Thinking Ahead

Some of you aren't going to like this. 

I'm going to talk about death. Not dying, just death, so that might make it a bit easier. 
But really, if you are Irish, or maybe just human, you won't like this kind of talk. At All. 

Because we all know that if you talk about a bad thing you'll make it happen. So not talking about death guarantees that it will never happen to anyone, ever. 

That's been working out well for the 30,000 Irish people per year who pop their clogs. 

So let's just say, hypothetically like, that maybe we might die all right, but like not for ages and ages and ages. 

And let's just say, just speculating like, that we might have an opinion about what would happen when we did die. Would we have a funeral? I guess that's inevitable. Would we care what that was like? Should it be up to the people left behind? In fairness, the one person you can guarantee won't be at your funeral is yourself, so why should it matter to you what goes on? 

I used to avoid funerals. I was so uncomfortable about knowing what to say, whose hand to shake, when to stand up and kneel down and say Amen (Ay-men? Ah-men?).

The first funeral I remember is my grandfather's, on a lovely sunny day in late summer. Everyone was so warm and kind and friendly. 
My grandmother was buried four months later, on a miserable December day. My birthday. I could see the handles of previous coffins jutting into the hole they had dug for her. 
I didn't know that she was being lowered into the hallowed ground of the Republican plot, that her proximity to the great patriots was a measure of the esteem in which her family was held. I just saw a load of people in black, carrying umbrellas and sniffing. I played with my new Sindy doll in the car while various theatrical types hugged my mother. 

A young man died when I was at school, and his friends sang at his funeral. I have never seen or heard grief so emotionally raw, so honest, so uninhibited. I saw them turn from boys to men that day. 

I have been at funerals where people are afraid to speak up because of years and layers and depths of half-truths and cover-ups. There are so many elephants in so many Irish rooms you wonder how anybody else fits in there. 

Wouldn't it be nice to think that, on a pretty big day in your life - well, death obviously - that people could meet up, say nice things about you, eat nice food, hear good music, cry as much or as little as they want, stay as long as they like. Sounds like a top quality party. 

But we usually put a bit of effort into planning parties like that. We arrange the seats, count out the napkins, buy back-up beer, eat all the Doritos while waiting for everyone to arrive. We wouldn't just hope that, say, our spouse will suddenly know how to do all this, particularly when they've just been stricken down with a fairly acute case of grief.

So I am suggesting that maybe this is something we should talk about in advance. 
Again, just on the very remote chance that we may actually cack it someday. 

You could fill this in.

Or, you could talk to someone close to you about what to do when you're dead. 


I know. 
I'm a crazy witch-person who is going to make us all die right now this minute by even mentioning such heresy.
Sorry lads.





Addendum: Here's something to watch. It's about dying well. I just thought you might like a bit of a video.