Situation grave … I can’t keep it together at funerals

There’s something about solemn situations that brings out the worst in me. Funeral services and grave sites are my kryptonite. I’m likely to launch into inappropriate sobbing or worse – uncontrollable giggling. For this, I apologise to my loved ones and dearly departed acquaintances. It has nothing to do with my feelings for you. To mangle the words of a famous bearded carpenter, I know not what I do (please just ignore me).

Funerals bring out the worst in me.Credit:

According to family therapist Gabrielle Applebury, writing on the Love to Know website, these reactions are common: “Laughing at a funeral is a perfectly normal reaction to a highly stressful and emotionally intense situation. You may laugh due to discomfort and nervousness. You may also laugh if you encounter someone else crying or feel sadness bubbling up within yourself.” Laugh at someone crying? Preposterous.

A curious sobbing display occurred at the funeral of a friend’s elderly mum. We learnt from the eulogy that Sheila was an exemplary person. A great wife and mother. Volunteered at lost dogs’ shelters. Dabbled in archaeology. Made honey joys for the grandies. All of that.

I never knew this good soul but hearing her story was fascinating, and I had every emotion in check. Until the end of the service when the lush, warm tones of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World wrapped around us like a cardigan. I was a goner. And it wasn’t just a few tears. It was big soggy blubs like you might get watching The Elephant Man. All live-streamed for posterity, thanks very much.

Outside, an acquaintance approached me with a tissue. “I didn’t know you were so close to Sheila,” they said. “Never met her,” I spluttered. “But she sounds lovely…”

It’s the music, you see. The older I get, the more susceptible I am to the music played at these events. And it’s not necessarily sentimental bangers like Hallelujah. It could be Abba’s Money, Money, Money or even the song of the dearly departed’s footy team for all I know. “Good old Collingwood forever…” Forever! Every word seems loaded with meaning about life – or rather death. Waaaa!

Sobbing at a funeral is entirely acceptable, of course. Uncontrolled chortling – when it’s not related to the eulogy – is a different matter. I’ve been trying to analyse this. Laughing at a funeral is the adult version of being asked to perform in the class of a scary-strict primary school teacher. Like when it’s your turn to read out loud and the kid behind you pinches your bum. You get the giggles because you know that you absolutely must not get the giggles.

Wacky things happen at funerals. Or are they in fact messages from the great beyond? We’re in a state of limbo after all – alive and kicking in the church or funeral parlour but looking death in the face.

At the last few services I’ve attended, some super-weird stuff has gone down. During the reading of “In my father’s house there are many rooms” (but no nursery), two camellia heads chose that very moment to face-plant onto the credence table. A fire alarm sounded in the middle of the eulogy. At the same service, as we waved off the hearse with its precious cargo, it stopped suddenly at the exit. Had someone forgotten something? A wreath perhaps? No. It was just bin day. We waited in hushed horror for the recycling truck to lumber past, doing its thing.

Recycling. Another loaded word. Waaaa!

My partner and I are ever-loving atheists. This has got us into a bit of trouble, especially at Catholic services where we just don’t know the schtick. When to stand or kneel and what to do with the “sign of peace”. More often than not, my partner and I end up shaking each other’s hands or giving our neighbours a palm greeting like the Buddhists we are not.

At a recent service, we stayed in the pew while others moved to the altar for Mass. I was getting the munchies too and dived into the bag next to me for some Fruit Tingles. I let my fingers do the walking in the morass I carry with me every day. But the tissues inside were folded, not scrunched. And this wasn’t my lippy. The owner returned to the pew just as my hands were retreating from her handbag.

I might have quoted the pithy line from Luke 6:37: “Forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

But we shared a laugh instead.

Jo Stubbings is a freelance writer and reviewer.