By John McGregor
I’m not scared of dying – I just don’t want to be there when it happens. I used to think that was funny, but lately I’m not so sure. Near where I live is a short steep hill we locals call ‘Cardiac Hill’. That was a joke too, but now I avoid going near it – you know, just in case…
You see unbelievably, somehow, I’ve been to three funerals lately in quick succession. That has had the effect on me of feeling very mortal suddenly, from always thinking my own personal demise would be light years away to currently thinking ‘Hey, he was the same age as me´- or even younger in two of the funerals.
It’s provoking new thoughts like ‘Ooh, that twinge in my chest, have I taken my tablets today? (note the plural, it’s a wonder I don’t rattle as I walk).
As ever I am eternally (is that a Freudian slip?) grateful to the Spanish Health system and Torry Hospital for my treatment, long may it continue, but – well, you know.
Keeping it cheerful-not I half-heartedly (again poor choice of words) I recently joined a Prostate Cancer group who meet monthly and compare notes.
Here I met a group of men, mostly younger than my seventy-six years on the planet all in various stages of treatment for this serious male-only condition.
We sat around in a bar and shared notes about what stage we were at, what options we were either given or were about to make, that sort of thing.
There was more than one ‘I wish I hadn’t done that’ bit spoken, although in my case I don’t work or think like that. Once it’s done, there’s no going back for me.
Anyway, they’re a nice bunch of lads so I might go again (oh, while we’re on the subject of grammar and inappropriate words, ’lads’ is an oxymoron – ie the opposite meaning of the real word, meaning they’re not really ‘lads’, just older men. My sister taught me that, bloody show-off .
Where was I? Meandering again, as usual. Ah, yes, funerals. As I hadn’t been to a funeral for a couple of years I’d forgotten the system here.
First find the Tanatorio, not always straightforward, and then as you soon as you get there and park work out, panicking where applicable if you’ve got the dress code right – or been given a bum steer, very irritating if you have.
One of the problems that occur in Spain is that unlike the UK they really get on with the event here, only a few days notice given after the demise, which means flights from abroad bringing friends and relatives suddenly becomes hugely important.
When my wife and I came to live in Spain 27 years ago (it can’t be) we were invited to a wake where a lady she barely knew asked if we could help.
Her husband who we didn’t know had died and we were asked to bring a couple of elderly ladies to a bar down on the coast where we live.
Of course we did and arrived at the bar in the early summer’s evening as requested. The place was literally right on the shoreline, its back doors opening on to the narrow beach.
When we arrived there were about twenty sad-looking people in the bar, none of whom we knew, apart from the widow-lady who invited us.
Suddenly three ladies, including the widow got up and disappeared into the Ladies. Two minutes later they re-appeared in swimming costumes carrying an urn, some flowers and a ghetto-blaster. I would add there were some ‘normal ‘people already bathing outside in the shallow waters.
The three ladies waded out until about waist deep and suddenly John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ boomed out across the water. The urn’s contents and the flowers were placed on the surface and when John had finished our moist-eyed trio returned to the bar and disappeared back into the Ladies. Then the party started with comments like ´Did you know ****, such a lovely man’ – which is not what we’d heard. But then – there’s two sides to every story, isn’t there?
One of the funniest but black-humoured stories about this subject came when my ex-wife’s mother died in North Wales where she had lived all her life.
She was, how can I say – a tad difficult woman in her time and when she died the family arranged for a church service and then burial in a lovely plot overlooking a hill with sheep grazing, a perfectly idyllic spot.
The next morning after her burial they opened the will which read: ‘I wish to be cremated and my ashes scattered over the sea at Rhyl,’ which was her favourite resort. Contrary to the last……brilliant!
I keep putting off those suggestions for your demise, written usually, as to what to do in the event of one’s passing. You know, when your son and/or daughter is looking through your things for the first time ever and comes across a sealed letter in their name.
I think you’re supposed to leave heartfelt messages about your and their relationships, and here I am very lucky to have no skeletons to confess to – so I must get on with that. Oh, and you’re supposed to leave clear written instructions, preferably in a will (tick, done that, will I mean) about what to do with your personal possessions (no tick, haven’t done that yet, better get on with it). You never know what’s round the corner, or up a hill, he said cheerfully.
In conclusion, yes, alas there are no family or friends weddings in my story today.
My niece and granddaughter are all eligible here but no signs yet, p’raps that’s as well.
So please take care out there everyone, good people are hard to find as my late Auntie used to tell me.
