Last week was a week of recognition of a life well lived. The life of a quiet gentleman. My Uncle Robin. Rockin’ Robin. Dizzy. (And no, I don’t know why he was called Dizzy. The Uncle Robin I knew was the opposite of Dizzy. Maybe it was one of those weird Aussie nicknames- like when you call the guy with the red hair Bluey.)

We took some time out of our usual life to be elsewhere- in minds and in bodies and in emotions. We took a break in normal programming to simply be with each other, Mum and I, and all of those who loved him best.

It was a guiltysad funeral.

Guilty that you are, for a brief moment, glad that it’s all over for him, and for those closest those who were witness to the slow ebbing away of the things that made him unique. For as the body slowly dissolves with cancer, you see a dissolution of essence. The skin loses it’s luminescence and a greying pallor replaces the vibrancy of healthy skin cells. Eyes that once sparkled with mischief and wit cloud over a little. And the affairs of the living- the minutiae of life along with the wonder of broad vistas- are no longer of interest to them. The healthy and hale share those many moments with those we love, trying trying to use our Siren Song to lure them back to life with us, even as we watch our words wash over them. They are here with us in flesh for fleeting moments. Their being tells us they are mostly moving on to whatever is next. And yet we try to hold fast to them as they continue to float away from us. The only solace for us is the serene way in which they drift.

Being at a funeral is always surreal. Torn between not wanting to be there at all, not wanting to feel the constriction in your throat that is keeping the grief from surfacing, and not ever wanting to leave, as once you exit you know that a chapter has closed. That your person will no longer be spoken about as much as they are, this day. I once heard a quote by Ernest Hemingway:

“Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name. In some ways men can be immortal.”

And so we mention and we mention and we mention their name. We share the moments we had with them. We tell and re-tell those stories until they are as careworn as their now-still faces.

The celebrant at my uncle’s funeral reminded us of the importance of this moments. That is what we truly remember: moments and interactions, feelings and the ways they touched our own hearts. Moments are recalled more than whole days or even weeks. This celebrant said that if each of us wrote down one moment they had with my uncle, then we would have a book. And he was right. We would have the book of his life. The real book. The book that told of his intellect, and wicked sense of humour. The book that told not only of what he did, but the way in which he did. The meticulous care he took with detail and organisation. The unhurried way he looked into your eyes when you shared a story. The dedication to a routine and a rhythm of life that was composed of precisely everything he loved, culled of things he did not. A life of design where nothing was wasted, and nothing was frivolous.

There’s lots to love in a life like that. A life where you know exactly who you are, and the people you surround yourself with. Where you do precisely what you love, no matter what it looks like to others. Where you are safe, secure and loved enough to be able to offer that very same thing to those around you.

A life where others know if they are included in your circle, then they are valued.

I think it is the kind of life I want to live.

Vale Uncle Robin.

You are one of life’s true gentlemen.

Getting egged on to take a big sip, by a professional.

Today we had a funeral.  I didn’t expect it.  But if you have been following along, then you know that already.

A few years ago, Hayley and I decided you could only have a few really close friends in your life.  Five, or maybe seven at most.

I was Hayley’s third best friend.  And at her funeral today, as her third best friend, this is what I said:

Hayley and I are only friends because of cancer.

We met when she came home to be diagnosed, and embark on her treatment.

We first met at CCK, the chiropractic office I was working in at the time, but we really became friends after meeting up at the Koala Bar in Noosa.  We had both gone there to see a band, independently, and found each other by chance.  I impressed Hayls with my Jump Dancing skills, (which are legion by they way), and we were friends from then on.

*****

We were able to become close friends because of cancer.

Hayley wasn’t working at that stage, as she was devoting all of her energy to various things;

• strengthening her body,
• clearing her mind,
• eating nurturing organic food,
• and of course, getting ready to meet John, the love of her life, for the second time.

We used to spend endless hours lunching at the Organic Cafe, or swimming laps at Coolum pool, with lots of time to chat about all of the things under the sun.  We thought we had forever.

When I was pregnant with Liam, Hayls told me that she would be “Aunty Hayley” and I agreed.  I don’t have a sister, and having a pretend sister such as Hayls was a gift and a joy.  I liked to think that people would hear Liam, and later, Coco, say “Aunty Hayley” and think we were actual sisters.

My ‘little sister’ made me laugh more than anyone in the world.

She softened my sharp edges.

She made me irreverent, made me swear, made me play, made me light.

I could tell her anything.

I could do anything, dream anything.

I could be my whole truth.

Because she encouraged such things.

So now the very thing that gave me my friend, my honorary sister, has taken her away.

*****

A patient of mine told me last week that she believes some people build bridges toward others, that they have a talent for bringing people close.   Hayley was one of those people.   She built roads and tracks and pathways to entwine, and join us all together.  She did it with her cheeky sense of humour, her naughtiness, her strength and her gutsiness, her loyalty and dependability, and her laugh, always her laugh.  She built bridges to us all, and she built them well.

Hayley was a chef of food of course, but she was also a chef of the soul.  It’s like she could take a little piece of you, the very piece that you liked the most about yourself, and then she would roll it and knead it and carefully bake it until it was all plumped up, making you better than you were before.  It’s how she made her markings on your heart.

She named her cafe Sister, and even though I know it was meant for Rick and Belinda and Hayley, I like to imagine that she meant it for all of us.  I like to think, that with the laughter that was always just under the surface, and ready to burst forth, and the truthfulness that was always, always there, that she made us all her sisters.

Those of you who know me, will know I love a good literary reference, and so today I would like share with you a reading.  It’s called ‘The Best Friends Book’.

(Sorry blog readers: I gave the book to darling Olive, but it is by Todd Parr.. I did intend to take a pic of it to show you, but, well, I don’t think I was at my bloggy best…  The last line is: )

“Best friends stay close even if they are a million miles away.”

*****

Oh Halys, I wish you weren’t a million miles away.

Cheers.  I might* be pissed as I post this. Sorry if it’s a bit rough.  I’m not proof-reading.

*Am