The good news is that our 'share of hell' is nothing new: Here is "The Choirmaster's Burial", by Thomas Hardy, which recounts his Grandfather's funeral in 1837, though with a bit of fantasy thrown in.

He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest,
If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”—
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.

As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke, thereupon.
“I think,” said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.”

Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.

But ’twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.

Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.

Not really sure that's the good news, Salieri ;-/ As many of you must already know, The Choirmaster's Burial is No. 5 of Britten's Winter Words, about 9'33'' into the recording with Peter Pears. (Oops, here it is at the start of part 2.)

An update: I was offered the possibility of playing one or two Saturday evenings a month, and was told I could do the Heritage Mass (which is what we had been doing before). I decided to take it (two evenings a month), for the income; if it turns out to be too much, I'll just say I can't keep doing it.