Forget-Me-Nots: On Grief, Legacy and the Shadow That Follows Us

What will your legacy be?

I conducted a funeral service recently for a wonderful lady — I'll call her Beatrice, though that wasn't her name (GDPR!). She was 85 years old, and she had lived a long, rich, interesting life. She was, without question, the Matriarch of her family. Her two daughters, their husbands, and her grandchildren were the absolute centre of her world. Family meant everything to her, especially as she got older.

The service was full of love, memories, and grief — of course there was grief — but mainly love and memories. Her two daughters spoke eloquently and emotionally, sharing funny stories of a mum who loved them beyond all measure. Two of her grandchildren read poems. And as the service drew to its close, the family came forward and laid forget-me-nots on her beautiful casket.

And that just broke me.

Beatrice would never be forgotten. No flowers were needed to symbolise the deep and abiding memories that were her legacy — but they were a beautiful and poignant reminder that life is short, no matter how long we live it, and that our legacy matters. Beatrice had led her life with kindness, love, and family first. We could feel her presence in that room, and it was beautiful.

But here is the crux of this post — the reason I am thought-dumping right now.

Beatrice's two daughters were 61 and 58. Beatrice was 85 when she died. I am 61 now, and my two children are 36 and 33. I realised, just now actually, that if I am privileged enough to live until I am 85 — and I so hope that I am — then my two girls, Emma and Megan, will be exactly the same age as Beatrice's daughters were when they lost their lovely mum.

This hit me like a tonne of bricks. My chest felt like it might cave in.

Why am I grieving? Not for me, or for my inevitable demise — I see too much death in my role as a Funeral Celebrant to fear it. I am genuinely not scared of dying. But I am terrified of the sadness that my death will cause. I am terrified of the thought of my beautiful girls, Emma and Meg, and my beautiful granddaughters, Thea (now 8) and Ottie (almost 3), having to navigate the days, weeks, months of grief that will follow.

I am terrified that my grandchildren won't be able to FaceTime 'Nanny' when they are cross with their mum, or just need a Nanny Cuddle. I am terrified that my legacy may not be good enough. That I wasn't good enough. That my life was just a dot — which, of course, it is. I am not so vain as to think I am special. I am like Beatrice: family first, always, and love at the heart of everything else.

Is that enough? In a world where money and status seem to be all that matter — will my legacy hold meaning? Will my grandchildren remember me when they are 61?

Our mortality is not something we can avoid. But grief doesn't only happen when someone dies. Grief is a dark shadow that follows us throughout our lives, waiting for a moment to rear its head and say: "Hey. I'm here. Waiting."

I think that's what happened to me today, in that room, watching a family lay forget-me-nots on a casket. My grief was waiting. And it found me.

Forget-me-not