Talking about Death isn’t Weird — you’re weird for thinking it’s weird
Is it weird that I like to talk about death? I think it’s completely normal. In fact, I’m kinda known for bringing the weird, and taking things one step too far. When asked, my kids were happy to provide a few examples:
- Ruining every song they ever played in the car. Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack became SexyBackFat. Also, the ‘Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy’ lyric, “and we made love”, became “and we made crafts”.
- Welcoming my kids couch-hopping friends, not just for the night, but also for extended stays, while I tried to ‘help’ them get it together and get a job. That seldom ended well.
- That night we were at Wal-Mart late, and I was disgusted by the lack of recycling receptacles available. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have snapped at the security guard, “Apparently they don’t HAVE recycling here!”
My favorite example, so far, is the Dinosaur.
I wear a number of different creative hats, one of which is Costume Designer. I find delight in everything from Halloween costumes to theatre costume design. Then Covid killed all the fun. It felt like theatre died for awhile, and I really missed it. Then I discovered the Dino Walk.
If you haven’t heard of this, this was an actual thing during the Great Pandemic. People donned inflatable dinosaur costumes, gathered in an appropriately socially-distant group, and went walking through the neighborhood. They might parade past the windows of a long-term care facility, or a children's hospital, or even dance on the front lawn at the homes of shut-in neighbors.
Turns out I was a little late to the party. By the time I discovered this was happening in my neighborhood, it wasn’t happening anymore, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me.
I secretly ordered my Dino on Amazon and waited impatiently, checking the delivery status way too many times a day. When it finally arrived, I snuck it upstairs and put it on. I descended the staircase, fully inflated in all my pre-historic glory, anticipating reactions of amazement and mirth from my pandemic housemates. I got mirth from my daughter and our close family friend who was living with us. I got amazement from my husband — well, actually shock, but let’s call it amazed.
Since I missed the chance to walk in my local Dino Parade, I decided to make my own. I walked up and down my street in the middle of the day, waving to vehicles passing by. It’s a quiet street, so the vehicles swerving from all the laughing and pointing thankfully did not end in mishap.
I walked to the mailbox, but was unable to retrieve the mail, due to my tiny T-rex arms. I successfully took on a pesky household task. The dust that had been ignored for several days was easily dealt with, thanks to my extendable Swiffer duster.
It wasn’t an actual parade, but I made the kids laugh, while they followed me around taking pictures of my Dino antics. My daughter sent the pictures to her sister with the text ‘OMG — you won’t believe what mom is doing now!’, to which my other daughter replied with a face palm emoji.
If you ask my husband, it was fine as long as I stayed in the house, but I made it weird the minute I stepped outside. He peered around the door, watching me prance around waving at the neighbors, then shook his head and slowly closed the door. I respect him for his boundaries.
At the time, I felt like the pandemic was what it was — there was no changing it. I might as well embrace the weird and have some fun while I’m at it.
I suppose I have the same attitude toward death — I might as well find a way to embrace it and find the joy.
I have experienced the great privilege of being invited to the bedside of individuals who were passing away —not only my mother, but also a friend, a friend’s mother, and a friend’s child. There is a rare and inexplicable beauty in the energy that occurs when I enter the presence of someone lingering on the threshold between this world and the next. It is an incredible honor to be present and offer comfort during that most significant moment, when the barrier between now and next becomes as thin and transparent as mist.
There is intense sadness, of course. But, I have discovered, if you take the time to settle in and sit next to Death, there is also beauty to be found. I find joy listening to the memories shared of a life well lived and family and friends who have been well loved by the one who is passing. There is a delicate loveliness, holding the fragile hand, reassuring them that they are not alone in their final journey.
Death is an inescapable, if uncomfortable, part of our story.
Many find my comfort with this particular discomfort to be strange. Maybe it’s because I have had opportunity to experience those intimate moments with others, or maybe I am simply more comfortable with discomfort than most.
I recently discovered that there is a career path for people who are drawn to death and the dying, beyond the familiar palliative care giver, minister, or funeral director roles. This person is called a Death Doula, and this job fascinates me.
According to the End OF Life Doula Association of Canada, “end-of-life doulas empower, educate and encourage people and their families to be involved in making decisions.”
And, “Like a birth doula supports women during the labor process, a death doula supports a person during the dying process. This support is specific to that person’s needs, beliefs, and desires.”
Doesn't this sound like a wonderful thing? I like the idea of being able to communicate what I need, in those last days, to someone who isn’t already burdened by their emotional connection to me. It would take some of the pressure off of my loved ones who are struggling with their own journey of grief. They are going to need support for their own emotional and mental health — they shouldn’t be the only ones supporting mine.
I imagine my Death Doula will record and execute all the details I want included in my Celebration of Life. They will listen to me ramble about my worry over those I leave behind. They will play my favorite music, as loud as I want. They will absolutely access my self-care box, extract my Dino, and help me walk one last time in all my inflatable pre-historic glory. Hey — I do my self-care, you do yours.
Go ahead. Bring the weird. Sometimes it helps.
