Thoughts on - the death folder
A nice cheery post to kick off the year.
What better way to kick off my first post of the year than the topic of death.
Or more accurately, planning for death.
This one was inspired by a handful of conversions I had with one of my parents.
It started about 13 years ago when we were mooching our way around various Manchester museums and stopped for coffee.
We had been to a family funeral a few weeks earlier and for some reason, ended up talking about what songs we’d want at our own final shindigs.
They threw in a very apt and very silly song suggestion which made us both laugh before quietly saying: “You know love, when it does happen, it’s all been paid for.
“My funeral is sorted and there are two pension pots which will go straight to you and [redacted siblings]. There’s a folder with everything you’ll need to know.
“A death folder”, they added with a little chuckle.
I stumbled for a minute before swiftly moving the conversation on. I don’t know why really, other than unexpectedly facing the reality that they won’t be here one day had instantly made my eyes prickle.
Of course I know it’s going to happen.
But having to think about them dying on practical level was too much. It came up again following an emergency hospital visit.
They hadn’t been to a doctor for (literal) decades, let alone A&E, but had become very unwell and hadn’t wanted to “bother anyone.”
In between the community nurse visits that followed, I’d been going over to their house every day to make sure they were alright and had everything they needed. Food, clean clothes and such.
Usually hyper-independent and chatty, I saw them vulnerable for the first time and I think it scared us both. The death folder came up again and I nodded solemnly, confirming that I understood.
Thankfully, a few months later, test results gave them the all clear.
Normal service resumed and we could go back to talking about garden birds and steam trains and reminiscing about being on a canal boat in Hebden Bridge.
I have casually spoken to my own children about plans for my death. As morbid as it may seem, it’s a conversation we all should having.
They know that I’d rather be cremated then buried and that I don’t want a religious ceremony but ultimately, it’s up to them how they choose to send me off.
The next step for us is arranging lasting power of attorney, which means that should I lose capacity to make my own decisions regarding money and health care, they can legally do it for me.
It’s something that I’ve seen others face huge barriers with in the past when it hadn’t been put in place before the person in question was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
Granted, it’s not as much fun as say, planning a holiday or choosing a new home, but there is something oddly peaceful and comforting knowing that things are mostly in order when the times comes.
I’ve been on the other end of it too.
When my fiance died, everything was thrown into turmoil overnight. I didn’t know his phone or laptop passwords who his car insurance provider was or his line managers phone number.
It took all my energy to call the wedding venue and photographer and cake maker and explain that we would no longer need their services, let alone start thinking about planning a funeral (luckily, my sister-in-law at the time was brilliant and took care of most of it).
I try and carry the same mentality into everything else too.
I clear out my wardrobe and cupboards every six months or so to make sure I’m not accumulating too much crap. I am selective with the things I buy and choose to keep in our home.
There is understated joy in simplicity. I’m not quite at the Marie Condo level of minimalism but equally, I’m not overly attached to ‘stuff’ nor particularly sentimental.
I keep a small shoe box of things that matter to me. My late grandma’s butterfly brooch; a couple of gig tickets; my late cats collar; my old engagement ring; cards from my 30th birthday.
None of it is valuable to anyone else though and I’m not offended at the idea of my next of kin binning it all when I am no longer around.
The last thing I want is my for daughters to have waste their precious time riffling through decades of collected clutter or be embroiled in legal battles while in the midst of grief.
Death cleaning, if you will.
As much as I am still a little bit terrified of dying, at least I can be smug knowing that my kids won’t be left with a lifetime of too-small clothes or old magazines I kept hold of “just in case”.
*and if they’re reading this - do not sell the vintage sideboard for less than a hundred quid.
Image: Canva