2 How You Do It ...

“I don’t know how you do it …”

 This is my second most heard phrase when it comes to my line of work. The one I hear from strangers in the pub or people who I meet for the first time through something that isn’t my job. It usually comes with a side order of pity face or a sympathy head tilt and those who know me settle in for the long haul because they know that I can’t leave people thinking of my job like that.

 I love my job. I spend about 90% of my days basking in remembered joy. Smiling at the little things that make a person unique and, often, laughing at the mischief that makes their characters shine through. I have heard hundreds of tales of childhood adventure, hundreds of love stories softly told, I am regaled with stories of careers carved out and families longed for and nurtured. I often hear of Gran or Grampa’s special bond with the grandweans and I have heard many a boast about making the best pot of soup.

 There’s nothing ordinary about the memories of what you might call an ordinary life. These people who are not marked out for fame or fortune have a wealth of stories to their name none-the-less and there is so much more joy in hearing of the family car that was held together with sheer willpower so that it could transport the extended family, with at least one child in the boot holding a trifle, to their seaside holiday destination … more poignant than hearing of a first million made or lost.

 Not that there are no achievements mentioned, it’s not that at all, I have heard of medals and trophies won, of great successes worked for and gloried in … but they come in a package of memories that also includes connections made behind closed doors, on dancefloors and in sharing the things that move you with those you love.

 I’m shocking at golf – tried it; terrible at it; never picking up a club again. I love it though – not for anything it has ever, or will ever do for me – but because many a father bonds with his son or daughter over it. Football – the bane of my life in so many senses – does the same. Being carried, knee high to a turnstile, into your first home game is, for those who are brought up in the game, a rite of passage that sticks. You see it on their faces, those children who were taken to the places that their parents thought were special, how much joy there was in being part of things.

 That’s my joy in what I do – I’m part of things. I’m there for the sharing of the memories of a life that mattered to everyone in that room. I get to be part of that final, emotional tribute to someone they have loved. I get to be the voice of their remembered joy … who wouldn’t love that?!

 Yes, there is the sadness of this coming at an inevitable end. I am fortunate that most of the lives I help to pay tribute to have ended after a span of years that gives some comfort. But not always. That’s my other 10%. The lives ended far too soon by anyone’s measure. The lives ended by violence, by the actions of others, by a bolt from the blue that hits harder than you could ever expect. Lives that never get a chance to begin.

 I will always come into the lives of loved ones when they are experiencing the sadness of loss, that’s the nature of my job, but for almost all of those families they know that they are ready to give me their happy memories. There’s laughter along with the tears and just being able to sit and blether about the person you loved is a healing thing in itself.

 Another often heard sentiment is “I was dreading this, but it hasn’t been as bad as I thought” or the more personal version “I was dreading your visit, but actually it has been quite nice!” Always said with a smile and often with a handshake or a cuddle. And that’s just the visit – it’s an even more emotional experience once you deliver the service!

I imagine you have the same slightly bleary look on your face that those chance met strangers in the pub get about now – slightly glassy eyed in the face of my fervour and enthusiasm. It matters to me – that people can see the possibility of joy in what I do because some day all of us will be confronted with the loss of someone dear to us. When that day comes, I want you to be armoured with the knowledge that there is joy in remembrance. That the service you have, and the experiences that you have in getting to that day, can be about remembered joy. A celebration of a life.

 That’s how I do it – I surround myself in remembered joy. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.