The other Sunday, AA Gill, who is the restaurant critic of the Sunday Times of London, wrote in his weekly review column that he has cancer. Not just any random cancer: “I’ve got the full English. There is barely a morsel of offal that is not included,” he said.
I drew in breath. No, not Gill as well.
Lately, I have been coming across the dreaded ‘c’ word every blinking way I look. Google says that its main target is people 55 years of age and over. But that must need some updating; from where I stand, watching as it attacks dear friends of mine, peers and relatives, cancer no longer has any age limit.
You might ask why would the news of a dying British columnist shock me? First off because I’ve been reading AA Gill and his brilliant, witty, clever pen for almost two decades and although he doesn’t know I even exist (although – hurrah – a common friend got him to sign his last book for me), I feel like he is my special Sunday morning pen pal.
Most of all though, my sadness stems from the fact that he is an expert in how you say things, as opposed to what you say. “The big problem in medically lengthening people’s lives; we have entirely lost our ability to face death,” he said. “We’re not looking, we’re putting our fingers in our ears and humming tunes… It means we are incredibly bad at looking after old and dying people.”
Incidentally this week I attended a book reading session of Suq għax Dalam – a travelogue of sorts. Author Joe Pace, who is a doctor, said we are all the time going on about how things should be fair. “We just never seem to want to accept the realities of life.”
Maybe Disney doesn’t help. Whereas in ancient times people recounted tales of Greek mythology where death of mortal heroes is the norm – eaten by sea monsters, crushed by towering waves, shrunk through food poisoning, butchered in battle, pick your choice – in the Disneyfication of the western world, the hero always wakes up from his battering and is miraculously healed just in time for celebrations.
Sharing the anguish during a funeral is almost more powerful than sharing the joy in a wedding
Obviously, I never rub my hands with delight when I have to attend a funeral, but in a sense they are a constant reminder that we are mortal and that we are only here to live for a wee while. In a very odd way, funerals can be rather healing. They are these rare communal moments where the shedding of tears is not looked down upon.
I go to funerals and I cry because I witness the heartache of the people sitting on the front benches; I cry because I re-live every single second of my father’s funeral; and I cry because I fear for the pain that ill friends of mine are going through. And no one thinks I’m cuckoo or “għandha breakdown”. It’s perfectly acceptable.
I know it’s December and maybe I ought to be writing about merriment and jolliness and ho-ho-ho; but the truth is that people don’t stop being ill or postpone funerals for this month. It’s actually worse, because we’re all meant to pretend everything is fine under the Christmas tree, when it’s not.
I happen to think that sharing the anguish during a funeral is almost more powerful than sharing the joy in a wedding. The vibe is stronger and the we-are-at-one-in-this is very comforting for the people left behind. I often try to understand why.
The further south of Malta you go, the more the tendency for funerals to be expressive. Cries of “X’għamiltli?”; “Għalfejn ħallejtni”; X’se nagħmel issa?” – often echo around the churches. There are scenes of people throwing themselves on the coffin clutching it hard, sobbing or people fainting.
Up north, relatives of the dead are more visibly restrained: they wear huge sunglasses, and hold tight to their structured bags and their mouths are taut and in the shape of an upside down V and the tears stream silently down. Crying is infectious. The more people cry, the more other people start crying.
There is the sermon then, which can make or break a send-off. There’s three types of funeral sermons: the priest can be generic and talk about the value of life bla-di-bla, and everyone’s eyes glaze over; he can be dramatic and talk about the beatitudes of the corpse in front of him, which is a cue for the audience to constantly whisper “jaħasra”; or he can be personal – recounting jokey and insightful anecdotes about the departed. The latter is the sort of sermon which elicits chuckles and heartfelt tears. The singing also helps the mood board: a singer who goes off tune during the Panis Angelicus can be distracting.
Most often it is the clapping at the end which is the most heart-wrenching. The younger the victim, and the more tragic the circumstances, the more resounding the clap is – as if all the congregation is audibly giving a letter of reference to the heavens.
And then it’s over. Everyone herds outside, around hearses which either have a number plate reading ‘RIP 007’ or else have little crosses with neon ultraviolet lights. Soon we’ll have speakers blasting Sinatra. No parting is ever dull.
But then again, no life should ever be dull. We could all do with taking a page of AA Gill’s column and live life like there’s truly no tomorrow.
Twitter: @KrisChetcuti