Dealing with grief

The telephone rang at about half past nine in the morning. Silence at first, then a rasping gasp – “he’s gone.” It was my wife’s best friend from school days. “G.’s left me”, “when did this happen?”, “in the night, he wouldn’t wake up and now he’s gone.” He and I had been friends for nearly twenty years. My wife took the phone from me, scream, tears, questions and listening all at the same time. “We’re coming” my wife said, then called her two sisters.

Funerals have to be within twenty-four hours, so that means today. This is Lebanon, so the right clothes have to be worn, with the right accessories and the hair and make-up need to be ‘done’ to match the sombre mood. Preparations completed and the sisters having arrived, we set off up the mountain to support the new widow.

Arriving at her home an hour later, it was, predictably, deserted. No dogs, no barbecue going, the house itself seemed to have shrunk and died too. My wife had just returned from a trip abroad during which she’d bought her friend a new mirror to replace one that had been broken and supposedly was bringing bad luck. It seemed very important to my wife that the mirror be delivered to the house that day, so we left it tucked away in a safe place. We all deal differently with grief.

They lived just outside a small village, with one Greek Orthodox Church. We set off to find it. After about a quarter of a mile, the eldest sister felt we’d gone too far and must have missed the church. For some reason, she rarely addresses me directly, but speaks to my wife instead. “Let him turn back” spoken as would one to the mother of a toddler “would he like a glass of milk?” – the great advantage is that I can dial it out so carried on. All three sisters have a desperate desire to turn off main roads at the earliest opportunity and dive down dirt tracks left and right until lost; fortunately the church appeared before I had to cope with all three in unison.

First into a huge receiving room, where already over a hundred and fifty people were seated. The chief mourners are expected to stand and receive everyone who comes. The widow wore dark glasses, her brother-in-law openly showed his tear-stained face not really able to believe his brother was gone. More people kept coming in, and an overflow group formed on the terrace, at the centre of which was Mr. A, a lifelong friend of the deceased. He, poor fellow, had arrived at his friend’s house summoned to try to revive him, he’d called an ambulance and a doctor, but nothing could be done beyond confirming death. And Mr. A’s healing process - to talk, about his own brother, his friendship with G, the state of the country, the events of the morning “He just switched off, like both his parents.” We all deal differently with grief.

Time for the service. Three priests and four responders speaking Arabic. In a Greek church. With over three hundred people. After a while the widow gets up and starts polishing the coffin. Her brother tenderly and gently takes her arm and leads her sobbing back to her seat. Only six hours before she’d been making him coffee.

Then it’s over and we all troop back to the receiving room where the chief mourners go through another ordeal – saying good-bye to all those who have come to pay their respects and have formed a long queue. “Don’t leave her alone” whispers her sister-in-law as we leave.

We go home, our emotional engines drained and running on fumes. We remember that some other friends are holding a party. We don’t feel we want to work at putting on the happy, entertaining face, but decide it might be our turn to wake up dead tomorrow, so we make a short appearance. We all deal differently with grief.