My Wife Was Dying, So We Planned a Fun Funeral Together

It was so good breaking convention!

All images from the author’s portfolio.

In days gone by, dying was just a necessary part of living.

It happens to everyone so let’s celebrate a life well lived, get drunk, say our goodbyes, have a party.

Today we hide death away behind solemn ritual, hand the depressing process to po-faced, penguin-tailed and top-hatted professionals who hide all the mucky things behind a screen of solemnity.

When my wife was told she had just a few months left to live because of terminal cancer, we decided to make her release from this mortal coil something special.

We’d be different!

Oh, yes, we would — I mean, we’re all going to die so we may as well enjoy it, eh? — have a bit of fun when the old grim reaper comes a’knockin’.

We sat down together and planned the funeral. It would be a celebration that involved the whole family, including the kids; a funeral that would set tongues a-waggin’…

First, we wanted it to be cheap. Not tawdry cheap, of course; money cheap.

Why waste good money on things that, in the grand scheme of things, just don’t really matter?

We checked prices on the ‘Net, make the appointment. A serious-faced woman met us and ushered us to her office.

We were wrapped in soft chairs and silence; an atmosphere befitting the dying and the dead.

She composed her features and offered a sad smile.

I got straight to it. “We want the cheapest coffin you’ve got,” I said with an ingratiating smile. “No bling, please. I’m going to paint it myself…”

She looked concerned — shocked, even. She squiggled on her chair, glanced about as if for help.

“And no fake gold handles,” I insisted.

“Our cheapest coffin,” she ventured apologetically, “comes with gold handles as standard…”

“No problem,” I told her. “I’ll take them off. We want rope handles. No bling — and -” I added, sitting forward in my soft chair, “- no top hats or penguin suits. I don’t want anyone walking solemn-faced in front of the hearse.”

I could almost see her brain working. “We can do that, if you don’t want it,” she intoned in a businesswoman-like manner.

“And I want the coffin delivered to my house.”

“We don’t do that…” she began but I interrupted her,

“No, I want the coffin at my house. We’re going to paint and decorate it, you see. If you can’t deliver it, I’ll pick it up — strap it to the roof of my car. It won’t be a problem…”

By now, my wife and I were laughing and the poor woman behind the large, gleaming desk started to catch on.

This was not a normal grieving couple.

Her shoulders softened and the slightest hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, we can deliver the coffin…,” she agreed.

We signed the papers and paid the bill.

A few months passed.

Then, one cold, dark morning when darkness still shrouded the world outside, my phone rang. I knew immediately it would be the hospital.

“Come now,” the nurse said to me quietly. “It’s time…”

But this article is about the funeral and not about my wife’s dying so…

A few days later, a plain chip-board coffin, fake-silk-lined with bling handles was delivered to our home. (My home?)

I set to work.

First, the handles.

I had to cut the “silk” lining away a bit to get to the bolts, but soon they were off. I drilled 8 holes through the cheap chip-board, cut pieces of seat-belt strap to make handles and knotted them on the inside so they wouldn’t slip through. (Trust me — I pulled on those handles with all my strength to test them.) All I needed was for them to pull through as we were carrying to coffin… well, you get the picture!

Now, painting.

I set it up on two chairs in the garage and gave the coffin two coats of white undercoat paint. Next to the hardware where I bought 8 small tins of paint, various colours, paint brushes, etc.

Then it was time. Bottles of wine, crisps and other edibles were bought. I made some phone calls: son and daughter, two little grandchildren, some close friends. “Come and help me decorate the coffin… there will be wine!”

I set the coffin on chairs in the lounge (as they did on the old days — but without the body, of course), old sheets to protect the carpet, and, wine glasses in hand we all began to paint and decorate the coffin.

“What do you want us to paint?” one bemused friend asked.

“Anything you like,” I told her. “Things that Glynis liked, that reflect who she was…”

So, there were cats, flowers, a South Africa flag, a rainbow, Bible verse… The kiddies splodged their contributions and added messy hand-prints; we found photographs and cat-show medals and glued them on. The lid and all four sides were by now a riot of colour; wine bottles littered the lounge floor.

It was a good time — a time of laughter and reminiscences, of togetherness and family; a time for the celebration of a life without the stultifying barrier of ritual and formality.

The day of the funeral was overcast and cold.

I had sent a message to all who might be coming: Preferably no sombre dress; be happy, feel free, wear bright colours if you like. Also, don’t spend any money on those expensive, horrible wreaths that lie around like colourful dead animals before the service and then are thrown away. Pick some flowers from your garden, from the woods, was my suggestion, bring them along in your hand…

Before the hearse arrived, I gathered friends and family together and told them that we would be doing things a little differently — no solemn pall-bearers, so please, just gather around and help carry the coffin into the church.

The hearse arrived and a group of us picked up the coffin in our hands. (I was surprised at how light it was, with my wife now inside.)

Then, just as we were about to enter the church, a very disturbed undertaker rushed up to me and whispered, hands all a-flutter, “It’s the wrong way round…” gesturing frantically at the coffin. “It’s the WRONG way round!”

Oh, dear… head first!

“Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “She won’t mind a bit, trust me!” and we continued into the church.

Lawrence Bransby is the author of 20 books, all published on Amazon and Audible: Novels, teenage novels and adventure motorcycle travelogues.