It wasn’t someone I was close to. I knew her more by association than I-sat-and-had-chats-with-her-over-large-glasses-of-wine.
She is the friend of Kennith’s sister – and I met her when she was 12 or 13 years old, and saw her on occasion and we were “hey how are you doing?” sort of passing acquaintances.
Jocelyn. She was born in 1979. To me that makes her practical a fetus in this life. Me the old decrepit one, her the young one. I was born in 1972.
She died on the 25th of May 2015.
I attend funerals always as more of a comfort to the living than for the dead. The dead have moved on. They are no longer worried by what we breathing mortals are doing.
I have unclear beliefs regarding a God/god and an afterlife. I am an agnostic, not because I believe so strongly in anything, or nothing, but because I am on the fence. Trying to work out my belief system exhausted me to the point where I just decided to “park” it …..
This funeral was very different. Here is a young woman, who died. She should not be dead.
Her two young daughters buried their mother today.
I cried snot bubbles through the entire service.
I listened to Jocelyn’s mother give a eulogy. I don’t think there was anyone in that church that was not crying and reflecting on their own life, through out this process.
The thing I found alarming/admirable/incredible, was the candor of her family.
How they openly spoke about what killed her. There was no embarrassment or shame. No hiding behind “mixed phrases” and “candy coated shit.” They owned the honesty.
It did not make anything less sad, less real, less of an awareness that Jocelyn was an incredible person who touched people around her in a way that was profound. The people sitting in that church, the people talking about her was testimony to that.
There was heart-ache. Honest, bone crushing heart ache.
I cried for her mother – wondering what it must be like to bury your child in the prime of her life.
I sobbed for her two daughters, wondering what it would be like to bury your mother before you are even out of primary school.
How that shapes who you are. And how life can be a bit of a fucked up place.
The entire service was positive, and actually inspiring.
I am not really into religious ceremonies and find the platitudes and bible babble annoying. Usually services are conducted by church members/leaders who hardly knew the person who has died but feels okay to stand and “chat” about them for 45 minutes in a general vague manner, often forgetting their name.
This family had a close relationship with this church, and the pastor. You could hear the familiarity in everything said today. The truth.
I cried so much today that I am not sure how I managed to actually keep any liquids in – I look not dissimilar to an old haggard raisin right now.
I cried for Jocelyn, her daughters, her mother and a life ending. Snatched away. Too early. Too violently.
I cried picturing our places being interchangeable.
If I knew that my reckless behaviour would make my children motherless, would it make me behave more responsibly?
If I knew that my behaviour would probably nearly kill my mother if she had to stand at my funeral, would the jerk of that thought make me change?
We all have our demons. Sometimes they hunt us relentlessly. Sometimes we run to them with reckless abandon and try to live with them. But demons are fuckers and they generally win. They are patient like that.
Knowing all of this will I change my behaviour?
The fact that I cannot answer this with a resounding “yes” makes me cry still more huge tears.
I am actually shaking, not sure if it is the realisation, or the shock of the awareness or the lack or fluids
I am at Vida e caffé and openly sitting at my laptop having a snot bubble cry. I like the way no one attempts to notice me.
Today was a severely harrowing day.
RIP Jocelyn. Yeah, fuck life it is really run by fuckers.