The term is disassociation, according to my counsellor. My mind doesn’t want to retain the memories because it would be too traumatic to do so: it blanks them out in the short term as a coping mechanism but they are still retained. .Rarely do the memories come back, unless actively probed for, and I’m ok with that.
But there is one crystal clear memory of the day. Actually, two but the first one is fairly innocuous. The priest and his acolytes (is that the right term? I am sure there is a correct word for the lesser-than-a-priest-yet-still-holy-enough-to-be God’s BFF people) who actively participate in leading a service; it’s less offensive than minions, anyway, which is what first jumped to mind) were doing the whole waving of smoke from the gold Holy Smoke pots, and flicking of oil from other Holy Oil gold pots, that is part of the Anglican high church tradition.
Incense flung around generates a LOT of smoke and I remember thinking that fire extinguisher requirements must be very different in church. Which logically progressed to idly wondering if smouldering incense made religious services difficult for asthmatics and then specifically recalling my husband is one and we were in the thick of it. So I naturally asked him if he had brought the Holy Inhaler.
Okay, that made me laugh a bit when I recalled it today. But the other memory is so cringe worthy that I almost feel I need to go to damage control but I don’t know how or where.
There was the usual reception afterwards, with a few glasses of this and that and passed around finger food. My SIL has had a wonderful support network through the school that my nephews went to and three to five times a week a cooked meal, ready to eat, would be delivered to their doorstep. Three to five times a week for nine months and currently ongoing until she says stop. She’s done the same for others and it is one of those acts of charity that truly make a difference, even if it seems trivial in the importance of things. Anyway, that family network stepped up to provide all funeral food as well.
Somebody offered me something off a plate. I declined but, wanting to thank personally one of these wonderful support people, asked if she’d been a regular on the roster for my brother’s situation. She had been. I told her what a difference it had made.
Then, trying to emphasize how tasty and diverse the food was, I told her (oh God) that it was so good it was almost worth having a terminal illness to get it. Her look of appalled shock will probably stay with me forever.
There’s no coming back from that, no matter what you say, and I said a lot to try and mitigate myself. It didn’t work, judging by her expression.
I don’t know where to go from here. Maybe confessing to my SIL and asking her to pass the word around the mums network that I was drunk? I was 100% sober but people generally seem to give drug/alcohol faux pas a lot more understanding.
Drunk or a sociopath? What’s the lesser of those two evils?