Bureaucracy does its thing , and a mother-disaster is averted
Thanks everybody for all the kind replies to my post yesterday. I was touched to see so many comments, so quickly! I am feeling a lot more in control of things today.
Today was bereavement bureaucracy day. Sarah and I went back to the hospital for our appointment with the Chapel of Rest facility, which was merely being handed my father's personal effects and some paperwork. Then it was off to the registrar to exchange some of the paperwork for a death certificate. Even death doesn't come for free - it's three pounds fifty, or more if you want multiple copies of the certificate. But you also get a free exit token for the car park. So that's two ways I now know of avoiding the car park charges at Addenbrookes - the other way is to donate blood. Tis a funny old world.
Then off to the care home to pick up the rest of my father's effects. It seemed as if they had genuine care for my father. Despite him not going to be returning there anyway, they seemed pretty cross that the hospital hadn't bothered to let them know of his death, and said they would write a letter of complaint. Within a few moments of arriving we had been offered tea, and while the first person was away making it two other carers separately came up to us and asked if we wanted any. It's nice to see that although many of the carers are from overseas, this particular bit of English culture is going strong.
Once we'd made it home, there were a bunch of forms to fill in and some phone calls to make. I then wandered over to his bank branch to suspend his account, but it seems like the financial crisis has led them to try running branches almost entirely free of staff - there was only one person who was able to do whatever needed doing, and she was snowed under, so after much hanging around I ended up with an appointment to go back tomorrow. Last but not least was taking yet another bit of paper to a funeral director. My mother will not be making it back to the UK any time soon for any kind of funeral service, so we will just be picking up his ashes to be scattered in a few months' time, probably in the woods near where I grew up. This kind of private ritual appeals to me more than a formal service, as it's more appropriate to my father's character and wishes. My mother is currently being reasonably OK, but Sarah's been talking to her more than I have. At one point my mother invited herself (with a big dose of "well, I have been medically ordered not to travel for a month, but it wouldn't cripple me for life, because you must need me to help you out, not that I've probably got many years of health left anyway") to come and stay at our house for a few days before flying back to India again for the rest of her "recuperation". Luckily, sanity has prevailed and we no longer have to face the worst-case scenario of my mother turning up at my front door from the airport to "organise the funeral" in a back brace and unable to do a thing for herself, only a few days before our wedding which she doesn't know about, and asking why on earth the house was full of big white petticoats and things which looked like bridesmaids' dresses.
I had a good cry on Sarah's shoulder earlier, and feel better for it. I have some good memories of him, mixed in with some sadness that he didn't get to live much of his life the way he wanted to.
Today was bereavement bureaucracy day. Sarah and I went back to the hospital for our appointment with the Chapel of Rest facility, which was merely being handed my father's personal effects and some paperwork. Then it was off to the registrar to exchange some of the paperwork for a death certificate. Even death doesn't come for free - it's three pounds fifty, or more if you want multiple copies of the certificate. But you also get a free exit token for the car park. So that's two ways I now know of avoiding the car park charges at Addenbrookes - the other way is to donate blood. Tis a funny old world.
Then off to the care home to pick up the rest of my father's effects. It seemed as if they had genuine care for my father. Despite him not going to be returning there anyway, they seemed pretty cross that the hospital hadn't bothered to let them know of his death, and said they would write a letter of complaint. Within a few moments of arriving we had been offered tea, and while the first person was away making it two other carers separately came up to us and asked if we wanted any. It's nice to see that although many of the carers are from overseas, this particular bit of English culture is going strong.
Once we'd made it home, there were a bunch of forms to fill in and some phone calls to make. I then wandered over to his bank branch to suspend his account, but it seems like the financial crisis has led them to try running branches almost entirely free of staff - there was only one person who was able to do whatever needed doing, and she was snowed under, so after much hanging around I ended up with an appointment to go back tomorrow. Last but not least was taking yet another bit of paper to a funeral director. My mother will not be making it back to the UK any time soon for any kind of funeral service, so we will just be picking up his ashes to be scattered in a few months' time, probably in the woods near where I grew up. This kind of private ritual appeals to me more than a formal service, as it's more appropriate to my father's character and wishes. My mother is currently being reasonably OK, but Sarah's been talking to her more than I have. At one point my mother invited herself (with a big dose of "well, I have been medically ordered not to travel for a month, but it wouldn't cripple me for life, because you must need me to help you out, not that I've probably got many years of health left anyway") to come and stay at our house for a few days before flying back to India again for the rest of her "recuperation". Luckily, sanity has prevailed and we no longer have to face the worst-case scenario of my mother turning up at my front door from the airport to "organise the funeral" in a back brace and unable to do a thing for herself, only a few days before our wedding which she doesn't know about, and asking why on earth the house was full of big white petticoats and things which looked like bridesmaids' dresses.
I had a good cry on Sarah's shoulder earlier, and feel better for it. I have some good memories of him, mixed in with some sadness that he didn't get to live much of his life the way he wanted to.