"That is a right bastard."

I like to keep this blog pretty frivolous and shallow. Frivolity can be hard to come by at times (the shallow part comes naturally), but not impossible. As several of you know, my dad died Christmas Eve, but being a man with a sense of humour, I think he would have been amused by a couple of attendant occurences.

My brothers and I of course had to pass on the news to several people, including one of dad’s lesser-known cousins. All I’d heard about cousin Christopher from my dad and uncles was that he swears a lot. My brother called him, and after various “yes’s, no’s, and thank you’s,” he put down the phone with a thoughtful expression and gave me the recap.

He’d told him the news, and Christopher said, “Well, that is a right BASTARD for you, isn’t it?” He went on to eff and blind his way through the conversation, at one point saying “Excuse my language, it’s f---ing terrible,” and telling us what bastards doctors are. He called back a little later to tell us all to get blood tests and that he wouldn’t be coming to the funeral because he hated funerals and didn’t like seeing people be sad.

He was really very nice and well-meaning, and I am sorry to say that my brother and I for the rest of the week found great enjoyment in saying “well, that is a right bastard,” in a broad Somerset accent when any little thing went wrong.

Over the last couple of weeks I had to call lots of banks and other businesses, and everyone was incredibly nice (except for one total witch at Continental Airlines), with one or two little faux pas.

We came home the day of the funeral to a couple of messages on the machine. The first one:
“Mr D___, this is [Insurance company] calling about your car insurance--we haven’t heard from you, and as you know, your insurance renews at the beginning of the year. Please call us as soon as possible about this.”

Now, I had called them the week before to explain the situation and make arrangements, so that was a little irritating.
This was the second message, left shortly after the first, clearly after someone else in the office had updated her.

“This is [insurance company]--I’m calling to apologise for my last message. Er, very sorry about that. If you could call at your convenience, to confirm some details, we’d appreciate it. Again, I do apologise.”
You could tell the poor girl was totally squirming.

Really, everybody was very kind, and no-one said stupid things about “knowing exactly how you feel,” or it being “all for the best.” I think probably the biggest misconception is that the grieving process is a nice smooth downward exponential curve, and perhaps it is like that overall, but for me right now, it’s more like something you’d see on a heart rate monitor.

No one feels like they know just what to say to someone who’s lost someone they love. Our instinct is to try to say something that will somehow make it all better, and that’s not possible. I think, on the whole, it’s better to just say something than nothing. And saying “I’m sorry” is as good as anything.

Of course, the niceness can be hard to take. I kept getting to a point where I felt like I was getting a grip, and then someone would tell me how hard it must be, or how awful it was that it was Christmas. That would set the tears off again. My brothers and I talked about it --that we’d be ok until you see someone’s reaction, or someone says something that brings the feelings back. I told my brother that I’d be fine if people would stop being nice to me, like the official bereavement person at the hospital. “Yeah, you want them to treat it like just business -- like getting your car registered.” “Yes--except then we’d be complaining about what a cold-hearted cow she was.” A little later, my uncle called, and as I hung up the phone, I was in tears once more. “Is someone being nice to you again?” asked my brother. I nodded. “Bastard,” he said.