I remember well the death of my grandmother, when I was about twelve. She had a heart attack at home and died in her husband’s arms. Her body was laid out by the local handywoman, who was also the local midwife, and placed in an open coffin in the main room for friends and neighbours to come in and pay their respects. This was common practice. It may seem gruesome now, but in those days practically everyone felt it was right and fitting to go to the house with the purpose of seeing the body. They would stand quietly beside the open coffin, offer some suitable words of condolence to the bereaved, and perhaps reflect for a few minutes on life and death and their own mortality (nothing concentrates the mind so powerfully as the sight of a dead body). This is still practised on state occasions and on the death of royalty. It is a practice that is also routine in the Orthodox Church.
On the day of my grandmother’s funeral, the street was quiet. Every house had the curtains drawn and neighbours stood in their doorways as the funeral procession passed on its way to the church. Shopkeepers closed their shops for a while, and this ritual greatly helped my grandfather. I know, because he told me so. ‘She was treated with proper respect,’ he said. Afterwards, he did not have to hide his grief because neighbours understood and gathered round to support him. He lived alone for twelve years after her death, but was never lonely.
For many years afterwards the whole family gathered at Grandad’s house on her birthday and took flowers to her grave. I remember my uncles and aunts, a noisy bunch, joking their way through the woods to her graveside, where we all sang her favourite hymn. Then we all walked back to the house for a party. For my grandfather, this continued family ritual was just as important as the rituals at the time of her death.
Bereavement can be a devastating event. Dark clouds seem to cover the face of the earth. Reality evaporates and movement is suspended. An abyss of despair seems but a step away. The experience is very much eased if you have had the time to prepare for it, but there is no preparation for sudden or violent death and the shock that comes with it. The distress can be so traumatic it can lead to illness, and if the relative has to go to the mortuary to identify the body, particularly if it has been mutilated, the trauma can go on for years. There is always the question, ‘Why? Why did God allow it? There can be no God if such a thing can happen.’ Rage, hatred, and bitterness can burn or corrode, and often there is anger. Usually, God has to take all the blame, even from people who don’t believe in Him. Depression can follow, and years of professional counselling may be necessary. If true clinical depression develops, anti-depressant and psychiatric drugs are often prescribed: but this is not always the best way of treating a severe response to a life event.
In bereavement, only time – occasionally years of time – can heal and allow the person to start living again. It is a time of emotional crisis, and the greatest need is for companionship – not all the while, just someone to be there from time to time to listen, talk, occasionally to hold a hand, or even to take over for a while. But sadly most people, especially elderly widows, find themselves isolated and edged out of society if they have no man to accompany them. Most of us are so screwed up about death that we cannot even bring ourselves to talk to someone in mourning and the feeling of abandonment compounds the loneliness that inevitably follows the loss of a life partner or loved one.
Consequently, the bereaved will often try to hide their grief in a number of ways. They try to be cheerful and pretend everything is all right when, really, they are breaking apart inside and only want to cry and cry. Suppressing grief is a recipe for disaster and many people who act in this way suffer physical or mental ill-health at a later date.
Society has changed so much in the last fifty years. Families are smaller and move about more, communities barely exist – a group of strangers thrown together cannot be described as a community. Counsellors take the place of friends and neighbours, and bereavement groups replace communities. These are vitally important, and some have described them as lifesavers – ‘I don’t think I would be alive now if it had not been for my counsellor’. All hospices, NHS hospitals, most local councils, and most churches run bereavement groups in which people can sit and talk about their loved ones – and simply talking about the departed is frequently all that is needed. Such groups are important, because someone who has already suffered and recovered from a devastating loss can communicate meaningfully with others in the same position.
To be present at the time of death can be one of the most important moments in life. To see those last, awesome minutes of transition from life into death can only be described as a spiritual experience. And then afterwards, when the body lies still, one gets the strange feeling that the person has simply gone away, as though he has said, ‘I’m just going into the other room. I’ll leave that thing there while I’m gone; I won’t be needing it.’ It’s a very odd experience – the body is there, but the person has gone. No one would say, ‘I am a body’; we say, ‘I have a body’. So what, therefore, is the ‘I’? The ‘I’ or perhaps ‘me’ has just stepped into the other room. It is a strange feeling, and I can’t describe it in any other way. Another thing that is strange is that the body left behind looks smaller, quite a lot smaller, than the living person. The face looks the same, but calm and relaxed, wrinkles and worry lines are smoothed, and a feeling of serenity pervades the entire room. But the person, the ‘I’, has gone.
It also greatly helps the process of mourning to see the body after death, and preferably to assist in the laying out. Nurses used to do the job when I was young girl, and we always asked the relatives if they wanted to help. Nurses don’t do it any more, but anyone can ask the morticians if they can assist, and they will not be refused, even though it would be unusual these days. Respectful laying-out is all part of the ritual to which a dead person is entitled. Handling a dead body is not a repugnant or frightening experience and, somehow, it helps to accept the fact that the soul of that person has gone if you treat the body with reverence and respect before it is finally disposed of by cremation or burial.
The husband of one of my dearest friends died in hospital of lung cancer, but she was with him most of the time in the last few weeks. She told me, ‘I was with him, and I could see that he was going to die, so I pulled the curtains round and lay on the bed beside him. I took him in my arms (he weighed almost nothing, he was so thin) and whispered to him and kissed him. He knew I was there. Then he just stopped breathing, but I didn’t move. I stayed there with him until he was quite cold. Then I got up and went to one of the nurses and told them that he had gone. The nurse came to check, and touched him.
‘“But he’s quite cold,” she said. “When did he die?”
‘“It was at half past two – I know because I looked at my watch.”
‘“But you should have come and called one of the staff; it’s nearly four o’clock now,” the nurse said.
‘“No, I wanted to be alone with him, quietly, lovingly, giving him time for his soul to leave his body.”
‘“This is most unusual,” remarked the nurse, and gave me a very funny look. But I didn’t care what anyone thought. I knew that he was safely on his way to wherever we go after we die, and I left the hospital, happy.’
Counsellors tell me that, increasingly, they encounter guilt associated with grief in bereavement. This is often because most people die in hospitals and not at home, and those left behind feel they have let the loved one down. They feel a sense of shame that he or she died alone, in the care of strangers. In my own life, I know that I still feel guilty, after thirty years, that my poor mother died alone, even though I also know that I was forcibly prevented by a couple of strong orderlies from entering the resuscitation room in which she died. In contrast, in 1996, my mother-in-law died at home in her daughter’s arms, and she described this as a beautiful, peaceful death. My sister-in-law was very close to her mother, but her bereavement has been eased by the knowledge that she did her duty, with love, right to the end. When talking about it
, she repeatedly uses the word ‘beautiful’.
Many hospitals, and all hospices, now try to offer support to enable people to die at home. Support for the relatives, I mean, because it is not always easy, especially if the last stages of illness are prolonged. To be able to die at home is what most people want and, if it is possible, close relatives want it also. There have been many attempts to reverse the national trend towards a hospitalised death in recent years, such as the National End of Life Care Programme, the Liverpool Care Pathway, the Gold Standard for the Care of the Dying. Every hospital trust now has such a policy in place.
Charles, an old friend of mine, died at home in December 2005. His wife, Dorothy, was with him.
Talking with a widow shortly after her husband’s death can be a moving experience. There is no pretence, no effort to make an impression, just the loss and the depth of memories. Sentences are broken, disjointed, started and not finished. Thoughts are random. I will use Dorothy’s own words as I wrote them down:
‘He had prostate cancer twelve years ago, but recovered, and was active till nearly the end … but in July I could see that he was going down in health … he had no pain … it was a big effort for him to do anything … no pain … just weariness … he didn’t realise at the time that he was dying … the pain only started on Sunday … perhaps the cancer had come back … I don’t know … the Macmillan nurses came and he had morphine patches… slow release, you know … very good, very effective … on Thursday he was worse, and he said “I think I am dying” … I said, “Don’t worry, I am with you and will stay with you” … but on Friday he was bright and breezy … until the last day he went to the lavatory by himself, with a Zimmer frame, you know … and he shaved himself… his hand was steady … the weather was beautiful, really beautiful… he went to the window and looked at the sun on the garden and said, “The world has never seemed more beautiful … I want to take a photograph, and you can remember our last days” … I fetched his camera, and he took five pictures… I have them here … they are beautiful … then he went back to bed … he never got up again … he knew he was dying … he had said many times, “If I have to go into hospital I will find a way of killing myself” … I had already promised him that he would not, because I would look after him … the doctor came that day and said he would probably live another two or three weeks but I said no, he is dying … I can see it in his eyes … Friday night he wanted no supper, and he wouldn’t drink, either … it was a terrible struggle to get him to take even a few sips of water … I could see by his eyes he was going, and I called the children … I have a son, three daughters and six grandchildren … One of them said she would stay with him during the night, whilst I got some sleep … at three o’clock she woke me up and said, “He is dying, you are right, his breathing is very slow, he is going” … I held him, saying over and over again, “Go in peace, don’t worry, you are safe, go in peace” … I kept saying these things all the time … he heard me and understood … he knew he was dying … his breathing was getting slower … slowly, slowly, he went away … After that I didn’t leave him … he was not conscious, but I kept saying, “Go in peace, my love, don’t worry, everything is all right, go in peace” … and slowly, slowly, he went away … and his breathing stopped at eleven thirty in the morning … it was a beautiful day, the sun was streaming through the window … it was a beautiful death, too … we laid him out… a day or two later I found a note in the drawer of the cupboard beside his bed … it read, “I hope the love I have for you will linger on and support you through the last years which I had so longed to share with you …” (She showed me the note, written in spindly, shaking handwriting.) … he must have written that for me a few days before he died … so you see, he knew he was dying … we were married fifty-two years … it was a perfect ending … I am not sad … lonely, yes, but not sad.’
Then Dorothy told me that one of her daughters arrived with her son, a boy of thirteen, after the death had occurred. The boy said, ‘I want to go into the bedroom to be with Grandfather for a while. Don’t come in, any of you. I just want to be by myself, alone with him.’ He shut the door, and ten minutes later, quietly and solemnly, came out. But he never said a word about his thoughts and feelings.
That boy showed a maturity and wisdom beyond his years. He faced up to death in the only way that is meaningful – by being close to it. It was an act of love, but also an act of sound common sense, which some instinct told him was necessary. He voluntarily drew close to death, and was not afraid, an experience that will stay with him as he grows and matures.
The last words of the last monastic office of the day are, ‘Lord, grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.’ It is something that we can all pray for, but it is something that we can in no way command, because, at the end we are entirely dependent on the love and goodness of others.
The turning point in many lives is bereavement. Many have channelled their grief into activities for public benefit, and this has helped them transform bad into good. For example: Philip Lawrence, headmaster, was murdered outside his school in 1995, while trying to defend one of his pupils from an attack by a gang from another school. His widow set up an award scheme for good citizenship by young people, and works towards this aim.
In 1863, after her four-year-old daughter fell downstairs and broke her neck, Josephine Butler started working with young girls dragged into prostitution, and her lifelong work led to the repeal of the Contagious Diseases Act in 1886. There have been many examples of courageous and life-changing activities of lasting value inspired by the trauma of bereavement.
Facing death induces us to see life through new eyes; our perspective is altered, sometimes profoundly. Most of us live a headlong existence, so we are too busy to question the meaning of life. Suddenly all is changed, all our values are open to question and doubt. Even those who are non-believers begin to search for answers to questions like, ‘What is the meaning of life?’ ‘Why are we here?’ ‘What is life?’ ‘What is death?’ Bereavement leads some of us to think that there must be more to life than that which is concrete and visible, and we find there is a larger, deeper purpose than we had ever suspected. For some, asking these questions, even though there can be no positive answers, can transform their whole way of living.
1965
STROKE
Mrs Doherty’s life, for many years, had been perfect, she told all her friends and neighbours. ‘Who could ask for more at my age? I’m in good health, I am independent, I am always busy, but can go on holiday whenever I want. Above all, I see my grandchildren all the time. I miss my dear husband very much, but Jamie has been very good to me since his father died.’
James and Tessa Doherty had three children aged between six and sixteen at the time of this story. They had a large house and garden, and when Jamie’s mother was widowed, they suggested she should come and live with them; but Mrs Doherty valued her independence and did not want to relinquish it. However, a few years later, the house adjoining the bottom of their garden came on to the market and Jamie suggested that they should buy it for his mother. He pointed out that she would have complete privacy and independence, but also be close to her family as she grew older. Mrs Doherty inspected the house, and hesitated. She loved the home she had shared with her husband for forty years, in which they had brought up three children, but she knew that it was too big for one person; she was getting older and would have to move at some stage. The children ran around the empty house with her, full of excitement. ‘You’ll be coming to live near us, Granny. Lovely!’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she replied cautiously. ‘Let me think about it.’
‘Please,’ they chorused. ‘Please, Granny’
‘Don’t pressure me,’ she said.
What tipped the balance of her indecision was the remark of one of the boys:
‘Daddy can cut a hole in the fence, and make a gate, then we can come and see you whenever we want to.’
That did it. Any woman wou
ld have been foolish to refuse. In due course her large house was sold, the new one bought, and the move accomplished. It was total success from every point of view. She had a small but comfortable home, a small garden which she valued, and complete independence. Jamie duly removed a section of fence between the two properties, and a gate was installed, which was always left open. Not only the children, but the dog, ran freely from one house to the other.
Mothers-in-law can frequently be a pain to their daughters-in-law. But Tessa had no such complaint. In fact, she valued her mother-in-law’s proximity, help and company. She was expecting her fourth baby and was feeling more tired than she had in the other pregnancies. The three children, all under ten, were a handful. The summer holidays came, and Tessa was in the last weeks of pregnancy; it was hot, and half the time she was exhausted. The fact that she could send the children down the garden to Granny was a great relief to her. ‘I don’t know how I would manage without you,’ she said. But what she valued most, she realised, was the fact that her mother-in-law never criticised and never interfered. She was helpful, but neither demanding nor domineering. Jamie was delighted. After all, the whole idea had been his in the first place. He congratulated himself on a good plan well executed.
The eldest sibling in the Doherty family, Priscilla, was a successful accountant who lived in Durham with her husband and children. She maintained a good relationship with Jamie, although they did not see each other all that often. Their sister, Maggie, was a freelance journalist for women’s magazines, and a writer of romantic short stories. She had struggled to hit the big time, but had never quite managed it. She was unmarried, but had had a succession of men, each of whom she maintained she loved, and whom her mother hoped would prove to be ‘Mr Right’. But something always happened, and the relationship broke down.
In the Midst of Life Page 17