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The intimacy of
Death
and
Dying
SIMPLE GUIDANCE
TO HELP YOU THROUGH
Claire Leimbach, Trypheyna McShane,
Zenith Virago
Photo acknowledgements
Pages ii, 37, 52, 64, 77, 193 Claire Leimbach
Page 28 Kayo Jeandel
Pages 98, 174, 215, 239 Jeff Dawson
Pages 128, 151 Trypheyna McShane
Page 250 Merilee Bennett
First published in 2009
Copyright © Claire Leimbach, Trypheyna McShane and Zenith Virago
2009
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per
cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any
educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the
educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a
remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Inspired Living, an imprint of
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74175 894 8
Internal design by Mathematics
Flower illustrations by Trypheyna McShane
Set in 10/14 pt Sabon by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In gratitude
to
Trish, John and Sylvia
and all who have gone before to light the way
Birth and death are only doors through which we pass,
sacred thresholds on our journey.
Birth and death are a game of hide-and-seek.
So laugh with me, hold my hand,
let us say good-bye, say good-bye, to meet again soon.
Thich Nhat Hanh
Contents
Foreword by Anne Deveson AO
Preface
Talking about death
Losing my mother to cancer
Maggie Haertsch
Embracing death
Travelling across the world to be with my dying father
Claire Leimbach
Choosing burial or cremation
Making my mother’s last summer special
David Hauserman
Getting the funeral organised
Caring for my dying father at home
Kate Maguire
Dying at home
Losing my mother to Alzheimer’s
Anna Maguire
Dying in hospital or a hospice
The magic of a dying wish
Trypheyna McShane
Supporting someone with a terminal illness
Single, but not alone
Laura Upsall
Putting together the ceremony
A brilliant ending
Yantra de Vilder
Taking care of the practical details
Till death do us party
Tony Narracott and Zenith Virago
Organising the wake
Caring for my ex-husband
Harriett Clutterbuck
Caring for the carers
Losing a young father and husband
Jennifer Lalor
Helping our children with grief
Suddenly she was gone
Zenith Virago
Spending time with the body
Lost at sea
Jill Trevillian
When you don’t have a body to grieve over
Never coming home from work
Trypheyna McShane
Workplace accidents
Losing my husband to suicide
Gayle Cue
When someone takes their own life
My teenage son died on the road
Chris Green and friends
Unexpected outcomes
Losing our daughter to ecstasy
Angela and Tony Wood
Supporting teenagers
Two babies, one heartbeat
Jodi Osborne
Death of little ones
My first baby dies at birth
Vanessa Gorman
Acknowledging grief
Losing my little son
Lulu Exton Pery
Creativity in grief
My little boy sensed his death
Carmella B’Hahn
Premonitions and insights
It’s never too late
Natasha Burns
The gift of humour
Jean-Paul Bell
Further reading
Helpful websites and contacts
Acknowledgements
About the authors
Foreword
Not so very long ago, when I reached my 78th birthday, I was lying back
luxuriating in the thought that I was still only getting older when, as if I had
been given an electric shock, I suddenly realised that I wasn’t just getting
older, I was old.
‘Old, old, old’, my daughter Georgia had written in a poem when she was
about five years of age. ‘His hands were wivvered and trembling with cold.’
I looked down at my hands. They weren’t yet ‘wivvered’ and, as it was
summer, there wasn’t much chance of them dropping off with cold. I leaped
out of bed, feeling young, young, young, (not true, but I did creak my way
out of bed).
Later, I realised this had been an important awakening. A jump from
acknowledging that I was old, into a place where I was suddenly and
vividly embracing my own mortality. It may sound strange that I’d hidden
this reckoning for so long. It wasn’t that I was fearful of death, nor that I
had surrendered myself to cosmetic surgery, but I think I had been so active
and alert in my daily life that this was where I had chosen to spend most of
my being.
The majority of us are brought up with all manner of notions about age
and dying. ‘Death comes to everyone’, ‘death is all in the mind’ or, ‘do not
go gentle into that good night … rage, rage, rage against the dying of the
light.’ And one that I particularly like, by Woody Allen: ‘It’s not that I’m
afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’
Dr Irvin Yalom reminds us in his book, Staring at the Sun, that death may
come slowly or it may come swiftly, depriving us of the ability to say
goodbye. It is not something we can schedule or control. ‘Death comes to
us whether we’re prepared or not, sometimes stretching us to the limits of
our endurance, refusing to allow us to avoid it, or fix it.’
Another reality is that none of us has any idea of how or when we shall
die. Those who have a serious illness might have a notion of how, but still
can’t be sure of when. Even more certain is that we can’t know how we
shall behave. I think I shall be calm and accepting, but I might turn out to
be a screaming banshee. Who knows? Which is why death is such a
mysterious encounter for all of us, irrespective of faith or lack of faith.
All of us hope for death without pain. Most would like those we love to
be there, with us and for us. We probably would not choose to linger. And
for those who are watching over the dead and dying, we want to move
bravely through our grief. We want funeral arrangements to be smooth. The
mystical and practical to come together with love, tenderness and humour.
Nobody told me that death does not remove a person from life. When I
wrote about the death of my elder son Jonathan who had wrestled with
schizophrenia for seven fierce years, I was able to discover that there had
been meaning within the tortuous journey that was Jonathan’s life. The
meaning was life itself, with all its paradoxes, its joy and its pain, its
weakness and its strength, its anger and its love. Perhaps experiences of
death happen at times of intense grief or joy. Perhaps at these moments, our
subconscious minds are able to break through the confines of everyday life,
and remind us we are part of a much bigger existence, one that has no
boundaries.
‘Grief never leaves you,’ I once heard writer V.S. Naipaul say, ‘but it
mutates into a deepening awareness of the greater capacity for love, and an
extraordinary awareness of the interconnectedness of life.’
That is why this book, The Intimacy of Death and Dying, fills such a
comforting hollow in the uncertainty of our lives. It tells us how to plump
the pillows, how to speak to death, what it might bring to us, who shall be
invited to the last supper, and how. It makes death seem familiar, something
we can accept, be practical about, be frightened, find strength through
friends. The stories in this book are brave and honest. The authors have
been generous with their thoughts and experiences. They write of the
luminescence of death and its sometime wretchedness. They bring us to the
bedsides of families and friends. I read with gratitude.
Preface
Death and dying unite us in a common humanity. There are many books on
the subject, but few speak to us from the heart. They don’t express how
deeply personal the experience is of having someone die—nor the
uniqueness of every journey. We don’t talk much about death either, so we
don’t have a rich resource to draw on, to support us in finding our own way
through this life-changing process. Without awareness of these potentials
it’s hard for people to express everything they hold in their hearts, and to
find the gifts amongst the sadness, bewilderment and pain.
There’s something very liberating when we share with each other the
profound stories of our lives. This was a vital element for us in writing this
book. We wanted it to be real, to be human, and to provide stepping-stones
for others facing the care of someone who is dying, and support them in
finding their own way to honour a loved one who has died. That’s why The
Intimacy of Death and Dying presents so many personal stories of the
journeys others have taken. We wanted readers to have information that was
tangible, to gain real comfort from knowing others have faced terminal
illness, the death of a child, lingering death, accidents, suicide and many
other situations around death.
We also wanted to give people as much information as possible because
death offers us so many opportunities, to reassess who we are and what we
want from our own lives, to care for someone we love, to make last wishes
come true, to be creative, to find laughter in the midst of sadness and to
celebrate life. The book is filled with simple, practical advice on everything
from caring for loved ones at home and what you might expect if someone
chooses to die in hospital, to dealing with paperwork and organising a
funeral. Dozens of suggestions are made on how to make the remaining
time with a loved one truly special, how to keep them comfortable and
nurtured, and the wonderful opportunities available for celebrating their life
once they are gone.
The many personal stories also help readers understand the intimate
landscape of death and dying—from bewilderment and sometimes
paralysing fear, to unexpected miracles and humour even in the face of
terrible tragedy. Our commitment to conveying the gifts that come with
death and dying is born of many years’ experience, and we believe by
embracing death we are able to live life more fully.
Talking about death
There’s no rehearsal for death; that’s what can make it so challenging—that
and the fact that death often meets us unexpectedly when we are least
prepared to face such loss. It is not something we can schedule or control.
Death is a journey we all have to take sooner or later. It’s possibly the
biggest journey we will ever take. So why would we not want to explore the
nuances of death, as it also offers us many gifts?
A good death is possible, a good funeral is crucial, not so much for the
person who has died, but for the bereaved. Preparation, consideration and
open dialogue with family and friends are essential elements of both, and
they go a long way in making the entire experience one that is easier to
bear, more meaningful and appropriate, and even one that offers us useful
and sometimes deeply rewarding insights.
Not everything about death is sad and scary. There can be moments of
intense love, supreme happiness, unexpected kindness, even laughter. The
stories and guidance we offer allow you the chance to explore the rich
landscape of death and dying, so that you too can discover what we have
learnt and are still learning—that death offers us far more than we might
imagine.
Every death is uniquely different, just as we are as individuals. In sharing
their experiences, these storytellers hope to encourage a deeper insight into
life and living through being prepared to embrace death and dying.
The more conscious we can be, the better we will deal with our process
of loss and grief. It may still be painful, but we will be able to be with
ourselves and each other in a more understanding and compassionate way.
As we set out on our journey together, we want to share with you what
we have learnt during the many years we have spent with those who are
dying. We have included guidance, because there are lots of considerations
and decisions to be made while caring for a loved one, and after they are
gone. Seeing how others handled the detail can help take the pressure off
you. It can also spark your own creative ways of handling the situation you
face. The important thing is to take what feels right and useful, for you
know in your heart what your loved one and you most need.
We have often been asked: Who is this book for? This book is for
everyone.
Losing my mother to cancer
The day after my father’s sudden death I was helping my mum, Fran, to
dress in their bedroom. The furniture was still out of place from the
paramedics being there. Mum looked up at the phone, blaming herself for
not having rung the ambulance immediately. Instead, she had rung
neighbours for help. It was a massive and sudden stroke that killed him. No-
one had been prepared for this.
There was a vacant disbelief that Dad would never lie on his side of the
bed again. His bedside drawers still held the loose coins from his pockets.
His shoes and thick, woollen work socks lay near his wardrobe. You could
smell him in the air. His pillow held a vague Brylcreem scent, clothes
evidence of his work in the garden. There was an expectant feeling that he
would be back from the bathroom any moment. That I would hear his deep
voice, bellowing laugh and limping rhythmic gait coming up the long
hallway.
I helped Mum lift her arm through her shirt sleeve. Her right arm. The
one with nerve damage and swelling from a period of radiotherapy twenty
years before. I noticed two large, weeping sores on her upper arm that
needed dressing. I asked Mum what they were.
‘Oh Maggie, don’t worry, they’re just tumours.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘Well, the breast cancer has come back again.’
From that day onwards, Mum did not spend a single night on her own
and the four of us children cared for her. When we were to bury Dad, Mum
had bought a double plot in the lawn cemetery. It never crossed my mind
that she might be joining him so soon.
