It was just one year ago today that the phone rang, a bit earlier than it is now. I was chatting with BC, the artist who draws Simon, as we were supposed to meet the following week to have lunch as I wanted to meet him in person, since he lived two hours away from home, though in a different country. I picked up the phone, and right away, I knew by my mom's voice that something was wrong.

My dad was in the clinic. He had undergone an operation to remove a tumor to his lung. He was 63, and had been smoking since he was 14, except for one year when I was a kid when he quit. He also had a heart condition. This was the concern. My mom told me he had suffered a heart attack during the night. I had seen my dad the evening before, and he seemed OK. He was sitting as is normal after such an operation, and though he had some oxygen mask and was dressed in the silly gown you've got to wear in these settings, everything seemed to go smoothly.

We were undergoing a major heatwave at the time, and he had complained of the fact they closed the window during the night. But I kissed him good bye, telling him I'd be back the next day. He had not wanted too many visits, since he didn't like being seen in what he considered a diminished state.

Over the phone, my mom asked me to come pick her up at 12:00 to go and see my dad, and have lunch with her. Needless to say, I no longer felt like going on with Simon's adventures for the morning, so I showered and got ready to go to my parents' early. I was about to leave when the phone rang again. This time, my mom was sobbing and I knew right away what her next words would be. My dad was dead.

There was no blur, no overwhelming feeling of doom. My dad was dead. As I walked to my car, I felt all soft and mellow, and braced for the things to come. I called the funeral home and asked them to go pick up the body, and we scheduled an appointment in the afternoon to settle all the issues. We went to the clinic to pick up my dad's stuff. We were offered to go into the room, and accepted. So here he was, left as he'd been when they'd tried to revive him. His eyes had reopened and his mouth was gaping open. We gathered all of his belongings in his bag and got out from the room. That's when I cried for the first time, as I hugged my mom.

We had to wait in the stuffy hall for the chief nurse to take care of the administrative formalities. We discussed all the practical things that had to be done with my mom. We were strangely calm; she had been alerted during the night, so she hadn't slept much, but she held on bravely; my parents never were too much for cracking up in public places.

We went home and started the round of phone calls. There was a funeral to arrange, as in France you have to manage to get a church for a religious funeral, otherwise it's just the cemetery, there are no funeral homes where you can have the ceremony as in the U.S. Then we called my sisters, and I cried for the second time hearing them sobbing. My older sister was on vacation in the south, with husband & 4 kids, my youngest sister had to fly back from Baltimore. She had come to spend three weeks at the end of June and the beginning of July, my father having scheduled his operation just after she left. This was a blessing since she had last seen him in a rather joyful setting. Then we called my father's friends.

We went to the funeral home. I couldn't help smiling at the contrived look on the woman's face, and her circumlocutions. She called the mayor's office in the village my dad was born, and where my grandparents were buried. There is a family vault there, that may contain eight people, so there were 6 places left. The woman said that "he expressed the will to rest there". I couldn't help but think that, first of all, he didn't express any will, but that we made the choice for him, though we had spoken about this issue, and that he wanted to be buried, not rest. Being a great Six Feet Under fan, I discovered how the whole process actually worked in my own country.

Then we had to choose the coffin. I knew exactly what my dad wanted: the cheapest one. Even though, it was outrageously expensive, but well, funeral homes have some sort of monopoly, so they use and abuse it. Of course we were offered the "options", like the cross over the coffin or other stuff I deemed ludicrous; I managed to remain polite, and we settled for some (free) engraving over the coffin.

We were then led to the funeral parlor, a little house built behind with two (slightly) refrigerated rooms designed to keep bodies. It was a relief to see my dad looking like he was resting this time. They had dressed him up, so the sight was less shocking than in the morning. This whole thing weirded me out, though, mainly the idea that less than 24 hours had gone by since I last saw him alive. The numerous boxes of tissues provided proved useful, since this time I did burst into tears.

We went back to what now was my mom's, and the visits started. At least, it allowed us to have time fly by without noticing. I was busy managing to get the obituary printed in the newspapers, to provide guests with drinks...

So, it was a Friday, and the funeral was on the Wednesday after. My sisters got there on Sunday and Tuesday. Going to pick up my sister at the airport was really weird.

The funeral turned out to be a great moment. It was a family reunion of some sort, the church was packed, the testimonials were great, I managed to read mine without flinching, and the reception after the burial under the blistering sun (this was the hottest day of the heatwave). There was a huge crowd, and fits of laughters through the sobs. Well, a funeral. I felt bad for the undertaker, who couldn't manage the crowd, and was getting late on schedule. Plus, he had to stay dressed in his black suit with a temperature over 40