I'm one of those people who use euphemisms only jocularly, and not in place of a plain word that ought to said. So I don't refer to people 'passing', meaning dying. Or that they 'passed away' peacefully at three in the morning. No, they died. It's not a taboo word. And it states what happened: they lost consciousness, and that was their end. It's not disrespectful, nor unbearably blunt.
So I say 'my brother Wayne died in a car accident just before Christmas 1995'. He had a violent end. I don't flinch from it.
And I say 'my Mum had terminal cancer but died of a stroke in February 2009'. That's how it was.
And I say 'my Dad missed Mum terribly, and died not long after in May 2009 of a cardiac arrest'. He died on his feet. He died at the tail end of an evening at home, in warmth and comfort. I knew his habits. He'd had a good fry-up for his evening meal, then a relaxing shower. Then he had sat in the very green armchair I'm sitting in, and typing this from, clad in his dressing gown and pyjamas, with a towel round his neck. He had enjoyed a chapter of his cowboy book, and a tot of his favourite whisky. Then he had braced himself to get out of the armchair, but the strain of heaving himself to his feet on arthritic ankles was too much for his heart, and he had time only to punch the red button on the emergency gadget around his neck, which summoned the paramedics. Then he had slumped to the carpet and died.
I wasn't there. I was in the Cottage, half an hour away in Piddinghoe. I was up late, and at 1.00am could respond to a knock on my front door, only to find two glum-faced policemen, who broke the news to me at second-hand. But next morning, viewing the scene, I could read it like a book and reconstruct how Dad's last moments must have unfolded.
I had to deal with the coroner of course. A sudden death at home when apparently alone. But fortunately Dad didn't have to be kept refrigerated for too long.
I caught up with him next at the funeral parlour, and in fact had more than ample time with his corpse. While I was alone with him in the narrow back room, a distraught man who had lost his wife came in and broke down. I felt it was impossible to emerge and thank the lady in charge while that man was in the full flood of his grief. In fact I had to stay with Dad for a long forty minutes. Believe me, I had plenty of time to contemplate death close up. Tidied-up death, anyway. I sort of came to terms with it. As to some extent I had done already with Mum, at the same funeral parlour, but for a much shorter time. Sitting next to one's dead parents isn't the happiest thing you can do. But it gave me time for a quiet and unhurried farewell. Typical of 2009. A testing year for me, a year full of extraordinary changes, some of them challenging, many of them ongoing. Becoming an orphan was just one of several unique experiences. But then, we all become orphans at some point.
At least I gained some insight into the many effects of a death. I now had to live without any safety net: it had entirely gone. I had to be completely self-responsible. On the other hand, I gained complete control over what I could do. I may not have become the world's finest citizen, but I have grown hugely in self-confidence, and surely I've jettisoned off a boatload of humbug, false modesty and fear. In any case, I'm an optimist, which goes a long way.
So death can be transformational for those left behind. It improved me. And it doesn't faze me. I am genuinely sorry to hear about anyone dying, but it has to come sometime. And while there is no such thing as a 'good death', or a death that anyone can (in normal circumstances) look forward to, there does seem to be a 'right time' for dying. Various people say so. And it seems reasonable to me.
So one shouldn't fret if, after a long and engaging life in good health, the body signals that it's time to quit. Hopefully there will be enough warning to get one's affairs in order, and possibly say goodbye to all who deserve a fond adieu. And then (hopefully) one will drift away into oblivion while in bed, or reclined in a sunny chair one sunny afternoon. Perhaps thinking of someone, or a place that meant a lot. Or an idea. Or just a phrase that someone once said, that bubbles up from nowhere. A single word, perhaps, that harkens back to childhood. (Though probably not 'Rosebud')
I don't believe in souls and an afterlife. I think I will be utterly gone, and won't have the consciousness to know, or care, what happens to me. Putting that another way, I won't 'pass' from one existence to another. I'll be alive one moment, then dead the next, and that will be the end of the story. Soon 'tworms will come and eat me up, but I won't know about it.
What I do believe is that even at seventy-four my death is still a long way off. I feel I have a stake in the next twenty or thirty years. I am planning for that. I'm very keen to see what happens. And if I end up as a gun-toting scavenger amid the silent ruins of once-thriving cities, with nobody to speak to, and emboldened feral creatures to beware of, then so be it. Although I think the future will be better than that, and well worth the care and effort of staying alive.
So I don't like receiving stuff through my front door about funeral plans. I haven't asked. It's annoying, and feels almost insulting.
One funeral plan offer came yesterday, from an outfit called Pure Cremation, who claim to be a 'Best Funeral Plan Provider', and the receiver of a Personal Finance Award. The envelope was making an offer that ended on 27th November, just over three weeks ahead. It said: 'Free inside - your guide to the perfect send-off'. And 'BIGGEST-EVER SAVING'. And 'GET £150 OFF'. With a footnote at the bottom of the envelope, 'Plus, news about the nation's favourite funeral plan'. On the back of the envelope, '4.9 out of 5' in reviews. And naturally a Trustpilot score of '4.8 out of 5'. And another footnote: 'Britain's more affordable, most trusted funeral plan'. All of this to entice the elderly 'Ms Lucy Melford' (as they called me: I hate being called 'Ms'; it's 'Miss') to open the envelope carefully and study the contents. I ripped it in half and binned it.
But today, fired up to blog about this, I retrieved it temporarily from the bin to see what I would have read.
The general tone was OK. It just felt very premature, and inappropriate when I'm still an active person with a love of life, and plenty left to do. How dare they assume that I am on my way out! How dare they sell cremation like a mobility scooter or a leather sofa. But of course they are not the only guilty ones.
As to the offer, it certainly was 'pure cremation', done on an 'unattended funeral' basis. No hearse or flowers. No ceremony. No celebrant. No choice of crematorium. My corpse would be collected, and taken in a wooden coffin to whatever crematorium the firm used, then cremated. The ashes would be hand-returned to any mainland address in England, Wales and Scotland. All for a single payment of £2,045.
I could pay in instalments, such as 24 months at £99.99 per month = £2,399.76. Or if that would be too much of a drain on my possibly meagre income, I could pay only £29.99 a month for 120 months = £3,598.80.
I suppose these figures are competitive, but I'm not taking the bait. I don't regard arranging my funeral as my personal problem. I'll leave enough easy-access money for my executrix to buy an off-the-shelf humanist affair. As a memorial, I would like a plaque on a bench somewhere, perhaps under the tree in the square at Kentisbeare in Devon (Dad was born in Kentisbeare in 1920), or (ideally, in my dreams) among the long line of benches that overlook Padstow and the River Camel in Cornwall. But that's all.
I don't want any more of these funeral offers. I want to live, not die. I'm not hiding from eventual death, but there's no need to make hard and fast plans for a great send-off so far in advance. And it could be money down the drain. I mean, will my estate get a refund if there's nothing to cremate, as might be the case if I'm lost at sea while cruising, or vaporised by an invading alien's ray-gun? Well, who knows what's around the bend...
If you would like to give me feedback on this post, or make an enquiry, please email me from my Blog Profile.
