“I have always had a dread of becoming a passenger in life."

 

People ask me about it all the time. What is the third funeral? When is the third funeral? 'C'est quand ? Quand? QUAND?!'

It is not so easy to answer. When my dreams come to me, I don’t always see the whole picture, if you understand me. It is only very specific moments that tend to linger. With Pasolini’s funeral I remember queueing to see the open casket. And I remember talking to some of the men there, men who you might say had some influence over me. It is always a scene where there is - on pourrait dire - a change of direction in my life, a moment where I suffer a sea change.

It was the same with Gérard’s funeral. I always see Christopher holding Sabine in a very public but also very intimate way. I remember the faces of the Belovice family. Sinistres.

What was clear to me in that particular vision was that my relationship with my children would change. And it most certainly did. I knew for years it was to happen, so I did try to be reserved with them until happened. Dans la vraie réalité.

I never want to prejudice the inevitable moment, you understand. That is both the beauty and the curse of it. I sometimes have years to prepare for what is to happen, but I must also regulate my behaviour so as to allow the moment to come without the intrusion of unwanted emotions.

No, I have never dreamed of something I did not want to happen. Jamais. It always must happen and therefore I want it. I cannot bear the idea of not wanting something to happen when I know it has to. Far better that I embrace what is to come and prepare accordingly, whatever the cost. Any medium or seer will tell you the same thing. It does not help to battle against your gift. One must sublimate ones wishes and surrender to what is to be. That is why we are calm people - douces -very measured and accepting.

I can assure you the third funeral is most certainly not mine, if that’s what you’re wondering. Ce n'est pas moi. I’m as fit as a fiddle. It’s more likely to be my daughter’s funeral than mine, given how much she smokes and drinks and eats! I’ll confess, I do wonder if it is Isabella’s. What a tragedy to attend the funeral of a child. I was so struck by the Queen Mother at her daughter’s funeral, shut away in a cheap people carrier with tinted windows to prevent the press from grabbing their demeaning photos of an old woman in a wheelchair.

I am not in a wheelchair. In my dream, I mean. I am standing in a very plain crematorium, in the front row. Behind me are very few people I recognise. Very few people at all, if truth be told. Whoever has died does not have many friends.

But what is so powerful, trés important pour moi, is when the button is pressed and the coffin is conveyed into the wall and away to the furnace. I feel a deep sense of relief.  Si profond. A huge emotional weight lifts from me that gives me permission to weep in public for what I believe will be the first time in my adult life. I can feel the tears burning on my cheek even as I tell you this.

And I realise I will, from that moment on, give myself permission to be an old woman who weeps. I no longer have to be the tough old bird who stands straight in the storm, who is always found on the steps of a hotel or outside the apartments in Kensington giving my statement to the press and allowing for photos to be taken. Instead, I will enjoy my last few years as a person who can emote, who no longer has to ‘keep it together’ as they say in America. It will be such a release, I tell you. Even if it comes from a place of grief. Even if it is indeed Isabella’s funeral. I will in some very real sense be free.