Dying to Know

“I’ll be dead.”

My neighbour holds her wine glass and continues: “I don’t care, because I’ll be dead.”  

We are chatting about her funeral, eulogy and how she would like to be remembered.   I haven’t even asked her about her thoughts of coffin verses shroud.  Priest verses celebrant?  Home burial? 

Whilst it’s true that funerals are ‘for the living” it seems my friend can walk out of her life without a care in the world or a backward glance, but it’s not for me.

Us ‘deathies’  who work in the funeral business, love to discuss other’s funeral plans and we enjoy asking the big questions of life, and death. 

We are the death whisperers.  We are the people who give you permission to think and plan.

The thing that makes us human is that we know we will die one day. It’s what urges us on to live, knowing that the death stopwatch is ticking every second.  Having frank conversations of your own death, can give you an unexpected calmness and confidence.  These days anything goes, and new professions are being born such as funeral planners, and death doulas, or palliative carers.

‘Dying to Know Day’ is an occasion to create social and cultural change about death and dying.   The aim is to promote resilience and well-being in response to end-of-life issues, and to encourage people to build their death literacy.  It’s not morbid, in fact quite the opposite!

It’s a breath of fresh air - opening a window in your life to plan and discuss your own thoughts and wishes  with your loved ones.

Just as talking about pregnancy or chocolate won't make you pregnant or fat, chatting about death won't kill you!  

Discussion on death, dying and funerals is the new black, with Death Cafes being held regularly in Brisbane and internationally. Death Cafes are not grief workshops, nor are they support groups.   A Death Café is where people, often strangers, meet to have open and frank discussions about death, dying and grief, within safe boundaries.   Of course there’s cake too, as we celebrate our own lives.

It seems society has turned a cultural philosophical corner but there is a long way to go; we are all on the same train, with some of us getting off at different stations. I urge you to sit down with your family and have a cuppa and that special chat.  Talk about your Wills, chat about end-of-life wishes, and especially discuss and make your Advanced Health Care plan.   You don't need a terminal illness to begin these conversations, in fact, do it whilst you are well and healthy.  Making your Will, organising your Power of Attorney, and Advanced Care planning are all part of your life, and your future. 

Last month I put on my big-girl-pants and bought my own grave, and I couldn't be happier.  It occurred to me that I didn't want to be scattered, as nice as that sounds; I wanted a grieving place for future ancestors to come and visit and point, saying: “Look, they've spelt her name wrong.”

Having my grave chosen and paid for has given me added freedom to live my life.  I've made peace with my own mortality, and it gives me great comfort to know that it’s sorted.   

You'll find me gently resting somewhere in an historic cemetery, high on the hill and under a huge tree (great for photos!) with city and mountain views.

I'll be pushing up daisies, after I've kicked the bucket, how good is that?  The trick is not to fill it too soon.

My sons are relieved as that’s one less thing to worry about; they can sort out my funeral and it better include champagne!

Oh, that’s right, I’ll be dead.  

Life, death, and bubbles in between

Yesterday I chatted about death, dying, and funeral photography. I celebrated end of life traditions and cultures that shape our memories with Golie, a stunning, intelligent PhD student who shares my curiosity of preserving moments of time, fragments of grief, and the beauty of the human spirit.

Calling into the bottle shop to buy a bottle of champagne to toast to our future King, the third in line, a baby in arms: “A bottle to wet the baby’s head” I exclaim, to the confusion of the young attendant and his mate.

‘What is it today with saying that?” he demands. “Everyone’s been saying that all day long, I don’t get it,” and clearly, he doesn’t. “It’s beautiful that so many of the community want to share this special day” I explain, “You don’t really wet the baby’s head, it’s just a saying,”  and I leave him clearly muddled.

It’s hard to pass on a generation of tradition if the kids are plugged into Ipods and earplugs. They aren’t interested and it’s a worrying trend. How can you ignore the past?

Once home I send my friend a dit. Come and share champers, wet the baby’s head!

Within five minutes she tramps up my stairs, flashing her trademark smile. “Thought we should wet the baby’s head” she says, explaining that her message bank service wasn’t working but she had a hunch I’d open champagne. How well she knows me.

A good day is when you celebrate life each day. A great day is when you can reflect equally on death, and the continuation of life and royalty, with bubbles.

Cheers.

On royal Births, and death bombing

With the world waiting for the birth of William and Kate’s baby, I wonder if the young prince will stay overnight in the maternity hospital with their new baby, once born. It reminds me of my own birth experience at Boothville Mother’s Hospital, Windsor. Since closed, it was run by the Salvation Army as not only a “home for single mothers” but also as a natural Birth Centre for low-risk mums-to-be.

In the late 1980’s – long before social media existed, Boothville was welcoming new dads into the labour room and encouraging them to stay the night.  It was the only way dads could become involved in the care of their child, and help as added support to the new mother.

When my own husband would visit me at 6am and then reluctantly return to our empty house, I said to my doctor: "Help! He’s exhausting me."

The hospital was under constant threat of closure due to low patient levels, and Dr Charles Elliott suggested I push for a family room to be added to the hospital, as a way of attracting families.

As hospital closure loomed over our heads, we passionate supporters began a five-year marketing campaign and a relentless promotion to engage the public and tell the story of “Brisbane’s Best Kept Secret”.

On the Private Hospital Board with me were two young women and now lifetime friends; Christine Jackson and Fiona Guthrie.  Together we well-intentioned birth consumers began what is now taken for granted in some hospitals: the father stays overnight, bonding with his new family. Two special family rooms were created, and many young couples made memories and a healthy, loving start to their family life.

Recently a young friend delivered her second child at the Royal Women’s Hospital, and her partner stayed overnight. I wondered if she knew the story of my own husband, and what an ongoing  effect it had on her own relationship, 27 years later!  If the London Paddington Hospital has no family room perhaps Kate might just Skype Wills from her bed?

I understand that a special reclining chair has been requested so that William may rest, no doubt exhausted from his own shouting of Push Latey Katie, push!  Giving birth has evolved to become a social gathering of friends and family with Twitter updates and the obligatory selfies for Facebook.

With television shows such as Call the Midwife, or reality show, The Midwives, it’s easy to see how birthing has evolved from an isolated young mother and her doula, to a more social occasion, shared with birth photographers, support people, and friends.

At the other end of the spectrum of birth, is death. Will we see a rise in death- support people as we age?  The days of dying alone or with only close family may be limited.

I heard author Jesse Blackadder  telling of a ‘third person involved with assisting and supporting my mother’s passing’. 

It seems this friend became involved and helped family to bury personal grievances before they buried their mother, so to speak.  She gently allowed each person to spend special time with their mum, before she passed. Sometimes families need that extra person.

As ageing Baby Boomers are used to creating their own traditions, death might become a passive spectacle, viewed with bored family texting Facebook updates: “No change yet, breathing still regular”.

A new tradition may emerge: Death-bombing. Just like Photo-bombing, described as: “An otherwise normal photo that has been ruined or spoiled by someone who was not supposed to be in the photograph.”

Death-bombing might be the art of overstaying your death-watch welcome, witnessing your loved ones passing, all in the name of being social.  Added family members might have good intentions, but their very presence disallows others to have quality one-on-one time to whisper messages and make memories with their immediate family.

Sometimes death demands privacy, not an audience, with many oldies refusing to go until the family leave the room.

It’s a time that can never be re visited, so perhaps a neutral Death Warden; aiding and directing death-bed traffic, to ease family congestions and smoothing the path towards the Light, might be the birth of a whole new industry.

The Lightness of Being.

“Cheers mum” and we adult children raise our flutes high and toast our dear mother. After a passionate rendition of singing Happy Birthday, complete with hip-hoorays, her casket is wheeled to the waiting hearse; we watch as mum is taken for private cremation.

She wanted to make 93 and so she did, in her own way. After a horrific fall that saw her hospitalised since January - the third fall in as many years - we gave her a very pretty, symbolic, old ladies funeral: can’t ask for better. In fact, it was perfect.

Crystal bowls of her favourite chocolates for everyone to share, stunning posies of native flowers, old friends, familiar faces, a gentle priest and enough great-grandchildren to almost fill the small wooden church. Genuine tears to be sad at our loss, plenty more laughter to remind us that life does indeed go on, at a cracking pace too. Even champagne!

So how are we all coping?  Somehow I have changed. There is lightness now in my life. For the first time I have had to rely on myself.

Although dad has been gone for 9 years, I still miss his booming hello at the end of the phone line; and now there is no smiling mum asking me what my latest project involved. It’s just me now and I like it.  

I now sleep at night, not worrying about her latest injury. What did the doctor say?  Does she need to be moved to a Nursing Home? When was the last time her back was rubbed?   What needs to be done?  Her needs.   Gently caring for our elderly mother has been a loving blessing which was in danger of becoming a chore. And yet it never did. But still, now I can relax, and enjoy my life a little more. I was a good daughter; in fact we were all dutiful, obedient, caring children to our parents, returning the unconditional love shown to us. We not only did our best, but far and beyond that. And we happily exhausted ourselves.

Now, newly orphaned, there isn’t the distress I thought I would feel, only a calmness.

A lightness of being in my own skin, for the first time.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong, have unravelled; as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life. Three old girls dead in four weeks.  I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this Living, without their voices on the end of the phone. Without loving arms surrounding me with joy. Without approval or judgement.

It has to be enough.

Now I am making my own decisions. Missing their opinions and helpful advice, yes, but gladly standing on my own two feet and looking forward to my own life, with confidence.

They say funerals are for the living, and it’s true. We created a memorable Service, which incorporated everything she wanted: The Lord’s Prayer. Traditional of course. Forever and ever, Amen.

The Magnificat. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.

We gave mum what she wanted, and more. Now it’s our turn to live our lives with the same grace and integrity shown to us.

Living with such lightness, demands my feet be grounded. If I am ever in danger of floating away, my memories will form a rock steady base, and with both feet planted safely, my eyes look to my own horizon.

Mum's Passing - Thoughts.

March 19 2013
Thanks everyone else who has taken the time and care to comment, it's beautiful to be cared for by my Facebook family, hugely appreciated. Home now for a glass of red, my sister is showering, then back to hosptial, but not for me. I don't want to do it, I photograph too many dead people to want to see my mum like this. Over it. It was enough to hold dad in my arms as he went, I don't want to do that with mum.
I've said my goodbyes to her, and I am at peace with that. Candles are lit. x

At noon today we thought she would be gone by 1pm. Instead, her breathing regulated, her hands warmed up (!!) and here we are all those hours later. Death is a meanie, taking it's time, teasing and haunting us, every, single, fecking, day. We could still be having this conversation tomorrow! *faints.

Mum says in her halting, stuttering, breathy voice:"I must firmly tell my daughters; Family first". The irony made me weep. *sighs

Only 8 weeks ago today, my *almost 93yo mother, had sparking blue eyes, full of cheek and wit, rasing her wine glass and hugging her many grandchildren. Tonight, we keep virgil over her bed, as she sleeps peacefully snoring. Yoh Wah (*goodbye) Bunty, thanks for everything. I will miss you every day, and will never look at a telephone again without wanting to ring you at 5pm.

Worth sharing: "Go to sleep and rest your eyes. A clear conscience and no regret is what helps you sleep the sleep of babes. You have done what can be done. Believe me do not be afraid of death or the things left unsaid. Instead be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for."

March 20 2013
The wind howls around the house, and cries through the trees: Where is our mother? Where is our mother?

RIP Pearl Warby, our Mother of 3 girls and 3 boys. Reader, gardener, opera lover, wife of a soldier, daughter, sister and mother to us all. Bless you and keep you in His loving arms. Toujours gai - and always a Lady. Yow Wah *goodbye

My 2 sisters are back home, red eyed, happy with grief. Phone calls are made...softly...gently.. We fresh ophans sit and raise our glasses of champagne, toasting our mum.

Playing The Lark Ascending for mum. (*And the lark just rises, going up, and up, and finally, it's out of sight) Having a quiet weep. She always wanted this for her funeral. Today we carefully ironed her beautiful purple blouse we all love, bought fresh white pretty knickers for her, and took her clothes to the funeral arranger. This afternoon we met with the always amazing Fr Cameron and planned her Service. Have to say, it’s going to be beautiful.

Flowers have started to arrive. Thank you to everyone for your kind thoughtfulness, with your loving Facebook posts, your beautiful Twitter messages of support, your phone calls, Sms’s and so on. Please know they are all read, noted, and enjoyed. Bless. X

Mum and I loved Archy and Mehitabel: we would often quote bits to each other. Please enjoy. http://donmarquis.com/archy-and-mehitabel

Happy Birthday Eve my darling mum, tomorrow we send you off with Grace and dignity, style and love. If you could see the waxing moon over Mt Archer, if you could feel the gentle night wind on your cheek once more, and know that your life was charmed, difficult, original and amazing. If you could only know, once more, the feel of my arms around you. I wish! Sleep now my darling girl, sleep now, brave girl. I love you. X

Please bear with me if I indulge in a little 1am quiet sob for my mum, whom I will never know. A private, reserved woman. The stranger in our midst. Yah wah mum. *goodbye

***

My aunty has my mother’s ears, and her own, twisted, paralyzed hands. She moans softly, Mum, mum. I am here.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong; have unravelled, as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life.

I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this living, without her voice on the end of the phone.

Without aunty laughs and arms surrounding me with joy. Without female approval or judgement.

It has be enough.

Twitter:

She actually said: i love you, i love you, the naughty one. Sigh. X

Glad i am here, although i DID say no more death bed scenes. Still, who are we to write the script?

All a part of life & living, this dying business. Sitting cross legged in hall with a cuppa trying 2 get internet

Chatting to nurse Wendy. 'What was your husband like?' to mum. He was a beautiful man, she says. I cried, hearing that.

Mum glances to her right. 'Who's that?' she asks, nodding to the corner of the room. I nudge Carolyn. 'Is it a man or a woman mum?' I ask

She can't tell me. She looks around her room. 'There's 1,2,3 of them' she says. I stare and smile at nothing but curtains and the sink.

Carolyn suggests it might be mums angels, but mum isn't convinced. Yet she still counts them loud. One. Two. Three.

Mum is snoring. So sweet x

Sitting in the hallway playing solitaire, missing my pillow. Glad i am here though. Might make a nest in mums big chair. Goodnight x

Gawd i am freezing! Thin white hospital blanket, brrr. Mum still snoring.

Good morning Groovers. Sis and i at hospital with mum, starving for Maccas breakfast, lol. Long night. Long day ahead. the morphine is making her confused.

Think she "saw" 3 people in the room last night. Kept asking the time since 4am, witching hr

We will go soon, once witching hour has passed, come back later and do it all again.

Sending warm thoughts to you today..."thanks, i will wrap them around my shoulders like an old friend x

"I'm just a patient, who doesn't know: what's it all about?" says mum.

Remember family, says mum, then drifts off with a smile on her face. I wonder what that memory was?

It’s a restless wind in Rocky tonight, yachts jerk, trembling on their anchors, trees shake their manes with impatience, doors rattle.

It's a restless night tonight, the wind slaps the blinds and spanks unseeing windows.

Be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for.

I am at home, listening to the wind shiver around the house. Sisters at hospital. Tired, bedtime xx

Back to sleep 4 me, mums candle went out, big wind here, think she is gone, dunno

RIP my darling mother with the laughing blue eyes, I shall always be grateful to you.

she was always a lady with a wicked sense of intelligence & humour. At peace now. Bless.

I am an ophan, the person who supported me & believed in me, listened to me, is gone. So non-judgmental & loving...

With life, comes death. My mother is teaching me gently, still.

she was our matriarch, much loved we won the jackpot with our parents. Marvellous lives x

I think what I'll miss most is her unconditional support, always interested in whatever funeral I'd film, supportive x

Mum's funeral notice in paper, looks good.

Magpies & crows having animated conversations #Rocky

Such a perfect circle.

Thanks Twitter buddies, give me strength to read the Eulogy (my part) & send her off with dignity.

We want happy funeral, she had a great life. Warby-time is over. Bless

So it is done. We orphans gave mum a dignified, memorable, creative Service. Yoh Wah mum. *goodbye #funerals

A few good men - RIP

Another Qld Flood hero has died.

The good man who skippered the ferry, saving the boardwalk from crashing into the Gateway Bridge, the good man who saved countless lives whilst risking his own in a helicopter in thrashing rain, rescuing people stranded on rooftops, and now the good man in Theodore who helped so many in his own community.

Thank you for your selfless gifts to us, to Queensland, to your community.

Rest now, in Peace.

One Parrot, or two?

Once again I am in Rockhampton, the sleepy hot town of my childhood, but not my birth. I am a Saltwater woman; a beach girl, an ocean spirit who lived her teenage years trapped between the inland humidity of Mt Archer’s shadow, and the closed, tired minds of Rockhampton people.

It’s not true to say nothing changes here. It does, but it takes its time. Nothing changes in a hurry.

The Fitzroy River still ambles its sluggish way to the sea. Boats still glide and turn with the incoming tide; their bows facing the current pushing upstream, turning their backs to the bridge. Trains still shuffle along 'the main street of Rocky' – written once by a travelling writer, and often repeated, whether it’s true, or not.

It’s become folklore; people love to tell tales against this city, and sometimes its deserved, often not.

One thing that has changed with my latest visit is only one parrot hanging off the back door. Usually there are two clowns, gaily decked out wearing their feathered outfits, befitting their silly behaviour. Today there is only one, and he shrieks upside down from the red flowering bottlebrush tree in the front garden.

I wonder where his mate is, as they have almost become family pets, greeting my mother and sister each morning with hungry cries for bread and honey. Mum grew native plants for three decades, and flowering trees and shrubs for the birds to feed upon surround the house; so although there are a lot of natural bush foods here for them to eat, they adore their honey, wiping their sticky beaks of the side of flowering pot plants and sneezing with delight!

It’s almost irresistible to not put my hand out to stroke their colourful feathers. Today there is only one parrot. Perhaps tonight his mate will come, stomping his pigeon-toed parrot feet amongst the parsley, chasing the butcherbirds who come to feed on titbits of mince. I’ll watch for him, and rouse on him, scolding him in a motherly way, before placing bread and honey before his feet.

~

In my mother’s arms, lying across the bed, laying across her chest, I feel her arms wrap strongly around me. She holds me tightly. “I love you Mrs Warby,” I say softly.

She speaks with a strong voice, empowered.

“Some people want to live to 100,and receive the letter from the Queen. I am not one of those people. Enough’s enough.”

She repeats this.

Enough’s enough.

“I am simply being maintained, that’s all you can do at my age. It’s not like I can go to a hospital and have an operation and come out skipping. I’m simply being maintained, and enough is enough.”

There’s nothing more to add to that, and we sit in the cool darkness of her blue bedroom, and hold hands. We don’t speak, but we both sob silently with rage against time, and life and death to come.

~

“I don’t water the lawn”, my sister says, as she leaves for work. I know why she doesn’t. It’s all time, and money and effort. She has enough to do, enough to think about, more than enough to occupy her time and goodwill. I water the lawn for her, moving the leaking hose (did I say leaking? It’s a bloody fountain, twice over!) every 20 minutes, giving each patch a good soaking. Yes, it’s time and effort and water bills, but shows a generous spirit, saying to the neighbours: “Look, I care. I share this planet and this town with you, and I care.”

The birds chatter with delight; a solo peewee struts within the garden, a picture perfect image of military design in his crisp black and white uniform. A large ant marches backwards and forwards across the top of the stairs, halting and then turning and repeating the action. He’s either keeping the baddies out, or we are all going to be overrun by an army of insects. Whatever, will be.

~

My mother carries within her red walker; a racing guide, the crossword, and the telephone; all packed neatly with the seat up, in sight. Her silver hair has the permanent crease of bed-hair, no matter how much I comb it for her.

Her gait is slower, and more considered. As we speak, her eyes search for the right word. She grasps and stabs the air with her arthritic finger, digging out the right phrase, the correct word, and the ultimate answer.

~

I love to drive northwards - crossing the Fitzroy River over the new bridge - whilst watching the wrought iron train bridge to my left. Its elegance, leaping between black rock and black rock, always gives me hope, that one day – with thoughtful planning and an unbounded leap of energy and good faith, others can also escape the monotony of living in Rockhampton. And in leaving, they also leave their gilded footprint of the city and its people. Just saying.

~