‘Mummy, what do you look like when you’re dead?’
‘Mummy, what do you see when you die?’
These are just some of the questions my children like to catch me off guard with. I’m always encouraging curiosity and openness in our household but when these questions are asked, just as I’m tucking them into bed or when they’re sitting on the loo, I rarely feel prepared with an appropriate response.
Our family has experienced quite a lot of deaths in the last few years, both through sudden departures and the loss of elderly or ill people close to us.
My husband and I always tell our three boys – my eldest is eight and the twins are six – the truth about what is happening; that they can ask us anything and that it’s normal to feel sad or angry.
But sometimes, when children ask questions in such a matter-of-fact way, it can be quite upsetting, especially when you’re still processing your own emotions.
Often, I will just answer as quickly as I can and then move them on to another subject quickly. I will always reassure them but talking at length about what cremation is usually feels like just too much.
I seem to have reached an age (40) where life is starting to feel more precarious, with my parents and my friends’ parents becoming ill, and even people close to my age.
I feel like I’m at a stage where I’m trying my best to protect my three children from illness or danger while fielding their questions about death – all while also worrying about everyone else, too.
I decided it was worth seeing what kind of support is out there for those of us facing similar situations – so, on a sunny Thursday in February 2025, I decided to go to a death café.
It was at my local library and was organised by Poppy’s Funerals, a funeral directors based in London, as a welcoming space for people to talk about death.
I was intrigued but nervous.
I’m a very emotional person. The type who can’t hold back tears when other people are crying and who tears up watching Antiques Roadshow.
Before I arrived, I had no idea what kind of experiences or losses the other attendees would be talking about, so I didn’t know whether I’d be a quivering mess or not.
Luckily, the whole ethos of a death café is that it’s a very friendly and informal place to sit and talk. Around 15 of us grabbed a hot drink and piece of cake before sitting in a circle and introducing ourselves.
Poppy Mardall, who founded Poppy’s Funerals, took the lead at first and explained that it was a safe place to share your thoughts and experiences, but that if you also just wanted to sit and listen that was also fine, too.
She explained that death cafés were founded by Jon Underwood who believed that ‘talking about death improves the quality of your finite life’. From then on, the conversation flowed freely and naturally.
I was worried it would be a morning of hearing depressing stories of death and disease. Prior to going, I told my husband how worried I was that I wouldn’t have the emotional strength to listen to strangers’ experiences of loss.
What actually happened was that I spent around two hours with people of different ages and backgrounds who were kind, empathetic and honest about dying, death and their fears or hopes for when it happens to them or their loved ones.
It wasn’t sad. It felt uplifting and positive and I felt reassured that everyone is living with the fear of what lies ahead – but that life is for living.
Some of the attendees had experienced very recent tragedies and wanted to share their experiences with others. It was at these times that I struggled to hold back the tears, but it also made me realise that talking openly about the pain of loss is healthy.
There were lighter moments too, such as when an older woman revealed that she updates her funeral preferences so often that her family now expect it to be top of the agenda when they all get together.
A week after I went to the death café, my son found an order of service from a funeral my husband had been to recently. He started asking me about it as I was making the boys’ packed lunches for holiday camp.
This time, instead of just answering vaguely and trying to end the conversation quickly, I stopped everything I was doing to listen to his questions and answer as honestly as I could.
I asked him how he felt and if he had any more questions and we had a big hug.
It felt so much easier than the previous times these moments had occurred – because the death café made me realise that if I can feel comfortable talking about death with a group of strangers in a library, then I can be open with my family about how sad and unfair death can be without clamming up.
If we don’t tell children the truth about death, their imaginations will create much more scary images.
As parents, we’re the adults they turn to when they’re anxious but we also want to protect our children and show them that life is precious and we need to have fun and live it to the fullest.
Death is the one thing that unites us all, and while yes, it can be terrifying and devastating, talking about it can help make life feel a bit easier.
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