“God, this is awful,” I mutter under my breath to my cousin who is sitting beside me on the pew at the front of the chapel. The funeral celebrant, who had never met my mother, is reading the eulogy. On top of everything else, she has a monotonous voice and is droning on about someone I do not recognize, certainly not my mother.
So begins a blog by psychologist Jane Christmas.
My mother’s personality was so complex and her life so sad, and my sister and I had barely taken a breath to start thinking about what it meant to have lost her. The celebrant suggested we could tell her about my mother’s life and she would write it, so we agreed. It was a mistake. We should have written it and at least presented my mother accurately at her own funeral.
Read the whole post here.