Afterlife

Mary Turner Thomson

Is there an afterlife? My mother said she did not believe in it. However she had the last word on the matter on the day of her funeral; and proved to me that there is life after death.

Mum was a stoic, practical woman, and strong minded with it. She got involved in artistic causes, sharing her experience of a lifetime with those that could benefit from it. Indeed she had spent time on festival committees, arts organisations, and even the art in architecture awards - a subject particularly close to her heart.

When diagnosed with cancer she didn't falter, but instead faced her treatment and just got on with it, not even telling her family or friends she was ill. It wasn't in her nature to complain and she simply did not have the time to be moaning to others. Indeed most of her friends complimented her on losing weight and for rapidly decreasing from her size 16 to a size 12 in only six months. I noticed though, and I knew she was ill. However knowing that she didn't want a fuss I followed her lead by simply getting practical too and doing what I could to help.

Mum only admitted her condition was terminal the night before she died - and by that time she felt it would be a release to just permanently go to sleep. The cancer was suffocating her by degree and in her own words 'It's not much fun any more.' She died without any belief in the afterlife - having discounted the war-time image she had been taught of the angels on clouds which seemed to her such a ridiculous idea. She felt so strongly about this that she wrote a letter saying goodbye, including instructions to us about her funeral. She wrote:

'A cremation with a humanist ceremony. A bamboo coffin (sustainable) and NO lilies! No 'life after death' please! Have a damn good party afterwards with smoked salmon and bubbly. Dump the ashes (probably not mine anyway) on Observatory Hill.' The emptiness of the world when she died was bitterly harsh. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me, permanently, like a huge part of me had died with her. Suddenly I was fully grown up and totally alone. My mum was gone, and if she was right she was gone completely, with nothing left to hold onto at all.

However she wanted us to celebrate her life rather than mourn her death, so that is what we did. We followed her instructions as best we could, but it proved more difficult than it sounded! Mortonhall crematorium was one of the buildings my mum totally loathed, but it was the only crematorium available. Also they wouldn't take a bamboo coffin because they'd had problems with bamboo exploding in the past, but they did say they could do a cardboard coffin which was just as sustainable. One of my mothers' best friends offered to hold the ceremony. He had been the Moderator of the Church of Scotland but agreed to refrain from talking about the afterlife because he was so fond of her. He even had to put a professional disclaimer at the beginning of the ceremony to explain why a Church Minister was not talking about heaven. We organised the smoked salmon sandwiches, and arranged the house to accommodate more and more people who wrote to say they would like to pay their respects. On the day itself - the 22nd August 2006 - one week after my mother had passed away; we arrived at the crematorium holding emotion in check. As suggested everyone turned up to her funeral wearing at least some bright colours and I felt it was a testament to her bright spirit. What struck me most was the volume of people, nearly 200 friends, family, and colleagues came to say goodbye.

The ceremony was heart wrenching but healing, and afterwards the whole family shook hands whilst talking to people outside. So many stories of how she'd helped people, been there for them when they were down, boosted their spirits when they needed confidence, and helped them with practical advice. Her life had certainly not been wasted; it had been filled to bursting with people, experiences, challenges, skills, achievements, work, children, friends, family and humour. She had lived every ounce of her 77 years.

We turned our backs on the crematorium and left for home. The party was 'damn good', just as she had requested - probably not as smooth as if she had been running it herself because as a hostess she was a hard act to follow. Nearly 200 brightly clad people crowded into my mum's house eating the smoked salmon as a river of bubbly flowed through. No-one passing would have thought it a funeral party and it was every inch the celebration of her life that she had wanted.

But whilst we drank our champagne and talked of mum, she had started a party of her own at the crematorium. There were 25 fire-fighters and six fire-engines entertaining her. The door to the incinerator had been left open setting the roof on fire, and by the time our party had started the fire-engines were already being called out, indeed it took them six hours to put out the blaze.

Practical to the last, Mum's cremation had set fire to the building, demonstrating her lifetime dislike of the place. When I was told I laughed out loud and long for the first time since my world had been emptied. She had always had the most brilliant and subtle sense of humour, and if ever there was proof of life after death, she showed it to me that day.