Let's talk about death...

Grape leaves: the cycle of life

A few months ago, I signed up for a dinner party where death had a seat at the table. You could even say death was the guest of honor. 

Talking about death isn't something most of us who grew up in western culture are comfortable with. Sadly, because not having those oh-so-important conversations can make loss even more devastating. 

And not only do we not want to talk about it, many of us don't have cultural rituals to guide us when loved ones die. In some cases where we do, those rituals we grew up with don't fit anymore. 


This isn't a post about grief; I write about that enough. This is a reminder to all of us to do the things that must be done—the hard things, those caring things that make life easier for those left behind when we, too, leave this mortal plane. 

#DeathDinners

My dinner with death was last Saturday, and yes, it was fascinating, and yes, death was nearly the sole topic of conversation.  

Based around 'death over dinner' events (#deathdinner) started by University of Washington professor Michael Hebb in 2013, the dinners grew from a graduate course called Let's Have Dinner and Talk about Death. In 2018, Hebb authored the best-seller, Let's Talk About Death Over Dinner; from this website, you can also learn about hosting your own dinner with death. Why over dinner? As Hebb notes, the dinner table is the most forgiving place for a difficult conversation.

The dinner I attended was hosted by former lawyer now end-of-life coach Ann Forrest Burns. (Do check out her site; it's fabulous and you can learn some things. Do it; it's safe to look.) There were six of us around the table, and we started our conversation by sharing the first memory we had of a significant death. 

The impact of loss

My dad was my first significant death, but not a memory of my own as he died shortly after I was born. But my mom mourned his death until she, too, left the mortal plane when I was 38. That was big. 

Other losses left an impenetrable mark at an early age. My caregivers and my reasons-for-being all died within a few short years of each other: first, my aunt, who died when I was 8; she said "goodbye, daddy" to my grandfather as she was taken from the house on a stretcher—and then never came home. My grandpa left me the following year, and three years later, my grandmother. I was 12, and her death signaled to me that anyone I cared about—or who cared for me—would leave. Hence my modus operandi for the next couple of decades—being left became an expectation, and I looked for love in all the wrong places. 

Since then there were countless others—cousins, friends, pets, and other family members, few from a 'ripe old age' and largely from lifestyle choices. When someone in my family lives to 80 or 90, it's cause for celebration. There are few of them. 

As a little girl, I attended many funerals because of a large, extended family, and while uncommon today, when I see a funeral procession drive by, I still get choked up. I was often in the family car leading the way. 

Death upon death

Mortal death isn't the only death, though. My mom died an emotional death after my aunt died, closing off and shutting down—that, too, left an indelible mark. And when those we care about lose their quality of life, that may be a series of deaths, as they lose the ability to do what they love. Often, this is a prolonged death. 

Planning ahead 

Death can break apart families. Pre-planning can make a difference. 

I have a Canadian friend who works in the industry and helps people pre-plan. She's been highly successful financially not because she's great at sales, but because she's truly passionate about helping people. Death is hard enough on those left behind; when we plan ahead so others don't have to, we lessen their suffering. She knows this at a deep level.  

Talk with those you love about your needs and desires. Do you want your life sustained if it means you're hooked up to tubes, incubators, or various other machines? There are legal documents that leave no question, and it's best to work with a professional (you can find them in all price ranges). A health directive, or living will, is a must-have to ensure you're taken care of the way you want to be when you can't make decisions for yourself anymore. And don't be smug; this can happen at any time—an accident, or an illness that comes on suddenly. 

When the time comes: 

• How do you want to symbolize your time on earth? 
• How do you want your family taken care of? 
• Who do you want to benefit from any means you may have left, or any of your prized belongings? 
• Do you care if there's a service, and if yes, how it's done? 
• Cremated or buried? Where? We even have a choice of 'green' services now. 

You may think these aren't important, but when the time comes, they're important to those still standing, and the fewer decisions they have to make, the easier it is during a time that's anything but easy.  

Be curious

On Saturday, we also played the game Morbid Curiosity. It's a combination of trivia questions and conversation starters. While some of the trivia answers are humorous, many inform or help you think about options to consider. Conversation starters were either thought-provoking or entertaining. If you need help getting the party started, this game will break the ice. 

Meaningful death

Our lives have meaning, not just for us but for those who care about us. Our death will have meaning, too. Let's help those we leave behind with those most difficult decisions, so they don't have to when their wound is wide open. 

I'm grateful that death doulas are becoming a thing. It's a much-needed service to help us make choices that are meaningful while we still can, and help us navigate the complex industry that death has become. 

Don't wait

While my mom talked about her own death and did some of the pre-planning (thanking lucky stars for the People's Memorial Association here in Washington), I was less-than-impressed with our family's funeral home, the place where I spent enough of my childhood to still have strong memories. If only there were death doulas, or end-of-life coaches, then. It would have saved confusion, frustration, and heartache. 

Don't wait. This is far too important, and it's never too soon. Talk, plan, or find some help. Or host a #deathdinner of your own. It really isn't morbid. We had great conversations, plenty of laughs, and some good food, too. Here's the link again, just in case it helps. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.