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Death changes everything. My mother and father died when I was 50 years old – yes a time when my life should be sorted, when I’m mature enough to handle the pressure of planning a funeral; dealing with the sea of phone calls of condolences and consoling my family. Struggling to keep my head above water, I longed to return to my childhood innocence when everyone else had to handle the burden of loss.
For weeks it felt like watching someone else navigate the adult world of picking up the cause of death certificate at the Mortuary, registering the death at the Town Hall and leaving with a death certificate all the time asking myself ‘why me? why now?
It’s strange no matter how much you expect it to happen the shock, the pain, the terror all overwhelming.
I remember months ago having a conversation with friends about how we would want others to respond to our deaths.
‘I told my children don’t waste money on my funeral,’
I was horrified. I told them I would like a group of mourners around my bedside weeping and wailing desperately begging me not to leave them. Strangely enough both mum and dad left this earth in the exact same way, not by arrangement but as a mark of the love people had for them and the family.