Tending to Endings (two)
I first heard about Death Cafés when they started receiving press in 2013, and I didn’t think they were for me. The New York Times compared them to salons in the European tradition, but where the topic was always death. I was a live-for-today person. Death was in the future. Why focus on it?
But last summer, when my friend Mary Ellen asked me if I wanted to attend a Death Café, I said yes. What changed between then and now is that I lost people. Also, I entered middle age and began suspecting I really might be mortal. Also, I had seen death up close and it was not what I expected. Most of all, in caring for my mother during the end of her life, I became aware that death is not actually in the future. It is happening all around us every day. Almost everyone I know is walking through end-of-life issues with someone close to them.
And yet, many of us find it difficult to talk about these experiences. More than religion or politics. More than anatomically correct names for genitalia. Death is what shall not be named at the Thanksgiving table or almost anywhere. It is a rule no one told me but that I have always known: Death is private.
I’ve been to exactly two Death Cafés, so I’m no expert. But I wanted to share my experiences here as a potential resource for those looking for more conversation related to end-of-life issues. The Death Café website gives helpful information, particularly on what Death Café is not. It is not a class or a grief support group. It is not a place to proselytize or advertise. It is a place “to eat cake, drink tea, and discuss death.”
My first was held at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Garden City last September. When I sat down, I was surprised to find myself next to a friend who I hadn’t seen in years, a pediatric oncology nurse. Of course, I thought, there are other people who are aware that death happens all around us.
The groups were facilitated by people with career knowledge about death and dying: a social worker, a therapist, a Buddhist chaplain. But the conversation was unplanned and diverse, and our facilitator mostly kept it moving with gentle prompts and questions.
Death Café isn’t a class, but I learned things. Participants came with a wide range of perspectives—healthcare professionals and social workers and people interested in the death positive movement and quite a few caregivers. It was interesting to hear people talk about the end-of-life from so many angles.
Our group moved easily from one topic to another. We talked about ways to begin the conversation of advanced directives with family members; about what it was like to sit by a loved one’s side as they died; about what people envisioned as a good death for themselves.
Our time together included a few teary moments and lots of laughter and interesting questions that got me thinking. But probably the group’s biggest gift for me was how ordinary and open the conversation seemed. Death Café is a place where talking about death is expected. You don’t have to get over the awkward hump of introducing a topic many find difficult to discuss.
One reason I have hope this will become easier in everyday life is because it already has, maybe not with death, but with birth. During my mother’s and her mother’s generation women often didn’t know what to expect when they were expecting. Pregnancy and birth were considered too private to discuss: too scary, too painful, too personal. One consequence of keeping birth (or death) secret is that an important life transition becomes viewed primarily through a medical lens.
I had a complicated twin pregnancy and will always be grateful for the healthcare advancements that saved my sons’ lives. But the story of their birth was much more than a medical journey and so was my own. New motherhood changed my identity, family dynamics, body, ethical and spiritual perspective, career trajectory, finances, friendships, and a host of concrete things like insurance and my sleep cycle. Thanks to a cultural shift that happened between my mother’s generation and mine, I did not feel alone in talking or writing about those changes.
Death, too, is a bigger story, and the death of someone close affects many of these same areas (identity, family dynamics, finances, sleep…). While death may also have some unique hurdles (birth doesn’t need a positivity movement), I believe we have a great deal to gain by being open to conversations about the end of life.
Death Café is one place to start. Participation is free and on a drop-in basis. You do not have to sign up. In addition to the Death Café website, Death Café Boise on Facebook gives local information including dates and locations of gatherings. The next Boise Café is schedule for March 16, 7 pm at Congregation Ahavath Beth Israel in Boise.
But if Death Café is not your cup of tea, or if there isn’t one in your area, or you want to get started sooner than March, it is not hard to replicate Death Café’s main purpose with a group of friends. The more I’ve waded into this topic, the more I have discovered that the awkwardness around death is often just lack of practice, and others, too, are hungry for conversation.
Next week, I’ll write about why I keep recommending two books: Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal, and Sallie Tisdale’s Advice for Future Corpses (and Those Who Love Them).
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