scenes from a death cafe

the death cafe is hidden through a passage behind the children's corner. I find my way by looking lost enough for library staff to ask if I need help. the room is artificial like an office, decorated with strangers huddled over cups of tea. we sit around grey tables and introduce ourselves. more than half of us have never been before. the man to my left had seen the same flyer on the town hall noticeboard that I kept passing and thinking about. two of the others at our table work in the death industry. on the ride home I wonder how much this impacted our conversation: were we starting with an unfair advantage, or were our thoughts and questions contained by the tools and tricks of those paid to make others make sense of death and dying?

we talk about fear. most of the table is scared of dying. all of us harbour fears of losing people we love. a mother recounts the feeling of tending to her own mother's estate and realising that nobody is left and she is next in line. an analogy of an escalator going nowhere, with nobody left in front. there is talk of losing control before death as our bodies and brains start to let us down (if, of course, we enjoy the privilege of growing old). in my head I connect this loss of control to the way I was born: completely dependent on the care and concern of my parents. we play with the idea of beginning and closing our lives without control until control is written off as an illusion by a death industry expert. I agree with her instantly and laugh at the coiling snake I'd drawn to make sense of a mess we all make without explanation.

questions about rituals and plans. some of us have written wills. others have settled advanced care plans to lighten the load at the end of their life. dependents become responsible for the parents they once depended on. it makes sense to plan ahead and make less work for everyone. the doula doesn't want to be cremated but might be convinced if her ashes could be scattered over all of her favourite places. she should leave behind a treasure map for her children. another lady has written instructions to have her ashes turned into a diamond. we ask what she wants to be done with the diamond. she says it doesn't matter. she won't be around to care.

the cafe closes and we disperse into the dark. I help the doula stack the chairs to prolong going home. she thanks me with a smile that knows I need her faith in the belief that I am kind and care for others. I see my pathetic reflection in the eyes of a stranger: squirming on my knees for validation from the death midwife herself. enough to get me off and out the door into the cold. I catch my breath in the glow of the streetlight and retreat towards the salad in the fridge.