The funeral for my father-in-law was awful in all the ways that funerals always are. It was also my first time being in the receiving line. I’d tried to beg off, but my sisters-in-law wouldn’t let me, so I had no choice but to pretend that I can actually handle social situations. As people came by to offer me their condolences, I very deliberately looked them in the eye and thanked them in my “I really mean it” voice. If they seemed like they wanted to hug, I hugged them. If they seemed like the wanted to shake my hand, I reached for theirs.
Unfortunately, there came a point at which they were flying by so fast that I lost my careful thread of attention and missed some cues. As a result, I may have hugged some shakers and shaken some huggers. But I figure that some awkwardness is to be expected at funerals. You can’t expect grieving people to be at their best, and I was certainly not at my best.
By the end my arm was bothering me so much that it hurt to shake hands, and I could only hug with my left arm. And somehow, after the interminable church service that followed, I found myself at the head of the exit line. That was not where I wanted to be. I felt as if I were leading the people from the church, and it was weird.
The whole day was weird, though. It had a surreal tinge around it and still does. Partly it’s having had to manage so many unusual engagements and situations while being too tired and sad to process them properly. But mostly I think it’s that I still can’t believe my father-in-law is gone. His death was expected yet still shocking. It is something unbearable that we nonetheless have to bear. These things cannot be reconciled, and perhaps a thing that cannot be reconciled can also never quite feel real.