Paul Comerford

(Plus – Footnotes: Funeral Pieces including my Eulogy for Glenn)

Reflections

This will be my final public writing about Glenn. As a writer, I find the process cathartic, but also allows those who have been so kind, at a distance, to read this closing chapter. Surely, this is what social media is for: to share the wonders of our lives, the heartaches and joys. To give encouragement and to promote kindness. To show others who are in a dark place, that they are not alone in this world, and, just maybe, to show a way through hard times. This blog post will, I hope, allow those same people to see that grieving is multifaceted and that good people are always there to support. For me, kindness is the one human trait yet to be devalued by the white noise of modern life.

When Glenn died on the 4th March 2024, I was blindsided. I ceased to function for long stretches of time. Everything inside was shattered. Everything that made sense disappeared. I went onto automatic pilot and for the first time in my life, was truly helpless. It was Iain, Glenn’s twin brother, and I, who buried Glenn’s ashes on 17th April 2024 in the same plot as my father. My son’s memorial plaque was set in place on 14th July 2024. This marks the visible completion of this page in my life. For me, my surviving son, Iain, and our families, our future is there to step into, to embrace and live to the fullest. Glenn will never be forgotten, nor the pain of his going lessen, but we will become strong enough to carry that burden.

Glenn’s death was attributable to the dreadful disease of alcoholism. I use the word ‘disease’ as a layman, as the effects of alcoholism follows the pathology of medically accepted diseases, in that it is chronic, it lasts a person’s lifetime, it usually follows a predictable course, and it has symptoms. The hardest thing to do when dealing with an alcoholic, is to have sympathy whilst, at the same time, suffering the effects of the alcoholic’s behaviour. This leaves one’s head spinning. Trying to stop my son dying, whilst fighting his growing irrationality in grabbing for a drink, led to every emotion under the sun. From rage to deep sorrow. Sometimes all in the space of a few minutes. The only constant I’ve carried with me is love.

The one thing I was determined to do, was give Glenn his dignity back. Alcohol had taken everything positive from his life, and left only recent events and behaviours as his probable legacy. So, I made sure that the page was turned when he died on that Monday, and that his funeral and memorial would be defined by his whole life, as lived, not those last terrible years. As his father, I felt that this was something I could do. With Iain’s help, and with the positive support from those mentioned later, I know we managed this.

Closure & All Futures

It was but a few days ago that I watched Glenn’s memorial stone set in place. His ashes are interred over my father’s grave. The location at St Michael & All Angels Church in Puriton, Somerset. It is a place I often visit to reflect about the father I lost just after my 5th birthday. It is quiet with that feeling of great age and generations of silent meditation. Now Glenn is there too. My habit is to run here from my usual base at the Crossways Inn in West Huntspill, say my hellos then run back. I will continue this tradition. I never buy flowers. My Passepartout and I gather sprigs of leaves and wildflowers in season, to make a rustic arrangement each visit. I like this look. Glenn knows nothing of this. He doesn’t know he’s dead. He has gone and feels no pain. It is us who feel the loss, and us who are charged with remembering, or forgetting. Love never dies. I will remember my son and love my son as long as I live. That is the very best I can do.

I’m not religious. I find it fatuous, especially monotheism, and it’s rather frightening death-cult messages. It’s a lazy way of being – not thinking for oneself and being led by hocus-pokus, repetitious dogma and droning men (I always hope women are more sensible). I’m a realist and radical atheist to borrow a phrase from Douglas Adams. I do appreciate historical architecture and know a great deal about the history of these islands, of religions, of geology, of evolution and the rise of Homo sapiens. I still hear people asking “What is the meaning of life?” If you hear “42!” shouted back, that’s about as accurate as you will get. In reality, beyond the imaginary nonsense of belief and opinion, I think it is a pointless question. You see, it disregards the factual process of millions of years of evolution that made us human with our resulting state of perception, appreciation and wonder. To have reached this point gives us a solid foundation in the past, and a key position in our ecosystem. To make meaning out of this one only needs to embrace our planet, look after it and understand where we are on this Island Earth. Our survival depends upon a joint effort to live in harmony with our planet, not to sit back and pray to our manmade gods.

Once we understand how fortunate we are to be at this point of our evolution, our only aim should be to live this one life. Living is not a destination. We arrive at the beginning and our only destination, our only stopping point, is death. Life, in its full sense, is a journey and if you stop moving, you no longer grow and get stuck at that point, until your life does end. This is where religion and idealism wants us – to stop at one point, accept dictates from an unseen authority, stop growing and become heavily biased against change, against growth and stop thinking. Those voices feed our fears and biases. Those voices can make frightened or ignorant people do very unkind things.

I’m drifting towards my point. I live on setting goals for myself. Some are set and become a way of life: healthy, meat-free food; exercise every day; become kinder and more understanding; yet being solid of my defence of truth in the face of lies. Other goals are waypoints. To travel in order to see as much of our natural world as I can. To live as sustainably as I can, tweaking things as I go to refine the process. Encouraging wildlife in my garden. Also, recovering from any setback in running to reach new goals: running a 100k at 68; running a 100 miler before I’m 71; reaching 2000 days in my running streak. We should take care not to assume the moment of achieving a goal is the end of anything – for there is always the question, “What next?” It is that “What next?” that will keep you living. To give up is to whither and die.

I have turned another page. I’m still here to live my own what-nexts, be supportive to my family and to rid my life of toxic influences. One thing I do know is that there are many, many kind individuals out there. I find them where e’re I travel. I find them behind a reciprocated smile. It is the same for us all. All futures are out there – it’s up to each one of us to live them our own way.

Thank You

To organise the funeral of one’s child is beyond anything any person should have to do. At such times, one is blindsided, knocked off kilter and left to teeter on the edge of an emotional abyss. This is when the people who really care step forward. Such people are the kindest, strongest and nicest. They have both empathy and sympathy, but most of all, instinctively give you a steadying hand with no thought for themselves. They are beyond value, they are priceless. They are golden. I feel it is time to acknowledge those who kept me on track through the 6 weeks in March into April when I needed them the most.

First and foremost are two of the nicest human beings I know – my wife and my son. Ange, my Passepartout, helped me organise the funeral, kept me sane and always did the right things at the right time. She did this quietly, behind the scenes. Iain, Glenn’s twin brother, my ‘Giant Special Son’, has been a titan. In spite of losing his twin, in spite of his own pain, he worked alongside me and we both managed to complete the ‘heavy lifting’ of the funeral. Together we dug the ground and interred Glenn’s ashes. I could not be prouder of anyone. Liz, my daughter-in-law and Maddie, my granddaughter supported us all without missing a beat. How lucky I am to have these people in my life. My fondest regards also goes to Glenn’s mum, Lynne. We brought up our children as best we could as very young parents. It was immense for her to be there in support, despite her failing health.

My grandson, Sean, Glenn’s son, supplied many photographs of his Dad, and selected a poem and music for the service. He allowed us to create an accurate timeline for Glenn’s pictorial tribute and to ensure the music played was right for the job. He had to be strong over those few months, and he was. Sean has a good heart.

Kate, Glenn’s partner has had to carry the burden of loss as well as closing Glenn’s legal affairs. Such tasks at a time like this takes great strength. I thank her for loving my son to the end and for making him a home where he had some comfort in his illness.

Putting together a funeral is no mean task. Iain and I were lucky enough to find Paula Trotman, of P. J. Harris Funeral Directors in Glenn’s home town of Burnham-on-Sea. She was unstinting in her support and held us all together, directing with great kindness, and ultimately putting together the finest of send offs. Paula is a lovely human being.

My esteemed thanks goes to the Royal British Legion of Burnham-on-Sea. They had helped my son as best they could over his final year, then ensured Glenn’s military career was the theme of the funeral proper. Trumpeter, Luís Martelo, sounded the Last Post and Reveille perfectly.

Glenn’s Army mates – Steve, Dazz and Andy – were immense, too. Good men who filled in a lot of gaps about my son’s active service years in Bosnia, Kosovo, America and Northern Ireland. It was they, more than most, who gave Glenn his dignity back. I love them all.

Overseeing the service was Beverley Symonds, Independent Funeral Celebrant. Bev is fabulous. She worked with Paula to deliver the most beautiful celebration. She was there in support should I falter in my eulogy, then carried the emotional weight of reading poems and introducing music. Bev did not miss a beat. She is golden.

To all who have sent their condolences and kindness to us, I thank you all.

Footnote: Funeral Pieces

Eulogy for Glenn

I’ve decided to publish my written contributions to my Son’s funeral. I’m hoping it shows one way of seeing life, when etched with loss. Grief will bring you low, but I hope my words may bring some comfort when turning that page to the future. With Bev standing alongside me, I managed to read the Eulogy I’d written for Glenn. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I hope the words were listened to. I read the following:

‘Listen. We cannot waste time. We can only waste life. Time will get on fine without us. So, this one life we have is precious. As we find our way through life, we can choose, pretty much, how that journey will be. If we are kind and if we laugh a lot, life will be colourful and we will charge up something I call my “Happy Battery”. The alternative is a monochrome world of unkindness and cruelty – seekers of such a life are best avoided. That Happy Battery is my store of good memories. We all have that, should we want it.

Although we physically live our lives going forward through time, our minds can travel back in time. Time travel is possible. We do it every day. Close your eyes and remember being a child again. Think of one small and wonderful event from the past, one of those precious days you’ll never forget that made you very happy. Isn’t that nice? You’ve just zoomed back in time. And, subsequently, you carry all that time with you to today. Aren’t minds wonderful things? Who would want to remember anything but happy things? Look at the photographs we tend to keep – all full of smiles. They are snapshots that remind us of good things. A physical manifestation of that Happy Battery.

Glenn was my son. He was Lynne’s and my son first and foremost. He arrived some 10 minutes after his twin brother, Iain. They were so impatient to look at the world, they arrived 2 months early, to the day. I was 20, Lynne was but 18. The twins were so tiny they could fit into a single incubator. These tiny scraps of life had to fight to survive – it was 1977 and medicine was far from the honed science it is today. Yet, they made it, grew rapidly and seemed to eat their weight in food until they reached their teens. Then ate even more! You’ve all just travelled in time with me, to the most scary, yet most wonderful time of my life. It is not easy bringing children up, especially when you’re just children yourselves. Somehow Lynne and I managed.

Twins are very similar. Yet they are also single, unique human beings. Right from the start Iain was the more thoughtful, considered and cautious. Glenn threw himself at everything, grappled it and either won or lost – shook himself off then moved on. This was a pattern through their lives. Iain would crash a bike, figure out why, then not repeat the same mistake. Glenn would crash, break an arm, get dragged to hospital, recover, then find an even more spectacular way to break something.

Iain and Glenn were typical boys. In fact, they were wild, even though Lynne and I were fairly strict. There were times their antics were beyond belief! So much so that it is only in the last few years they have told me some of the things that happened. They were like mad scientists. They predated crazy YouTube videos by decades. I have discovered that nearly everything they tried started with one of them saying, “I wonder what happens if …”

“I wonder what happens if…we shake these cots back and forward harder and harder?” Result – The bottom falls out and we can escape.

“I wonder what happens if…we escape our cots and crawl down stairs early in the morning?” Result – No one knows you’re there.

“I wonder what happens if…we empty the contents of the kitchen cupboards into a big pile on the new kitchen floor?” Result – a work of abstract art, so colourful it would make Jackson Pollock envious.

“I wonder what happens if…we drop an unbreakable Tonka Toy tipper truck from an upstairs window onto concrete?” Result – They break. You can also use them to break every other toy, too.

“I wonder what happens if…we detonate a metal tube of self-made explosive in an old cow shed?” Result – It lifts the roof off and stops all cows within a mile producing milk for a week.

“I wonder what happens if…we stick a banger into a bottle and put it into a phone box?” Result – It blows all the glass out.

And, if the Fire Brigade want a scrap car with a deep, V-shape across the grill for exercise purposes – but the recycling yard you work in doesn’t have one to hand.
“I wonder what happens if…we make one by driving a car at 30mph into a metal pillar?” Result – Concussion, exploding air bags and great pain – but mad laughter.

So, even in adulthood, the twins remained curious in the most hands-on way. Pondering this, I realise they probably inherited this pushing the boundaries from my ancestors. The paternal line is full of soldiers, adventurers and pushers of boundaries, men and women alike. Thus, Iain and Glenn always tested the boundaries of what was possible by personally challenging the laws of physics – the amazing thing is, they often beat those laws!

Glenn, however, always tested the boundaries of life to the extremes. In the early 90s, he came to me and asked for help. He was no longer enjoying life and wasn’t pushing the boundaries any more. He was being controlled by the edges of that envelope. He recognised what was happening to him. He wanted me to help him get fit enough to join the Army.

I coached and ran with him. He rapidly became fit, cracking the 10½ minute target for a 1½ mile run by some margin. He joined the Army, settling into the 2nd Light Infantry. I have never felt prouder than on the day of his passing out parade. He went on to serve in Kosovo, Bosnia, and Northern Ireland just before the Troubles ended. This last posting was hard on soldiers – a constant stress, a constant anxiety. Two years of pressure. Alcohol became a predominant crutch for many, Glenn included. It led to the disease that hurt him so much.

Grief is personal. There are no rules. It is a process that allows a trauma to heal in its own time. I said at the beginning that finding your way through life should be a wonderful experience. Equally, grief should never define a life. This is why that time travel to happy moments is so important. We have the choice of painting our memories in colours. I will grieve for Glenn. I will grieve with Iain. Each one of us here will grieve in our own way. Mine will be memories of sunny days and smiles. The illness he had will not guide my own time-travelling choices. I will not allow that to define him.

I will remember the happy times, the laughter. I’ll drift back and remember sunny days, smiles and kindness. My children dashing along Greek footpaths, finding an olive tree full of puppies; swimming in blue seas and loving life. I’ll remember spending some of Glenn’s leave with him on Crete. Climbing a mountain. Being startled by a huge griffon vulture appearing above our heads as we scrambled up steep rocks to the top. Taking pictures of each other bare-arsed on the summit. Glenn laughing when I fell into a prickly shrub, he called a Bastard Bush. I still get the odd thorn grow out through my finger nails to this day. These are my memories. For me, these memories will give Glenn the dignity he deserves.

He will be interred with my father at Puriton church. It is a peaceful spot where any visitors can say ‘Hello’ and reflect. It is the village I was born in, where my father died and where Iain lives. It is central to us. A few years ago, Iain, Glenn, Sean and I visited the spot – 4 generations together. Yes, I know it is the right place. It is a happy place, not one of monochrome misery. Robins sing most of the year, swallows swoop amongst the stones in summer and the old church gives a sense of a long history, of permanence, a spirit of place. A centre of family.

That is the lovely thing about time travel. We can choose to always look at the happy times – and why not? Any fool can be miserable.’

Then, Bev read the poem I composed whilst in a dark place. It eased my own pain, a little.

Goodbye my Son

by Paul Comerford

7th April 2024

Goodbye my Son,
Last born child,
And first to go.
Impatient as ever,
To take the next step,
Never looking back.
We are left in your wake,
Your track through time is clear,
Smiles in photographs,
Pictures of sunshine,
From infant to now,
So, ‘Goodbye my Son’,
Last born child,
And first to go,
Until my own mind fades,
I will remember you,
I will love you,
But, most of all,
I will miss you.

A footnote to those who decided to be less than kind

During this awful time, whilst so many were being kindness personified, to my eternal shock, there are other people who decided to use this moment to reveal the darker side of humanity. They waited until it was safe to come out from beneath their metaphorical rocks. Then, they took grief and used it as an excuse to act like lunatics. Hidden behind a keyboard, safe in a dark room where there is no chance of confrontation, their unedifying barbs were fired. Such people always wait until the hard work is done. Their motivation is based upon hateful fantasy, they thrive on misery and give no thought to the added pain they cause. In my case, they couldn’t even wait until the memorial stone was in place. I’m baffled, but needed to make reference to them. They know who they are.

Such people who use others’ pain as a platform to cause harm, must take the responsibility for their actions. The reprehensible actions of grown adults, even if done behind a keyboard, will always carry consequences. Using vulnerable people to carry out their not-so-hidden agenda, then garnering support from fellow poltroons is beyond my understanding. Stepping into the open, just briefly, gave me a clear look at you all. Your worst is done – now live with it. I know you will now avoid me, as you are cowards. There is nothing you can do to repair this damage. There is nothing I have to say to you. You are, and always will be, beneath contempt.

Epilogue – Retirement & Minke Wales – Racing the Reaper Man, ever onward

It is done. I miss my Son. The pain comes in waves. The grief is profound. My love remains. Somewhere amidst all this chaos, I retired from employment. I worked from the age of 15, was never without a job and somehow found myself working for the Ministry of Justice, in London, with post nominals and a fancy title: Head of MoJ Corporate Fire, Health & Safety – CMIOSH MIFireE. After 13 years here, life had caught up. From 2022 to 2024 my mental and physical health crumbled and I was left rather bewildered. From 2023 to 2024 I was seriously poorly, right at the time Glenn’s final months unfolded. I retired on 5th April 2024, right between his death and funeral. How does one survive such insanity aged 67?

Quite simply, after all of this played out, life continued. As I wrote earlier, ‘Living is not a destination. We arrive at the beginning and our only destination, our only stopping point, is death. Life, in its full sense, is a journey and if you stop moving, you no longer grow and get stuck at that point, until your life does end.’ Thus, I reached the point of asking myself, “What next?” The first thing I did was turn the page – I dumped my hard earned post nominals, stepped away from my professional memberships and made the absolute decision never to work for anyone again. I’m now a writer, runner, conservationist, wanderer of the world and pensioner. I intend not to waste my life. I’m changed, of course, but stronger in my conviction that life is precious and every day should be lived to the full and that we must look after our planet, its biosphere and our species.

In May, we spent a quiet month on Alónnisos. I was teaching myself to rest. 52 years of working is not easily erased from one’s inner programming, so I found myself struggling to switch off. Instead of avoiding the issue, I thought hard about everything. I love change. It was time to press the reset button again. After Greece, we journeyed north to Scotland. Our main goal was to see baleen whales. Whilst staying on Lewis & Harris, we sighted seven Minke Whales in the Minch, on a memorable day with Stornoway Seafaris. During this journey I reflected ever more.

I realised I’d had no respite from pressure for over 3 years. There result was catastrophic on my health. So, “What now?” I had one job left to close this chapter of my life. On 14th July 2024, I watched Glenn’s headstone set into place. My Passepartout and I gathered some wildflowers and arranged them as a small tribute to the two men who lie there. We walked away and went home.

The following Sunday I hit the reset and started to rebuild my fitness. No booze, meat-free food and a gradual increase in core training with my PT, Martin Sorenson. I’ve entered the Race to the King 100k next June and will focus on the waypoint in my life. At 67, I have survived a traumatic period and finally feel whole once more. In 2 months I’m 68. To me, life has to be lived to the full. Yes, it will sometimes hit you with pain and tragedy, it will knock you down, but as long as you get up one more time, you will keep living, not existing. You will get help from good people. You may get kicked by cruelty after the fact. But, as long as you take that next step, you will always move forwards.

My love to you all. Let’s keep Racing the Reaper Man.

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