal procedures.
Perhaps the popularity of the green funeral in England is
due to the contrast between the England of old, “pleasant
pastures” and “clouded hills”, and the ravages of the “dark
Satanic mills”. There is a desire to restore and become
part of the natural beauty that so much industrialization
has destroyed.
There is a similar approach in terms of natural death.
Again, the thinking is about getting away from the
manipulations of medicine and hospitals and allowing
people, where possible and desirable, to die at home.
While one of the contributors to the book draws a parallel
between natural births and natural deaths, the thrust of
the argument, it seems to me, is the contrast between the
human experience of death and a medical and hospital
monitored process of dying.
The Natural Death Centre believes we lose something
extremely important, integral to our humanity, when we
hand over the decisions, the control, the timing of our dying
to professionals who may have quite different agenda from
us. At one end of the spectrum is the health professional’s
concern to keep us alive for as long as possible, free from
pain and with a minimum of emotional distress. All this can
effect the level of sedation, the number of visitors and the
content of conversations. How we die, when we die, and
with whom we die is often out of our control.
So what? You may ask. I haven’t given the matter too
much (any?) consideration either. People associated with
The Natural Death Centre give these facts considerable
thought and planning. They would associate with the
sentiments in an article in The Economist –
“To civilise death, to bring it home and make it no longer
a source of dread, is one of the great challenges of the age
You may or may not be attracted to the ideas of a green funeral, but
there is value in reflecting on the ways in which industry and technology
have distanced us from nature, be it our physical environment or our
own bodies. Something precious is lost when this happens.
Death instead of being primarily a gateway to a life
beyond this world is a way of being more fully incorporated
in this world. Our body becomes a source of nourishment
and a sign of identity with the earth that had lost its power to
evoke wonder and delight. I can understand why a country
that would sing William Blake’s “Jerusalem” with such gusto
would embrace green funerals with enthusiasm.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
‘Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
Reading about green funerals has made me think. That is
why I have included this piece in Dialogue. You may or may
not be attracted to the ideas of a green funeral, but there
is value in reflecting on the ways in which industry and
technology have distanced us from nature, be it our physical
environment or our own bodies. Something precious is lost
when this happens.
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Issue 47 Autumn 2010
. . . Gradually, dying may come to hold again the place it
used to occupy in the midst of life: not a terror but a mystery
so deep that man (sic) would no more wish to cheat himself
of it than to cheat himself of life.” (Quoted in The Natural
Death Handbook London:2003)
It is one of the occupational blessings of working in the
funeral business that I have been obliged to think about
Life and Death, in capitals. It is an ongoing process, but
Philippa’s research and the directions it has prompted my
reflections have given me a shove.
Have I filled in a Testament of Requests? I have made
a will, but have I thought of Advance Care Directives or
Organ Transplants? Am I talking to people dear to me about
these things? I like the attitude of Renee, in Deb Moyle’s
article this edition, “Fit at Fifty . . . Dignified When Dead”.
There is a lightness to her conversation and a freedom in
talking about her body and her death. She sounds like she
is a bit further down the track, in terms of a “natural death”.
And, it sounds like it’s a path worth taking.
T
The family and friends of deceased
clients of W N BULL Funerals are invited
to attend a Remembrance Service to be
held in the Palm Chapel of Macquarie
Park Cemetery and Crematorium,
change to 5pm
Plassey Road, Macquarie Park.
Wednesday 26th May, 2010
commencing at 5.00pm.
Refreshments will be served at the
conclusion of the service.
For those wishing to attend:
RSVP ~ Wednesday 19th May, 2010.
Ph: (02) 9519 5344
lgAdv DIAL_101
AUSTRALIAN FUNERAL DIRECTORS ASSOCIATION MEMBER
Don’s
Decision.
written by Cecile Yazbek
Cecile Yazbek
On Sunday night, I packaged a platter of samosas and headed off to Don and Lucy’s for our friend
Maria’s baby shower. It was wonderful to see her in full bloom – weeks away from birth. We hugged
and chatted our way around the sitting room. But I believe that the most important things, and for
me, the best things – food, conversation, perhaps a little seduction, happen in the kitchen. Maybe our
anticipation of pleasure opens us up to one another.
Anyway, I headed to the kitchen intending to help but
Don was scraping plates and stacking the dishwasher. As if
to himself, almost to me, he said, “We have a big decision
to make in the next day or two.”
“Oh,” I said and looked at him. We both stopped.
“We have to decide whether to bring my mother from
South Africa because the visa we applied for – just fishing
really – came through.”
“Ooh, what a thing!” I said and the circumstances
unfolded in my mind. Pearl, late eighties, quite overweight,
lives in the same retirement complex as my almost-ninetyyear-old mother. My mother had mentioned that Pearl
had been “very forgetful” but now “she’s just quiet, no
more conversation.”
Don continued, “Since we last saw her we’ve been heart
sore thinking of her there, alone with a nurse. We are all
here, her children and our families.” I picture their hugs and
holding, allowing the cells of their mother’s body to register
the familiarity of her children.
“That’s a tough one,” I said to him. “She could be
affected by the trip.”
“Yea, my brother thinks we should leave her there, he
says we’ll kill her by bringing her over, but I want to bring
her even though she might have to go back after a couple of
weeks. Why keep her alive suspended in loneliness?”
12
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
“It won’t be easy if something happens to her and the
family blames you.” And I see his desire to comfort his
mother in her last times. He is a medical practitioner, aware
of the risks, and, as the youngest son, sufficiently daring to
take an unusual approach. His older brother prefers the
status quo, contained by all the aids and safety nets they
have put in place. I can imagine how hard it could be,
after a full day spent with clients in various states of distress,
to arrive home to see the failing body and mind of one’s
own mother.
Don and his family are from my hometown and my
teenage memory. Their decision touches me, too. I have
not seen my mother since she last visited me in 1995 –
fourteen years is a long time. I am fifty six now; she is
eighty-nine-and-three-quarters. Towards the end of life, just
as with newborns, we measure a lifetime in months and
weeks. Anna, up the road, in her late sixties, has a mother
nearby who is ninety-six-and-three-quarters.
My mother’s age and condition prevent her from
travelling to visit me. So we converse on the phone, we
write, we read, we use an online camera – in fact, we are
far more attentive to each other than if we sat in the same
room for days on end.
But, Don and his brothers cannot have that sort of
contact with their mother: she is no longer sufficiently
mentally present to sustain that sort of communication. I
catch a passing thought: I wonder how much my overseas
conversations add to my mother’s day, and her mind.
When I ring her, she’s often busy playing the piano –
practicing for the next concert, playing in the nursing home
or accompanying a soloist. With a housekeeper to manage
the mundane, my mother doesn’t read or write, except for
the odd letter. Aside from shopping, her leisure time is taken
with knitting and television where she watches all the news,
asserting, “I inform myself so that when people speak badly
about others, like Muslims, Arabs or even Africans, I tell
them to watch the news and inform themselves.”
Don and Lucy were charmed when they met my mother
and she keeps telling me, “what lovely people they are.” But,
I cannot bring myself to tell her that they are airlifting Pearl
to Australia, with a visa for her nurse as well. My mother
will find it sad: she will miss the hugs from my friends when
they visit Pearl. My mother will remain, bravely reading the
list of those who have gone, been taken or left. And I recall
Rilke’s lines “to hold death, all of death before life starts,
to hold it gently in oneself and yet to feel no rage: this is
beyond words.”
When my cousin brought his ninety-year-old mother
to live in Australia, my mother was heartbroken. My
aunt descended quickly into the grip of the old person’s
anaesthetic and died two years later. It was horrible to watch
her beloved son fighting nature and time, while she railed
against the hair sets, make-up and frocks. “Leave me alone,
I’m old, get this silver shit out of my hair, so what if I die?”
It is not easy to allow your best beloved to go, even if
nature intends it. The great American poet, Mary Oliver,
wrote: “To live in this world, you must be able to do three
things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones
knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time
comes to let it go, to let it go.”
And, I return to Don’s
conundrum. As a physician,
he must often have faced
the question of whether to
intervene with a patient. In
weighing up the pros and
cons, the bottom line is the
patient’s survival...
And, I return to Don’s conundrum. As a physician, he
must often have faced the question of whether to intervene
with a patient. In weighing up the pros and cons, the bottom
line is the patient’s survival, and with wisdom, the quality of
life and the ability of carers to support, maintain and love the
continuing yet slowly failing body and slowly fading mind.
A couple of weeks ago I read Oliver Sack’s story of Uncle
Toby who had been in a myxoedematous coma for seven
years. After a month of gradually thawing him out with
thyroxine and physiotherapy, he came to life imagining the
seven years to have been a day or two after he’d fainted. Six
weeks later, he appeared to be back to normal, but started
to cough blood.
A tiny chest cancer, missed in the 1950 x-ray, dormant
for seven years in his hypothermic blood, exploded into life
and killed him in a matter of days. The question is of an
intervention and its unintended consequences. It does not
mean that we have to become paralysed; it requires of us to
be strong and sufficiently adaptable to face the unforeseen
consequences of something done with the best intentions.
Because the trip to South Africa to visit my mother
carries health risks that I am unable to take, the quality of
my relationship with my mother had to change. In fact,
it has flowered and thrived as I comfort and support her
in remembering and feeling what those around her gloss
over, evade or try to deny. For the moment, she and I are
privileged and able to continue as we are.
When my father died, my grief was accompanied by
memories of our lifelong conversation. In contrast, the living
loss of a powerful and beloved parent through dementia is
a constant ache where the tears that fall are more often of
frustration and longing.
Pearl’s years of dementia hold her children in sadness.
Sometimes, I am sure Don would like to lift the veil that
covers his mother and share with her, the real person he
remembers, a real conversation with appropriate emotions
around loss and death. Her death will bring to an end their
exclusion from a deep conversation with the mother who
knew them most intimately from before they were born.
With my mother, I remember my teenage tantrums, her
cold laugh or her encouragement with a mixture of shame,
regret and deepest pleasure. These vignettes are fading for
my mother so I remind her to use her notebook or slips of
paper to write down what I am sharing with her.
The Irish writer, Sebastian Barry, in his novel about the
healing power of memory, The Secret Scripture, says, “If you
have no anecdotes, you will not survive in the world.”
The tasty moments in our encounters and interactions are
the stuff of memory and connection. Our loss of these dayto-day observations gives grief to long life. Sometimes wisps
of sadness come to me in thoughts of my mother but they
are dispersed with a quick how-are-you-phone-call. Don’s
mother does not pick up the telephone. Her nurse does and
says, “She’s deteriorated terribly since you last saw her.”
“I think I must bring her now, before it’s too late for her
to fly.”
I picture him and his family gathered around, holding the
old lady, pressing up against her, patting her hands, stroking
her hair, feeding her morsels from their past – long since
gone from their mother’s mind – titbits of childhood memory,
the very substance of family and future.
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
13
Fit
at
Fifty
…
Dignified when Dead
written by Deb Moyle
happened next?”
“One day I made a decision to donate my body to
science. I then imagined myself lying on the slab and
envisioned medical students standing around commenting
on how fat I was. I didn’t want that. I have my dignity
you know.”
Renee and I became instant friends. The next week when
we met again the Group Leader offered members a 6 week
challenge where our weight loss would be written on the
80 year old. Each week, without exception, she outstripped
my efforts, despite me having a personal trainer and her
being unable to exercise. I rewarded her with a bunch of
flowers at the end of the 6 weeks and once she reached
her weight loss goal of losing 30 kilos handed her a helium
balloon saying ‘You are a Star’. She shone with excitement
as she shared her weight loss tips with the group.
Each week we share a skim cappuccino at the end of
each meeting and talk about our experiences of this thing
Each week, without exception, she outdid my efforts, despite
me having a personal trainer and her being unable to exercise
as her body was too stiff with age.... She is a role model for
growing older and as a result of her example I am going to
change my goal from ‘fit at fifty’ to ‘dignified when dead’.
Deb & R
­ enee
Decade birthdays are milestones along the journey of life. Having an unspoken goal to be ‘Fit at Fifty’ I
re-joined a weight loss group and summoned the courage to hire a personal trainer, Richard the Body
Builder … not to be confused with Richard the Editor.
Richard the Editor can attest to my inability to walk
up stairs without great pain after my first training session
with Richard the Bodybuilder. From childhood I adopted
the unconscious rule ‘Do not appear inadequate’ and
the pain I experienced was in direct proportion to
my psychopathology.
Achieving the status of Lifetime Member at the weight
loss group for having lost 100kg (actually it was only 5kg
but I had lost and found the same 5kg 20 times throughout
my lifetime) I attended weekly motivational sessions and
enjoyed being brainwashed about the importance of a
healthy diet and regular exercise. My recurring problem
was that when I reached goal weight I gave up exercise and
the weight crept back on. I am a slow learner.
Another goal I set for myself was to become more
outgoing. I envied a close friend who loved life and seemed
to take great joy in getting to know others, making friends
with anyone and everyone, young and old, male or female.
Kids loved her as she took the time to make them laugh. If
you stood next to her at traffic lights she would know your
life story before the lights turned green. While I suffered
low grade depression, dysthymia; she lived life with gay
abandon. I decided to take a leaf out of her book.
After a meeting at the weight loss group I initiated
a conversation with an elegant older lady sitting to
my right.
“How did you go this week?” I cautiously asked.
“Lost over a kilo!” she replied.
“Fantastic, how much have you lost in total?”
“Over 14 kilos.”
14
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
“Wow” I exclaimed, truly impressed. Eager to learn her
secret I asked “What motivates you?”
“One day I made a decision
to donate my body to
science. I then imagined
myself lying on the slab
and envisioned medical
students standing around
commenting on how fat I
was. I didn’t want that. I
have my dignity you know.”
“Do you really want to know?” she queried as though I
might not like the answer.
“Well, a couple of years ago I had a stroke. I’m nearly
80 you know. After the stroke I thought I was going to die
so I decided I would eat whatever I wanted, whenever
I wanted.
“That sounds like fun,” I interjected.
“Yes,” she said. I put on an enormous amount of weight
… but then I didn’t die.”
“That’s good… and bad,” I reflected. “What
board to add extra incentive. Renee took me aside and with
a twinkle in her eye said “I don’t care about anyone else, I
am going to be competing against YOU. When I was younger
I was quite competitive and I think I can beat you.”
This amused me greatly, being challenged by almost an
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called life. Renee has the best stories. I adore her. She is a
role model for growing older and as a result of her example
I am going to change my goal from ‘fit at fifty’ to ‘dignified
when dead’. Hopefully the weight will stay off for the next
30 years and yes, I will keep exercising. I get it!
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Telephone: 02 9939 1255
already being dispatched in to the mountains to look for
whoever had fired the rocket. I don’t think they were going
to be issuing an on-the-spot fine.
Two hours later I was on stage performing comedy. It
freaked me out. And, I was just visiting. Imagine living
with this every day.
And, it seems that is the key to one of the major
coping strategies.
Everyone has respect for one another. People are
courteous. They help each other. In this inhospitable
environment, everyone seems to understand that each
person is responsible for the psychological well-being
of everyone else. It’s a system that really works. I guess
empathy is easy when everyone is in the same boat.
Another major coping strategy seems to be that if you
have the opportunity to have a bit of fun, or a break from
routine, you make damn sure you enjoy yourself. Our
shows were all great successes, not only because we were
trying to make them good, but because the soldiers all
knew that this was a chance to relax and have fun. It was
vital to their psychological health that they have an outlet.
A positive attitude is as important as drinking water and
applying sun block.
A lot of what soldiers are doing and seeing is very tough.
As we traveled from camp to camp, we kept hearing about
a five year old Afghan girl who had lost her entire family as
well as both her feet when insurgents blew up their car.
In the
ZONE
written by Dave Jory (davejory.com)
Dave and other entertainers arrive
Imagine doing your regular job under the worst possible circumstances.
Your work place is now thousands of miles from your home, so you don’t get to see your family or
sleep in your own bed at the end of a long day. The heat is debilitating. Over fifty degrees is normal.
Hot winds are blowing sand at your face constantly. Sand that also contains faecal dust. There are
no “knock-off drinks” at the end of work because alcohol is banned. (Besides, you are living where
you work, so, technically, you don’t really “knock off” at all.) There is no privacy, because you and
your colleagues have to sleep in dorms together.
And, if none of this sounds bad enough, imagine it all
taking place in the middle of a war zone.
Welcome to Afghanistan!
In October 2009, I was given a unique and eye-popping
opportunity to visit several military bases within Afghanistan.
I was touring around doing stand-up comedy for the troops
as a guest of “Forces Entertainment”, a PR branch of the
Australian Defence Forces (ADF). As a comedian, my work
is typically about thirty minutes long, taking place between
saying, “Good evening everyone” and “Thank you and good
night”. It’s easy. So, watching the Coalition troops work in
these camps was a remarkable thing.
Now, I am not asking you to feel one way or other about
the war and what is happening over there. This is not a
political article. We all have our opinions and most people,
given a choice between war and no war, would choose no
war, without hesitation. This isn’t one of those articles. This
is just an opportunity to shake your head and marvel at how
individuals cope and even flourish under hard conditions.
16
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
When we first arrived at Taren Kowt, deep within the
Red Zone, my initial reaction was one of shock. Our ADF
guide pointed up in to the mountains behind the camp and,
with a vague wave of his hand, informed us that that was
where the insurgents were hiding. How do people cope
under these conditions?
At the sound check for a gig one afternoon, I heard a
distant bang, then, a whistling sound, then a much louder
boom. Black smoke billowing up about four hundred
metres away told me that something had happened. I was
confused and so were the musicians I was traveling with.
All the soldiers seemed quite calm.
Had “our” side just fired something? No. All the
military personnel knew exactly what it was. “Rocket”, a
Dutch soldier calmly informed us. The insurgents had fired
a rocket into the camp. This happens surprisingly often. If
fact, two more rockets came flying in not long after. We
were all calmly taken in to a bunker to wait for the all clear.
As they led us in, a fleet of serious-looking helicopters was
Everyone was in awe of this little girl. Her story and her
bravery had spread through all the camps. Then, on a tour
of a hospital one day, we were led in to an area by a Dutch
doctor. There she was, this little girl, still bandaged up,
sitting quietly with her uncle, her last living relative. He
was smoking a cigarette, she was eating a lollipop. It was
getting harder and harder to see any of this as normal.
But, when you’re living with this sort of thing every day,
you have to search for normalcy. Eating a cheeseburger,
watching a movie, going for a jog, if something can help
them feel connected to the normal world, they do it.
One night, after a gig, I was talking to a group of soldiers.
Young guys. None of them were older than twenty five.
One of them showed me a photo of a puppy. Apparently,
the puppy had started following them one day they
were on patrol. They ended up bringing it back to camp
with them.
When this was discovered by a senior officer, they were
told to relocate the puppy. The assumption in Afghanistan
is that anything with four legs probably has rabies.
But, for that short time these soldiers had the puppy
in their care, they were delighted. “We’d get back from
patrol and just rush to see him.” Whatever it takes to get
you through.
So, think what you like about the war. But spare a
thought for the individuals. They are fighting more that
just a war on terror.
Specialising in all aspects of floral design
www.raysflorist.com.au
9737 8877
Unit 2, 71-83 Asquith Street, Silverwater.
Death,
My Father and Love.
written by Tristan Guzman
Tristan Guzman, Shirley Guzman, Michael Sweet & David Sweet taken at sunrise
of Dad’s passing. He was held in the arms of his mother,
Enid, at the end. He screwed up his face, as if to cry, but
as his breath left, he managed a smile.
When Dad died his spirit called out to hasten me home.
I did not know he was dead; I just knew I wanted to see
him, have a cuddle and tell him I loved him. I sometimes
wonder whether this feeling was a reflection of his soul’s
desire. To know he managed a smile in his final moments,
gives me hope that one day I will see him again. I like to
think that with Dad’s last breath, he saw the face of God
and his tears and pain were washed away.
When I was led into the room to view his body, I was
given time alone. My initial reaction was not to cry nor
to tell him how much I was going to miss him. Rather, I
began to confess to him all the naughty things I had done
“Music was his way of love,
because it came from his
soul. He wrote a song about
his time with the sea...”
When I think of death around this time of the year, my thoughts turn to my late father, Gary. When 9th
February ticks up on the calendar, it will have been thirteen years since his death. He passed away
as a result of a malignant melanoma when I was twelve. As a young man of twenty five, I have now
been alive longer without my father than with him. Indeed, I am now about the same age as he was
at my birth.
“Home is where the heart is”, goes the saying. But,
for a young boy, who adores his daddy, home is where his
father is. That is certainly where I wanted to be the day of
his death and many times since then. It took a bit of time
to figure this one out, but the sadness over losing my father
is a reflection of the depth and warmth of who he was.
It is extraordinary that the bond between father and
son in a loving relationship can cross into the realm of the
supernatural. Gary died at 2:50 pm, 9th February, 1997.
At this time I was watching the movie, The Hunt for Red
October, down the road at my cousin’s house. At about
ten minutes to three, I had an overwhelming urge to go
home and say “hi” to Dad. A sudden desire gripped me so
strongly that I was not content to walk back, but, instead, I
borrowed my cousin’s bike.
Pedalling up the hill close to home, I saw my father’s
friend, Warren, driving towards me. I called out a greeting,
smiling, as I knew Warren was to leave that day. He
stopped the car and got out awkwardly. My smile faltered.
I knew what he was about to say even before he opened
his mouth.
Death creates an opportunity to bring out the best in
people. Many friends and family worked together in Gary’s
final months to give him some comfort and the opportunity
to die at home. He was one of the fortunate few whose
18
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
death was not messy, but graceful, surrounded by his family
and friends, warm in his bed.
“...rising at five in the
morning with Shirley and
her brothers, my uncles,
Dave and Michael, to
watch the sunrise on the
beach...was spiritually
cleansing for all of us.”
Gary’s strong faith in Christ did not waver in the face
of death. Minutes before his death, he called out to his
stepmother, “Cathy, come traveling with me.” Grandpa Lou
joked in response, “Hey son! You aren’t taking my wife
away today, mate!” Dad knew he was going and he knew
that his life wasn’t ending, but changing.
The image of death as a transition was a poignant part
Gary & Tristan Guzman
Over the Christmas break I spent a week away with
my sisters and the rest of Shirley’s side of the family in a
holiday home at Burrill Lake, near Ulladulla. It was their
first Christmas without Wes, and it was beautiful to see the
family reliving old memories, playing Wes’ favourite game,
Cribbage, and having deep conversations, not just about
Wes, but about life and its meaning in general.
One of my fondest memories from that holiday was
rising at five in the morning with Shirley and her brothers,
my uncles, Dave and Michael, to watch the sunrise on the
beach. It was spiritually cleansing for all of us, being there.
It was invigorating to be caught in the moment; feeling the
water around my feet, bathing in the warm glow of the sun
rising through the clouds as the waves crashed tirelessly on
the shore.
As I stood there, my thoughts turned to a man who also
found solace in the continuous flow of the ocean, my father,
Gary. Music was his way of love, because it came from his
soul. He wrote a song about his time with the sea which
came to me, that morning, with the sun.
The Rocks Remain
Sunrise at Burrill Lake
unbeknown to him! My reasoning was that now that he
was dead, he probably had more knowledge and influence
and I had better set the record straight!
My thoughts now take me to a more recent event. Last
year I attended the funeral of my step-grandfather, Wes, the
father of my step-mother, Shirley. He was a loving man,
deeply cherished, who had lived a full life. At the funeral,
Shirley’s brother, Michael, asked me how I dealt with death
and grief. I responded, “You have to go with the punches.
If you feel like crying, cry, even if it is quietly, at your desk
at work.”
I believe death, the warden of our souls, should not be
ignored, nor the grief that it brings. Suppressing emotions,
in my experience, is a sure path to fear, pain and anguish.
But, being with family and friends, reliving the memories
of the deceased, is one of the most precious gifts life has
to offer.
Early in the morning with the songs on the breeze
Of the gulls flying over the shore
I watch the waves as they
Lap about the rocks
And then withdraw.
The rocks remain unchanged before my eyes
By the storms that pass this way.
When I feel the salty spray upon my face
Time starts to slip away.
I can’t decide where I’d rather be.
Alone upon this rock I stand,
Sharing the hours, sharing the days,
Watching as the light fades.
But, I draw away, I’m too close to the flame
Of passion that consumes.
There’s a safety that comes with isolation
There’s a peace beyond concern.
There’s a peace beyond concern.
The rocks remain . . .
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
19
Staff
Profile
It all adds Up
Janette Booth
“That’s another story...”
Caroline Flood
After we had talked for a while, Janette said something out of the blue. “I am also interested in health.”
She smiled ruefully. We had enjoyed some of the Lemon Tart for morning tea. Apart from the Lemon
Tart, I began to understand what Janette meant about an interest in health.
Caroline is a published writer. Prior to applying to work at W N Bull, she worked for the Australia
Council as a Program Officer for the Dance Board. Again, the question is, how did she come to work
in the funeral industry?
“I like aromatherapy. When I go for a massage, on a
visit to my daughter in the (Blue) mountains, I often have a
massage. The woman adds to the relaxing experience with
an oil burner and scented oils. It works. I feel wonderful
each time I go.”
I found myself warming to the topic. The way Janette was
talking about health had less to do with avoiding colds and
more to do with enjoying life.
We began comparing notes on aches and pains, some
of the hazards of sitting at a computer, then we moved on
to what feels good. Or, what smells good, and tastes good
and so on.
We agreed that when we are busy or preoccupied,
what’s “good” becomes fairly restricted. It is good to finish
what you are doing. It is good to be busy. It is good to “get
a good run at things.” But, this isn’t what Janette means
by good.
Janette is our in-house bookkeeper. She enjoys her work,
something I find incomprehensible. How could anyone
enjoy working with figures and accounts? The answer to
that goes back a few years.
Janette is the youngest in her family. When she was
quite young, her father died and her mother supported
the family. There was some income from her older brother
and sisters, but she wanted to help her mother. So, when
she turned fifteen she left school, in the city of Guildford,
Surrey, England and applied for a clerical position at the
local College of Law.
There was a vacancy in the general office where she
worked for two months, then a position became available
in the accounts department. With no experience, in the
field, Janette nevertheless applied for a transfer. Over the
next two years, she settled in to the work and by the time
she was seventeen, had gone back to study and completed
O Level qualifications in bookkeeping and accounting. “I
loved it!”
“I did not come to work in the “funeral industry”, I came
to work for W N Bull.” It was an opportunity to be involved
and contribute to the community. Caroline went on to
describe her years in Tasmania and of the culture shock in
coming to Sydney. The thing that she noticed second to the
large birds and tropical plants was the lack of community.
“In Tasmania, everyone knows everybody else and their
business. There are times without doubt that this can be
claustrophobic but when someone is in trouble, everybody
knows, for better or for worse. Your community are there
for you.
20
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
I go back to my earlier question, what is there to love
in figures and accounts. Janette patiently explained to me
that there is a satisfaction that comes with gathering and
checking all the necessary invoices and bills in achieving
a balance with the relevant expenditure. Not to mention
the budget and projections and cash flow and all those
mysterious bits and pieces that ensure the smooth running
of the business.
“There is a satisfaction that comes with putting all these
pieces together and discovering that they fit.” As Janette
described this experience, I was neither bored nor surprised.
There was some of the excitement in ordering the chaos of
the “paper wars” that I had heard when she spoke about an
interest in health on the other part of our interview.
Just as health is less about avoiding illness than enjoying
life, so ,for Janette, working with figures is not so much
putting things together as discovering and creating patterns.
When Janette spoke of the satisfaction in her work, of loving
her first job, she was describing those moments where
everything comes together, moments when, perhaps, you
can pause, even for a nano second, and think, that’s good,
that’s very good.
And those moments are critical for our health. They
are the moments when time stands still, even for a “nano
second” and we can enjoy what we have made or done.
When Janette was speaking of health as enjoying feeling
well, enjoying tasting and smelling flavours and fragrances
she was turning my ideas about bookkeeping and
accountancy on their head.
There can be those nano seconds in this job, and in any
job (?), where completion means seeing the little things we
do as part of the Big Picture. (I can see Janette looking at
me strangely as she proof reads this piece for the magazine.
What is he talking about??”)
It is all falling into place. There is now a connection
between an interest in health and bookkeeping. I can stop
writing now.
“I want a work place where
my colleagues are my
community, where we can
share and exchange values ...”
Then, Caroline kept talking and I kept listening. “There
is such a thing as a human size and when we lose that
configuration, we lose something important for our wellbeing. Without each other, we lose our way.”
“I want a work place where my colleagues are my
community, where we can share and exchange values and
understanding of the work we do. When the position of
Funeral Consultant at W N Bull became available, I was
looking for a place which would provide me with a human
work environment.”
Caroline makes me think. In the six months she has
been working here, Caroline has experienced the extent and
intensity of the funeral consultant role. How small is small
enough and how small is too small? What are some of the
stresses as well as the satisfaction of working for a funeral
company? These are a couple of the questions that I brought
to the conversation with Caroline.
Imagination is the stock in trade of the writer. It is being
able to gather bits and pieces together, from anywhere, and
surprise yourself, and everyone else, with a story that rings
true. When we meet with a family at the time of a death, the
story is already there and the funeral staff have an important,
passing part to play in that story.
These are my thoughts, not Caroline’s. But, I like to think
that Caroline would not entirely disagree with this reflection.
I know that in her time with W N Bull she has played a
significant role in a growing number of stories. There have
been tears and there has been laughter. For those brief hours
of meeting, often a life-time has been expressed, or, better
several life-times.
“I don’t meet clients, I meet people. They offer me the
gift of their stories. At the moment I don’t need to write my
stories. I am in the priviledged position of being a listener.All
of them draw out of me a human response. I have a job to
do and my competence and professionalism is what people
want from me. But, they also want a meeting as well as a
transaction.”
All this time I thought Caroline was talking about a work
environment that was human size and comfortable. This
was part of it. It is equally important that the work itself
be human, that there be opportunities to meet people,
to connect with them and to allow something of mutual
respect, compassion, gratitude and trust to permeate
every conversation.
It seems to me, I said to Caroline, that only when such
qualities are present, in the countless conversations of our
day, do we hold on to and develop that humanity that is so
important to her, the writer and the person.
“Ah, Richard,” she said, “It is only when there are meetings
like this that lives and deaths are honoured, remembered and
flourish. For we are all part of a story, just as we all have our
stories. Death is what prompts us, impels us, to tell them.
The writer connects the dots. The funeral consultant is one
of those dots, a very important one. I am doing what I want,
on a couple of scores.”
Issue 47 Autumn 2010
21
“It may be that I am beginning
to believe, really believe,
there is goodness out there, in
countless shapes and guises,
conspiring for my own and
everyone’s well-being.”
Recommended Reading
In Search of Angels or How Do I See the World?
written by Richard White
Janise Beaumont
It is a bit embarrassing to say that a book about angels has changed my life. For a start, I have had
stories about angels in my repertoire for years, but I haven’t really believed in them. My father once
described someone as a “belt and braces man”. You can’t be too sure, too safe, too prepared. There’s
a bit of that in me. So, I have always had trouble with angels, until I read Janise Beaumont’s book.
A friend of mine, Trypheyna McShane, sent me an
email about a book launch, recommending that I contact
the author. She would be happy to send me a copy for
Recommended Reading. Always one for a free book, and
trusting Trypheyna’s judgement, I contacted Allen and
Unwin and, Bob’s your uncle, there was Janise’s small book,
on the edge of my desk, ready for the reading.
I began reading a story at a time. In chapter two, Janise
notes her added incentive for this search, her seriously ill
young niece, Georgia. She was praying for a miracle for
Georgia. I resisted the temptation to flick to the last chapter
and see if it occurred. There were plenty of miracles to be
explored, one at a time, in my reading of the book.
You will perhaps not be surprised to hear I have done
away with the braces. The cumulative effect of these stories
has affected the way I look at the world. It may be as
simple as a shift from the philosophy of “expect the worst
because a) you won’t be disappointed or b) you might be
pleasantly surprised”. Then, again, it may be more serious.
It may be that I am beginning to believe, really believe,
there is goodness out there, in countless shapes and guises,
conspiring for my own and everyone’s well-being. All we
need to do is open our eyes and believe.
I was reminded of a poem by Francis Thompson, ‘The
Kingdom of God’, with the following verse:
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Issue 47 Autumn 2010
The angels keep their ancient places; Turn but a stone and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.
The subtitle of Janise’s book is, “True stories of Beauty
and Hope”. The “many–splendoured thing” has a very
ordinary face, an old woman in a Paris subway, a biker
named Animal, a computer mechanic . . . as well as
presences and intuitions beyond our normal experience.
The essence of the book, for me, was a shift from the narrow
and the negative towards the positive and the inclusive. It
is a shift from the “estrangèd face” to one that is beginning
to look more open and wondering.
As well as the stories themselves, there was the
conversation I had with Janise as I came to the end of her
book that also contributed to my appreciation of In Search
of Angels.
I was working at my desk one afternoon when I received
a call from the mortuary. They were a little short staffed and
they asked if I could help transferring a body to a coffin in
preparation for a funeral the next day. This has happened
before, not very often, but each time something special has
occurred. Perhaps it is Patsy’s notice on the wall of the
mortuary that sets the atmosphere.
Remember
This room becomes sacred when a family entrusts
us with one of their most precious possessions.
Keep faith with them by conducting yourself as
though the family were present.
The body is dear to them . . . treat it reverently.
I was aware of these words as I held the coffin in place
as the funeral staff lifted a young woman’s body. Perhaps
it was her age or the novelty of my involvement, but the
moment and her face stayed with me.
The next day, during the afternoon, I received a call
from Patsy who was conducting the funeral for the young
woman. “Do you have a book on angels on your desk?”
“Yes”, I said. “Is it by Janise Beaumont? She has just given
the eulogy at this funeral for her niece.” I told Patsy about
my experience the day before and she talked with Janise
after the funeral. It was Georgia’s funeral.
When I spoke with Janise a week or so later she spoke
of her sadness and her disappointment at there being no
angel. Then, a friend said something that lifted her mood,
“the story is not over yet.”
Only Janise can explain what that means. There has been
considerable grief in her life in recent years. Janise was a
good friend of Don Lane and gave the eulogy at his funeral.
She wrote a biography of Don and of Stan Zemanek and
was close to Stan and his wife during his terminal illness.
At the beginning of this book, Janise described, vividly, the
experience eight years ago of being “paralysed with fear.”
I saw myself as a failure in every area of my life, doubting
that what I regarded as my dodgy prospects were likely to
ever bring about much of a recovery. I pictured myself as in
a situation akin to wading through treacle, suspecting things
were only going to get worse.
It was in this situation that Janise visited a woman who
listened to her story. In the course of the conversation she
gave her a little book about angels. The simple truth Janise
took from this rich conversation, “we are not alone whatever
the circumstances.”
In all her work as a journalist, on TV, radio and in the
print media, Janise has had her successes and her struggles.
From what she wrote in the introduction to In Search of
Angels, there have been extended periods of feeling alone,
as well as a rising above them.
However, from what Janise said about her writing, it
sounded to me that she was never alone. Whether you
call it a Muse or a Guardian Angel or the touch of genius
we all have when we weave our own bit of magic, with
words, music, cooking, caring, loving . . . we never do this
on our own. And, when Janise spoke about her ability and
enjoyment at writing, it seemed to me she was talking about
a gift or a presence.
“I write because I have to write. I am good at it and it
soothes my soul as I work through material and express
what is important and difficult. Writing is a way to express
myself completely. And, there is the contact with people,
my readers, for whom I write and from whom I receive that
encouraging and stimulating feed-back.”
My feed-back is that I have done away with the braces,
but I am hanging on to the belt. In Search of Angels has
brought about a shift for me, too. For Janise the shift
was about never being alone. For me, it is that there is
goodness all around me, waiting to be recognised, greeted
and thanked.
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