by angeliska on November 2, 2012

I am so grateful to be experiencing Day of the Dead in New Orleans again this year – to be able to engage in the ritual of the yearly procession to honor our beloved dead, and to remind ourselves that life is fleeting, and precious. My altar sits at home, sadly in need of dusting and tending – there’s been so much death and loss this year, that at a certain point, I find myself abandoning my rituals when I need them most. Grief becomes suffocating, all-consuming, and I forget that I’ve found ways to walk through it, remembered the old ways – traditions that once were in place for ages, now lost to many. I’ve had a lot of death in my life, ever since I was a little child. I’ve lost so many friends and relatives – to disease, suicide, murder, accidents – so many untimely ends to the brightest stars, harshly snuffed out. I’ve been left standing, so many times, staring at the sky, looking for lights that used to be there. At a certain point, I realized that in this life, a big part of the work I hope to be able to do will deal with death: with helping people process it, with the rituals of burial and mourning, and of grieving. I feel I must eventually do this work, somehow – for myself, and hopefully, to help others. I hate living in a society where the process of dying and mourning has been whitewashed, sanitized, made safe and tidy. The modern business of death, is just that: a business – and it is intended to be bland, brief and entirely devoid of soul. At least most “traditional” funerals I’ve been to have felt like that, anyway. Once the funeral is done and the corpse is buried, everyone is expected to put on a brave face and send out sympathy cards or maybe a casserole and that’s the end of it. We don’t dress in mourning: wearing black or ripping your clothing signifies nothing at all anymore. We have no real way to publicly show that we are grieving – and really, no one wants to know. Sometimes I meet people who tell me that they’ve never really lost anyone close to them. There are moments when I think of them as lucky, and moments when I pity them – eventually, they will experience what it is to have someone they loved, someone very close to them, evenutually die, and they won’t have any idea what to do when that happens. We are so woefully unequipped, as a society, to be able to process death in healthy ways, and I would like to try, in whatever ways I can, to help change that. I’m not sure completely yet how this work will take shape, but I know that writing about it is a part of that, talking about it, and being there for those I care about who are going through it. I’m also learning more about green burials and home funerals, and I will be writing more on this subject soon, and sharing some of what I’ve discovered, very soon.
My little altar for the dead at home.
They say death is hardest for those who are left behind, and I agree with that for the most part – but I want to share a piece of writing that has stayed with me for a year, by Sara Douglass, a writer of science fiction who died of cancer this year. From what I’ve seen, the process of dying, for those who know it’s coming, it’s not easy or gentle. It’s terrifying, and it’s really fucking lonely. I have several friends who work in hospices, and in my mind, they are the bravest, kindest people – to willingly go into that darkness, to hold the hands and smooth the brows of this who are facing their final journey into whatever lays beyond the veil. I hope you will take some time to read what she wrote. It’s important. Eventually someone you love will die. Eventually, we all will. There’s no hiding from it, no pretending it won’t happen – or that when it does it will be graceful. If anyone you love is ever sick and dying, don’t shy away from them. Don’t be too busy to go see them, to spend time with them before they go. Don’t be afraid to touch them, or drown them in well-meaning but ultimately empty platitudes. They don’t always need to to say the right thing, or to bring flowers – but they do need to see you, they need not to be left alone, abandoned. I say this as much to myself as to anyone else. I think of how swiftly we can wink out of existence, how fleeting all this world is, and I feel a panic – to clutch every single person I have ever loved, close, close, to tell them how much I adore and appreciate them. You can never say it enough, never show it enough – and there will never, ever be enough time.
Originally from blog “Notes from Nonsuch”
The Silence of the Dying
By Sara Douglass
Many years ago I did an hour long interview on Adelaide radio (with Jeremy Cordeaux, I think, but my memory may be wrong). The interview was supposed to promote one of my recent publications, but for some reason we quickly strayed onto the subject of death and dying, and there we stayed for the entire hour. I proposed that as a society we have lost all ability to die well. Unlike pre-industrial western society, modern western society is ill at ease with death, we are not taught how to die, and very few people are comfortable around death or the dying. There is a great silence about the subject, and a great silence imposed on the dying. During the programme a Catholic priest called in to agree with the premise (the first and last time a Catholic priest and I have ever agreed on anything) that modern society cannot deal with death. We just have no idea. We are terrified of it. We ignore it and we ignore the dying.
Today I’d like to take that conversation a little further, discuss modern discomfort with death, and discuss the silence that modern western society imposes on the dying. Recently I’ve had it hammered home on a couple of occasions how much the dying are supposed to keep silent, that ‘dying well’ in today’s society means keeping your mouth firmly closed and, preferably, behind closed doors.
Never shall a complaint pass your lips. How many times have we all heard that praise sung of the dying and recently departed, “They never complained”?
Death in pre-industrial society was a raucous and social event. There was much hair-tearing, shrieking and breast beating, and that was just among the onlookers. Who can forget the peripatetic late-medieval Margery Kempe who shrieked and wailed so exuberantly she was in demand at all the death beds she happened across? Suffering, if not quite celebrated, was at least something to which everyone could relate, and with which everyone was at ease. People were comfortable with death and with the dying. Death was not shunted away out of sight. Grief was not subdued. Emotions were not repressed. If someone was in pain or feeling a bit grim or was frightened, they were allowed to express those feelings. Unless they died suddenly, most people died amid familiar company and in their own homes amid familiar surroundings. Children were trained in the art and craft of dying well from an early age (by being present at community death beds). Death and dying was familiar, and its journey’s milestones well marked and recognizable. People prepared from an early age to die, they were always prepared, for none knew when death would strike.
Not any more. Now we ignore death. We shunt it away. Children are protected from it (and adults wish they could be protected from it). The dying are often not allowed to express what they are really feeling, but are expected (by many pressures) to be positive, bright and cheerful as ‘this will make them feel better’ (actually, it doesn’t make the dying feel better at all, it just makes them feel worse, but it does make their dying more bearable for those who have to be with them).
When it comes to death and dying, we impose a dreadful silence on the dying lest they discomfort the living too greatly.
I have done no study as to when the change took place, but it must have been about or just before the Industrial Revolution — perhaps with the mass movement into the cities and the subsequent destruction of traditional communities and community ties, perhaps with the rise of the modern medical profession who demanded to control every aspect of illness, perhaps with the loosening grip of religion on people’s lives during the Enlightenment.
Certainly by the nineteenth century silence and restraint had overtaken the dying. The Victorian ideal was of the dying suffering sweetly and stoically and silently (we’ve all read the novels, we’ve all seen the paintings). Those who didn’t die sweetly and stoically and silently but who bayed their distress to the moon generally ended badly by dropping their candle on their flammable nightgown, and then expiring nastily in the subsequent conflagration which took out the east tower of whatever gothic mansion they inhabited. The lingering commotion and the smouldering ruins always disturbed everyone’s breakfast the next morning. There was much tsk tsk tsk-ing over the marmalade.
By the mid-nineteenth century, if not earlier, the lesson was clearly implanted in our society’s collective subconscious.
Death should be silent. Confined. Stoic.
Sweet, stoic and silent was the way to go. (Again I remind you that a sweet, stoic and silent death is still praised innumerable times in today’s society; by the time we have reached early adulthood we have all heard it many, many times over.) The one exception is the terminally ill child. Terminally ill children are uncritizable saints. The terminally ill adult is simply tedious (particularly if they try to express their fears).
All this silence and stoicism scares the hell out of me.
In that radio interview many years ago I spoke as a historian. Today I speak as one among the dying. Two years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Six months ago it came back. It is going to kill me at some stage. Now everyone wants a date, an expected life span, an answer to the ‘how long have you got?’ question. I don’t know. I’m sorry to be inconvenient. I am not in danger of imminent demise, but I will not live very long. So now I discuss this entire ‘how we treat the dying’with uncomfortable personal experience.
Now, with death lurking somewhere in the house, I have begun to notice death all about me. I resent every celebrity who ‘has lost their long battle with cancer’. Oh God, what a cliché. Can no one think of anything better? It isn’t anything so noble as a ‘battle’ gallantly lost, I am afraid. It is just a brutal, frustrating, grinding, painful, demoralizing, terrifying deterioration that is generally accomplished amid great isolation.
Let me discuss chronic illness for a moment. As a society we don’t tolerate it very well. Our collective attention span for someone who is ill lasts about two weeks. After that they’re on their own. From my own experience and talking to others with bad cancer or chronic illness, I’ve noticed a terrible trend. After a while, and only a relatively short while, people grow bored with you not getting any better and just drift off. Phone calls stop. Visits stop. Emails stop. People drop you off their Facebook news feed. Eyes glaze when you say you are still not feeling well. Who needs perpetual bad news?
This is an all too often common experience. I described once it to a psychologist, thinking myself very witty, as having all the lights in the house turned off one by one until you were in one dark room all alone; she said everyone described it like that. People withdraw, emotionally and physically. You suddenly find a great and cold space about you where once there was support. For me there has been a single person who has made the effort to keep in daily contact with me, to see how I am, how I am feeling, and listen uncomplainingly to my whining. She has been my lifeline. She also suffers from terrible cancer and its aftermath, and has endured the same distancing of her friends.
The end result is, of course, that the sick simply stop telling people how bad they feel. They repress all their physical and emotional pain, because they’ve got the message loud and clear.
People also don’t know how to help the sick and dying. I remember a year or so ago, on a popular Australian forum, there was a huge thread generated on how to help a member who was undergoing massive and life-changing surgery that would incapacitate her for months. People asked what they could do. I suggested that if one among them, or many taking it in turns, could promise this woman two hours of their time every week or fortnight for the next few months then that would help tremendously. In this two hours they could clean, run errands, hang out the washing, whatever. And they had to do all this while not once complaining about how busy their own lives were, or how bad their back was, or how many problems they had to cope with in life. Just two hours a fortnight, with no emotional-guilt strings attached. Whatever she wanted or needed. Freely given. Bliss for the incapacitated or chronically ill.
But that was too difficult. Instead the poor woman was buried under a mountain of soft toys, dressing gowns, bath salts and bombs, daintily embroidered hankies, a forest’s worth of Hallmark cards, chocolates and flowers and exhortations that everyone was ‘thinking of her’. None of which helped her in any way, of course, but all of which assuaged the guilt of the gift-givers who mostly promptly forgot her and her daily horrific struggle through life. Modern attention spans for the chronically ill are horribly short, probably because chronic or terminal illness in today’s society is horribly tedious. Tedious, because we are all so uncomfortable with it.
Instead, too often, it is up to the sick and the dying to comfort the well and the un-dying.
Just take a moment to think about this, take a moment to see if you have ever experienced it yourself. The dying — sweet, stoic, silent — comforting those who are to be left behind. I know I experienced it when first I was diagnosed with cancer. I found myself in the completely unreal situation of having, over and over, to comfort people when I told them I had cancer. In the end I just stopped telling people, because almost invariably I was placed into the bizarre situation of comforting the well by saying everything would be all right (which, of course, it won’t, but that’s what people needed to hear to make them comfortable about me again).
The dying have been indoctrinated from a very young age into this sweet, stoic and silent state. They earn praise for always being ‘positive’ and ‘bright’ and ‘never complaining’. Perhaps they are bright and positive and uncomplaining, but I am certain they lay in their beds with their fear and anger and grief and pain and frustration completely repressed while modern expectation forces them, the dying, to comfort the living.
I am sick of this tawdry game. I am sick to death of comforting people when all I want is to be comforted. I am sick of being abandoned by people for months on end only to be told eventually that ‘I knew they were thinking of me, right?’ I am sick of being exhorted to be silent and sweet and stoic. I know I face a long and lonely death and no, I don’t think I should just accept that.
I don’t think I should keep silent about it.
I have witnessed many people die. As a child I watched my mother die a terrible death from the same cancer that is going to kill me. As a registered nurse for seventeen years I have seen scores of people die. I have watched the dying keep cheerful and reassuring while their family were there (forced by modern expectation of how people should die), only to break down and scream their terror when the family have gone. The one thing they all said, desperately, was “Don’t let me die alone.” But mostly they did die alone, doors closed on them by staff who were too frantically busy to sit with them, and relatives who have gone home and not thought to sit with their parent or sibling. People do die alone, and often not even with the slight comfort of a stranger nurse holding their hand. If you put your relative into a hospital or a hospice or a nursing home, then their chances of dying alone and uncomforted increase tremendously. I want to die at home, but I am realistic enough to know that my chances of that are almost nil as impersonal ‘carers’ force me into a system that will remove me from any comfort I might have gained by dying in familiar, loved and comforting surroundings.
My mother, who died of the same cancer which will kill me, kept mostly stoic through three years of tremendous suffering. But I do remember one time, close to her death, when my father and I went to visit her in hospital. She was close to breaking point that evening. She wept, she complained, she expressed her fears in vivid, terrifying words. I recall how uncomfortable I was, and how relieved I was when she dried her tears and once more became cheerful and comforting herself. I was twelve at the time, and maybe I should feel no guilt about it, but I do now, for I know all too well how she felt, and how much she needed comforting far more than me.
She died in her cold impersonal hospital room in the early hours of the morning, likely not even with the comfort of a stranger nurse with her, certainly with none of her family there.
The great irony is that now I face the same death, from the same cancer.
That is the death that awaits many of us, me likely a little sooner than you, but in the great scheme of things that’s neither here nor there. Not everyone dies alone, but many do.
Not everyone suffers alone, but most do it to some extent.
It is the way we have set up the modern art of death.
I am tired of the discomfort that surrounds the chronically and terminally ill. I am tired of the abandonment. I am tired of having to lie to people about how I am feeling just so I keep them around. I am tired of having to feel a failure when I need to confess to the doctor or nurse that the pain is too great and I need something stronger.
I am tired of being made to feel guilty when I want to express my fear and anguish and grief.
I am tired of keeping silent.
Thank you for reading this far, and being my companion this far. I promise to be more stoic in future. But just for one day I needed to break that silence.
May 22nd, 2010

Sara Douglass was born June 2, 1957. She died on September 27, 2011.
Here are some of my favorite old songs about death. I especially love this first one:

Shirley & Dolly Collins – Death & The Lady

Oh Death – Dock Boggs

Ralph Stanley – Oh Death
On Death, without Exaggeration
It can’t take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.
In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.
It can’t even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.
Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.
Oh, it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows,
and repeat attempts!
Sometimes it isn’t strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many are the caterpillars
that have outcrawled it.
All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.
Ill will won’t help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d’etat
is so far not enough.
Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies’ skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.
Whoever claims that it’s omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it’s not.
There’s no life
that couldn’t be immortal
if only for a moment.
always arrives by that very moment too late.
In vain it tugs at the knob
of the invisible door.
As far as you’ve come
can’t be undone.

Wislawa Szymborska

3 different interpretations of the hymn “Idumea” (written by Charles Wesley, 1793), from the album “Black ships ate the sky” – Current 93:
1) Clodagh Simonds
2) Bonnie Prince Billy (Will Oldham)
3) Shirley Collins
And am I born to die?
To lay this body down?
And as my trembling spirits fly
Into a world unknown
A land of deeper shade
Unpierced by human thought
The dreary region of the dead
Where all things are forgot
Soon as from earth I go
What will become of me?
Eternal happiness or woe
Must then my fortune be
Waked by the trumpet’s sound
I from my grave shall rise
And see the Judge with glory crowned
And see the flaming skies

Patrick Wolf – Idumea

Current 93 feat. Antony Hagerty – Idumea

Idumea / Current 93 & Marc Almond

Skin and Bones
Good Bye, Son – from Letters of Note
Holbein’s Dance of Death

Strawberige: Theme: Mourning
Further reading from November 2nds of yore:
Day of the Dead in New Orleans
Cempasúchil por los Muertos
Día de los Muertos – R.I.P. Studs Terkel
Santissima Muerte!


~Start the conversation sister! This is a beautiful piece.
I think we need to make this our mission.

by Rose on November 5, 2012 at 1:01 pm. Reply #

This poem has always stayed with me:
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name,
speak to me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone,
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was,
let it be spoken without effect,
without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was;
there is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near, just round the corner.
And all is well.
Henry Scott Holland ~ 1847-1918

by Sasha Fay on November 7, 2012 at 4:43 pm. Reply #

Thank you for writing this, Miss Angel!!! I had a whisky-induced discovery very late on Halloween night in my friend’s barn when I realized that I was , in that moment and perhaps others, still very sad about losing Meredith and I cried a bit and talked a bit and realized that death is very complicated and we don’t talk about the movement of our energies from this place to the next and back and forth, for it does seem as if the memory or the spirit of people stays with us sometimes and sometimes leaves us to go away for a while. That same friend told me that, the other day, he was using his tractor to move seaweed around on the beach and he used his father’s coat while riding and was talking to him the whole way about what a fun day they were going to have. So. It’s a mystery, but definitely not a definite end where there is no more of that person…and we need to be more open to talking about that. I had already decided to build a permanent altar to people in my more permanent house…the one I am manifesting for myself in my mind’s eye! Love you…..

by Patience on November 9, 2012 at 6:49 am. Reply #

Leave your comment


Required. Not published.

If you have one.