Recently someone I love saw 2 people that they cared about die, an uncle and a very best friend. I wrote a piece about it at that time to try to help bring consolation. I have revisited the subject, because we were discussing it again the other day and I felt there was more to be said.

Why is it that in the West we seem to be so bad at dealing with death when it comes to our friends, and coping with it when it visits one of our own? Why does it defeat us so completely? Sometimes it comes with foreknowledge, and we attempt to prepare for it but we invariably fall short. We do not want our loved one to suffer but to contemplate a world without them is impossible. And then we are left feeling guilty because our need for them may be causing them further distress, so our despair becomes magnified.

On other occasions, death bludgeons its way into our world without warning and shatters our peace, suddenly, shockingly, and we are left feeling bewildered, angry, defenceless. Why? Why now? Why was there no opportunity to say goodbye? Why us? And we can be sure that our friends, seeing and feeling our pain will be thinking, “thank heavens it’s not someone I love”. This isn’t an unkind or unfeeling response, it is really only natural. But sadly, it makes us feel worse and simultaneously makes our friends feel worse too for thinking it and there’s the uncomfortable stand-off.

Why too, do we find it so hard to name death? Why do people talk about ‘losing’ someone? They’re not mislaid! They’re are never coming back. They are dead. Nor have they ‘passed over’. They have not just suddenly become Jewish overnight, nor have they taken to flight. What’s with the euphemisms? As Monty Python would say, they are dead, defunct, they are no more. They have shuffled off this mortal coil. They are pushing up the daisies.

Death is always unwelcome. Yet it comes to every one of us. So why are we not prepared for its ravages? We know it is there, lurking, waiting, for each of us, so why are we not better equipped to deal with its consequences? If our loved one has an illness that we know will eventually prove fatal, why does the knowledge that they are no longer in pain not bring us more solace? It helps for sure, as does the knowledge that someone who died suddenly, did so almost certainly without any presentiment of mortality, yet we still struggle with facing life without their physical presence.

Grief is a strange bedfellow. It takes us all in different ways. I know I struggled for years to come to terms with the death of my mother, my friend with a father’s death. I simply couldn’t speak of my mother without choking up. Common to all of us, I believe, is that need to see ourselves as immortal, including those we love. When we are not, it is a devastating blow. One that every one of us struggles to come to terms with.

There are those of us, like myself, who have an illness that may well kill us, sooner or later, so we have tried to prepare ourselves to some degree. The notion of doing so is, of course, ridiculous. Although we may claim that death isn’t fearful, it simply isn’t true. We have not yet had to confront it. We have not yet looked it firmly in the eye and decided how we intend to greet its entrance. If death is imminent the struggle to deal with it is harder still. Many of my friends who have died have chosen to lock themselves away until they are able to mourn for themselves before they can allow those they love in, because they are painfully aware that those people they love are already struggling to prepare for their loss.

One of my friends, Mark, knew he was dying, but he had already made peace with himself. He then lived more fully in the moment than anyone else I have ever known. He knew he was going to die so he did not want to waste a single minute. And he didn’t. He lived, joyfully, until the day he died. My own mother, with characteristic bravery, chose to die. She was very single-minded so if she decided to do something, it always got done. Her illness, a very rare form of leukaemia, had left her very dependant on others, which, for a fiercely independent woman, was simply intolerable. So she sat down with our father, and wrote a letter to each of their friends. She told them she was dying. She told them she did not want them to read about her death in a newspaper. She told them that she loved them.

She made it very clear that she did not want to see any of her grandchildren, whom she adored, because she wanted them to remember her as she had always been to them. However, she wanted to say goodbye to each of her children so we all descended on her home to spend time with her. To laugh with her. To reminisce. To love her as she did us. Our brother was the last to say farewell and she died on the night he’d visited her earlier in the day. She died where she wanted to, in her own bed, surrounded by those she loved.

I have learned from my own loss that for some people, they may at first need to be quiet with their grief. Nevertheless, there will come a time when it is important to talk about the person who has died. Talking about the deceased does not diminish their loss but for those mourning it reminds them of all that made them fully them. What we need to do to support them in their grief is to ask them to tell us about the deceased and then be fully prepared to invest the time (no matter how long) to laugh and to cry as we hear them bear witness. In doing so we honour both the dead and the people they have left behind.

When I die I hope I have the courage to do what my mother and Mark did. I intend to live life to the full, then to make peace with myself, my world and my place in it, until the last breath leaves my body. And I also hope that by doing that, I will prepare those I love and who I know love me just a little for my loss. That if they close their eyes and ask me a question, if they ask me about something that is bothering them, they will instantly know what my answer would be. That I may not be by their side physically, or in their arms, but I will always be with them in spirit.