Yesterday I went to a funeral for a friend’s father. The church was full, which shows how well this man was liked, and how many connections he made and maintained through his life. It was good to see. He had a lot in common with my dad—he talked loudly on the phone, he was a healthy measure more gregarious than his son, he was very content with himself and his life, he raised a family of good people, and he tied his son’s ties for him. He also chose a nice neighbourhood to live in.
It was a fine sendoff—laughter during and after the service, superb tributes from family members, lots of friends catching up over sandwiches and tea at the reception in the church basement. I mean, that’s what it’s all about. Not that sadness and mourning don’t have their function, but...
I’m a great believer in memory. Right now is just the tip of the iceberg, and the accumulated memories below the surface are what’s keeping the whole operation stable. I have to live life always remembering that I’ll never really die as long as someone remembers me (fondly, I hope).
I think I’m fighting the after-effects of seeing Waking Life again last week.
After the funeral my dad and I stopped by his place so I could pick up my mail. I’d been looking forward to something good in the post, but it turned out to be a bill from the Medical Services Plan, overdue, with threats of enforced collection. Christ. I drop 500 bucks a year into that bloody thing and I haven’t seen a doctor in nearly 20 years.
I paid up at the bank after work. If I don’t go for a checkup soon, the next time I’ll see a doctor is when the belter kicks my ass into the emergency ward.