By Catherine Watson
ANYONE wandering into the Manna Gum Community House in Foster last Friday morning might have wondered what was so funny. They would probably have been surprised to find they’d chanced upon a “death café”.
A group of us had gathered over coffee and biscuits to discuss our impending demise. Not next week, maybe, or next year, but somewhere down the line, as sure as Christmas.
Like any good funeral, there were some harrowing moments in our discussion – revelations of pain and fear – but there were also many moments of rollicking humour.
ANYONE wandering into the Manna Gum Community House in Foster last Friday morning might have wondered what was so funny. They would probably have been surprised to find they’d chanced upon a “death café”.
A group of us had gathered over coffee and biscuits to discuss our impending demise. Not next week, maybe, or next year, but somewhere down the line, as sure as Christmas.
Like any good funeral, there were some harrowing moments in our discussion – revelations of pain and fear – but there were also many moments of rollicking humour.
Founded in London in 2011, the Death Cafe movement now operates around the world, offering a welcoming space where people gather to talk about mortality. The aim is to reduce fear and help people to make the most of their finite lives through honest conversations.
Cheryl Opie, a local celebrant who officiates at weddings and funerals, co-ordinated this gathering in the Manna Gum community centre cafe. Ten of us had come for a host of different reasons with a common thread. There were things we wanted to discuss and it was easier to do it with strangers.
Peter says his children can't bear him to talk about death, or anything associated with it. “My wife and I said we wanted to talk to them about our wills and two of them burst into tears.” We laugh at his beautiful tender-hearted kids.
Julie, the youngest of the group, in her 30s, says she's always been fascinated by death. Her friends think she’s morbid but her own family are comfortable talking about it. Now she is watching someone close to her approaching death and their family’s inability to acknowledge what's happening.
Sam says the same thing happened when her father in law was dying. His family sat in the room and no one spoke. Afterwards she asked her husband why he hadn’t held his father’s hand, told him that he loved him.
“Because I didn’t love him,” was the reply, drawing the second big laugh of the morning.
After two kidney transplants and many years of dialysis from a young age, Sam is preparing for a decision she will have to make when her second kidney transplant fails, as it will do eventually. Her husband can’t bear to talk about it.
Susie has turned 80, though she looks much younger, and has dealt with death and grief from a young age. She says the last thing she wants when her turn comes is people hovering around her deathbed telling her they love her.
“Leave me in peace,” she said. “Then put me in a hole, like we buried the dog, and plant a tree over me.” We laugh and the gardeners among us nod in recognition.
Penny is helping a close friend with a serious neurological condition navigate the Voluntary Assisted Dying process. She says it’s a race between the bureaucratic requirements to qualify for help and her friend’s cognitive decline.
This strikes a chord with Helen who is dealing with recurrent cancer and how to decide when to say no more, knowing that dementia is in her family.
We talk about the failure of families – and the medical fraternity – to recognise when it’s time to let people go.
Peter is a volunteer driver for medical appointments, often for cancer treatment at La Trobe Hospital in Traralgon. He says his mostly elderly patients are relaxed about their own death. The difficulty is convincing family and doctors when they’ve had enough.
Marty relates taking her mother to see her GP, who suggested a pacemaker would help her mother’s breathing.
“But she’s 93!” Marty protested.
“Well, you’ll have to wear the consequences,” the doctor said sternly.
Another big laugh.
As a nurse Marty had experienced many deaths in her working life, but she says her mother's death shook her more than she expected.
We talk about what’s important to us. “Of course I miss the people I’ve lost,” Penny says, “but it also makes me feel lighter about my own life. A reminder that it’s temporary. It’s up to me to make the most of it. No excuses.”
Helen says she doesn’t want to spend her remaining time “fighting a courageous battle against cancer”, as the media always phrases it. “I want to spend it doing the things that bring me happiness.”
The relentless honesty in the room is bracing. It's not often we go beyond the banal in our conversations. I’m strangely comfortable with these strangers. The two hours go quickly.
On the drive home, I ask myself why I feel so cheerful. It was all that poking fun at the bullshit around death, and confronting it head on. Still lots to discuss, but there’s always next time.
The Foster Death Café will run every two months or so. If you are interested, email [email protected] and she will let you know when the next one is scheduled.
* Names have been changed.
Cheryl Opie, a local celebrant who officiates at weddings and funerals, co-ordinated this gathering in the Manna Gum community centre cafe. Ten of us had come for a host of different reasons with a common thread. There were things we wanted to discuss and it was easier to do it with strangers.
Peter says his children can't bear him to talk about death, or anything associated with it. “My wife and I said we wanted to talk to them about our wills and two of them burst into tears.” We laugh at his beautiful tender-hearted kids.
Julie, the youngest of the group, in her 30s, says she's always been fascinated by death. Her friends think she’s morbid but her own family are comfortable talking about it. Now she is watching someone close to her approaching death and their family’s inability to acknowledge what's happening.
Sam says the same thing happened when her father in law was dying. His family sat in the room and no one spoke. Afterwards she asked her husband why he hadn’t held his father’s hand, told him that he loved him.
“Because I didn’t love him,” was the reply, drawing the second big laugh of the morning.
After two kidney transplants and many years of dialysis from a young age, Sam is preparing for a decision she will have to make when her second kidney transplant fails, as it will do eventually. Her husband can’t bear to talk about it.
Susie has turned 80, though she looks much younger, and has dealt with death and grief from a young age. She says the last thing she wants when her turn comes is people hovering around her deathbed telling her they love her.
“Leave me in peace,” she said. “Then put me in a hole, like we buried the dog, and plant a tree over me.” We laugh and the gardeners among us nod in recognition.
Penny is helping a close friend with a serious neurological condition navigate the Voluntary Assisted Dying process. She says it’s a race between the bureaucratic requirements to qualify for help and her friend’s cognitive decline.
This strikes a chord with Helen who is dealing with recurrent cancer and how to decide when to say no more, knowing that dementia is in her family.
We talk about the failure of families – and the medical fraternity – to recognise when it’s time to let people go.
Peter is a volunteer driver for medical appointments, often for cancer treatment at La Trobe Hospital in Traralgon. He says his mostly elderly patients are relaxed about their own death. The difficulty is convincing family and doctors when they’ve had enough.
Marty relates taking her mother to see her GP, who suggested a pacemaker would help her mother’s breathing.
“But she’s 93!” Marty protested.
“Well, you’ll have to wear the consequences,” the doctor said sternly.
Another big laugh.
As a nurse Marty had experienced many deaths in her working life, but she says her mother's death shook her more than she expected.
We talk about what’s important to us. “Of course I miss the people I’ve lost,” Penny says, “but it also makes me feel lighter about my own life. A reminder that it’s temporary. It’s up to me to make the most of it. No excuses.”
Helen says she doesn’t want to spend her remaining time “fighting a courageous battle against cancer”, as the media always phrases it. “I want to spend it doing the things that bring me happiness.”
The relentless honesty in the room is bracing. It's not often we go beyond the banal in our conversations. I’m strangely comfortable with these strangers. The two hours go quickly.
On the drive home, I ask myself why I feel so cheerful. It was all that poking fun at the bullshit around death, and confronting it head on. Still lots to discuss, but there’s always next time.
The Foster Death Café will run every two months or so. If you are interested, email [email protected] and she will let you know when the next one is scheduled.
* Names have been changed.