Funerals have a way of getting under your skin.

The black fabric, the incense, the weight in the air, the pungent scent of lilies, the tears that prickle and then cascade… It is a bittersweet experience. A celebration of all the good – the complexity and richness of human life – and the heavy reality that life simply doesn’t last forever on this earth.

Last week was Baba’s funeral. The night before the trip we were prepared – bags nestled in the boot, kids already dressed in their travelling clothes, emergency snacks packed into every hidden pocket. Our tickets were booked and the kids were humming with the excitement of an unexpected plane trip, keen to see family members and properly say goodbye to the woman who regularly forms part of our conversation.

At 2am I heard a noise. Stumbling down the hall, I found Ivy’s light blazing – a pile of books beside her bed. She looked a little odd, but I thought nothing of it, tucking her back in and urging her to get some rest. I had almost drifted off again before I heard it. The ominous sound of spewing.

All my visions of the trip collapsed. ‘That’s okay’, I thought, ‘at least I can still take Eli and Hudson.’ Dave took over the clean up so I could get some rest but my mind was racing with the change in scenario. Car hire arrangements, train trips, accommodation – suddenly everything we had arranged was out of kilter. The boys didn’t seem too fussed when they were informed of the change in plans, although Eli was a little (rightly) concerned that Dave’s absence would lead to an increase in my stress levels. We bundled into the car and began the long drive in the darkness.

And then Harvey started. I had a flashback to the day before when each of them had been sharing a plastic tube, blowing into it to make sounds. They were all potentially contaminated. We debated plans, considering whether to cancel the entire trip and send in our apologies when Dave convinced me that it was important for me to go by myself. The boys were devastated, tears spilling with desperate pleas to change our minds. The thought of leaving him home with all the kids, let alone two in the midst of gastro, was unthinkable. I felt torn, the chaotic pace of the events unfolding leaving me untethered.

I’m not what you would call an adventurer. The thought of setting off into the unknown makes me break out in a light sweat. I recently turned down Dave’s generous offer to have a couple of nights away by myself because I was secretly terrified by the notion. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly going to be alone – Mum was on the same plane on the way up, and I was going to be staying at my uncle’s house, but the whole experience had thrown me and I felt a little numb.

It didn’t take long to re-calibrate. The experience of flying alone was heavenly, allowing me to catch up on some of the hours of sleep I had missed the previous night. By the time Uncle Drago picked us up at the station, everything felt almost settled again.

I have shared before about Baba and the incredible woman that she was. So much of her generous nature has informed my own attitudes towards hospitality and it was such a privilege to be able to hear more of her story. Drago and Dad spoke eloquently about their experiences of growing up, with a heart-wrenching tribute to both her and Deda, who had become her carer in the last two and a half years following her first stroke. Our Sydney-based family put so much into the service – with stunning white roses to say goodbye, a beautiful floral arrangement adorning the casket, a tear-jerking photo display and fitting music throughout. Loren and Megan spoke on our behalf as grandchildren, sharing stories about Baba and her fierce love for us – as displayed in her insistence on making sure we were never cold, her Serbian swearing, the way she always told us exactly what she thought and, of course, her bountiful table. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the end of the service.

After the wake, we poured through photo albums dating back to the 40s, with pictures of Baba and her boys in Belgrade, the transition to Cabramatta and many hilarious photos of Dad and Drago along the way. On previous visits to Sydney I had limited time to hang out with my cousins and it was so nice to better glimpse their side of life this time. The hospitality of Drago and Dale was exceptional and it ended up being a very relaxing time for me in the end.

I have loved the strengthened connection that has resulted with my cousins, as we busy ourselves cooking and sharing Baba’s delicious recipes and feel her near once again. Since being back, the kids have begged me to tell and retell stories about Baba and we are in the midst of a three week Serbian/Croatian meal cycle featuring her famous dishes.

Dave more than survived when I was away, and the experience of going without my family made me appreciate them even more. I missed them dearly, but also realised that I actually like my own company and the thought of going on a writing retreat in the future is almost exciting.

Death is strange and unfathomable, yet it has the power to bring us together and connect us more deeply. I still can’t quite believe that she is gone, but I treasure every moment we had with her, the memories that endure and the insatiable love of cooking that she nurtured in me.

We honour you and will cherish your memory forever, Angelina Tomasic. I hope that one day when I become a Baba, I can shower my family with a love like yours.