We can only leave our homes for essentials, we can't gather in large numbers and we're adapting to a new normal.

What's really hit home for me in recent weeks is how many of the things we often take for granted have changed. Like the ability to celebrate love at a wedding, or say goodbye to a loved one at a funeral.

We can no longer embrace each other - no hugs, no kisses, no handshakes - and that's something I've struggled to come to terms with during the past fortnight.

Two weeks ago today, I received one of those phone calls nobody wants to receive.

It was one o'clock on that Saturday morning. On the other end of the line was my dad calling to tell me my mum's mother, my grandmother Helen Milliken, had died.

A day earlier, I'd been told she didn't have long left. Within hours she was gone.

Gran's health had been deteriorating in recent months and she had spent the past four years being cared for by staff in the aged care section of the Hay Hospital.

Regardless, the news still hit me like a tonne of bricks. And, little did I know at the time, even more heartache was to follow.

When Gran died on March 21, the government's coronavirus restrictions were somewhat in their infancy.

Gatherings, at that stage, were restricted to 100 people indoors and 500 outside.

With that in mind, we were planning a graveside service and wanted to hold Gran's wake at a venue with an outdoor area.

On the Tuesday night, two days out from Gran's funeral, I was working on her eulogy when my phone lit up with multiple text messages. They all said the same thing: are you watching the news? I wasn't.

What happened next is a blur of shock, frustration and tears. Prime Minister Scott Morrison had just announced even tougher gathering rules. Among them, that funerals would be restricted to just 10 people.

Those tough new restrictions came into effect at 12am on March 25, just 10-and-a-half hours before Gran's funeral. We had no choice but to follow the rules and it was important that we did - many of the people attending the funeral would have been older and therefore among the most vulnerable.

Knowing we were doing the right thing didn't make it any easier. Only immediate family were at the funeral. There was no wake. The biggest disappointment for me was that Gran was so heavily involved in the Hay community, and no one from that community could attend her funeral. She couldn't be given the farewell she deserved.

However, regardless of whatever hurdles are put in their way, those living in small towns will always rally around each other in times of need. Members of the Hay community did just that for Gran's funeral.

They rallied at short notice and, knowing the service was off limits, lined the outside of the cemetery fence with their cars. They parked about 1.5 metres apart and remained there for the duration of the service.

With little breeze, some probably heard some of my eulogy words, the reflections told by my uncle and the reading read by my two sisters. Even if they didn't, their presence - albeit at a distance - meant so much.

The most poignant tribute came at the end of the service, when a cricket bat was held aloft and everyone tooted their horns.

Later, as our family drove out of the cemetery, the horn honking continued.

So, too, did my tears. But among all the sadness, there was sense of happiness and pride to call a place like Hay my home town.

Why a cricket bat, you might ask? Gran and her husband, Barry Milliken, are well known in Riverina cricket circles.

They've made many connections through the sport over the years. The Milliken Shield, which teams in the region's junior competition play for, was named in honour of their contribution to cricket. Gran was fixture at cricket matches in Hay and beyond.

She was always scoring. Since her passing, many people have told us she was the best cricket scorer ever. Gran refused to use a pen in the scorebook, only a 2H pencil would do. She was also the first female to score an international cricket match.

The raising of the cricket bat at Gran's funeral was recognition of a great innings and a display of how small rural communities always rally together in times of adversity.

We're a resilient bunch. We have to be.

We've been through plenty of tough times and we'll get through this as well - together.

Andrew Pearson is the deputy editor of The Daily Advertiser.