Death and the Lady

Posted by Vole

Norma Waterson and Martin Carthy with their version of Death and the Lady

As I walked out one day, one day
I met an aged man by the way.
His head was bald, his beard was grey,
His clothing made of the cold earthen clay,
His clothing made of the cold earthen clay.

I said, “Old man, what man are you?
What country do you belong unto?”
“My name is Death—have you not heard of me?
All kings and princes bow down unto me
And you fair maid must come along with me.”

“I’ll give you gold, I’ll give you pearl,
I’ll give you costly cheap cialis professional rich robes to wear,
If you will spare me a little while
And give me time my life to amend,
And give me time my life to amend”

“I’ll have no gold, I’ll have no pearl,
I want no costly rich robes to wear.
I cannot spare you a little while
Nor give you time your life to amend,
Nor give you time your life to amend”

In six months time this fair maid died;
“Let this be put on my tombstone,” she cried,
“Here lies a poor distressed maid.
Just in her bloom she was snatched away,
Her clothing made of the cold earthen clay.”

(Repeat first verse)

Dead as a dodo

Posted by our ornithology correspondent Richard Rawlinson

With its alliterative similarity to Shakespeare’s phrase ‘dead as a doornail’, the term ‘dead as a dodo’ also remains in usage.

The extinct bird has become a symbol of obsolescence. Unable to fly and laying just one egg at a time, this three feet-plus tall, 20-plus pound woodland forager didn’t have a chance once Man, or hungry Western explorers, discovered its habitat on the island of Mauritius.

The first recorded sighting was by Dutch sailors in 1598. Less than 100 years later, it was observed that the dodo had disappeared without trace, flagging up the previously unrecognised problem of human involvement in wiping out entire species.

Paintings and sketches of dodos vary considerably, implying some were drawn from hazy memory. Study of fossils in the 19th century gave us a more accurate picture. Sadly, we’ll never know exactly how they waddled and quacked.

Funeral poverty: whose fault?

There’s an awful lot of talk just now about the inadequacies and iniquities of the Social Fund Funeral Payment. There’s also a lot of lobbying and campaigning going on to try and fix it.

And a new term is born: funeral poverty.

That the Funeral Payment is presently inadequate and its administration iniquitous is a matter on which all agree. The debate about where we go from here is being held in the context of a social security system which has always been there for people at a time of bereavement.

Until 1988 everyone who had paid their National Insurance stamp got a death grant. Then John Major’s Conservative government brought in the Social Fund Funeral Payment set at a level high enough to ensure that the poor and the disadvantaged could go out and buy themselves a decent funeral.

In 2008, by which time the value of the payment had been devalued by inflation, the Labour government announced, not an increase in, but a redefinition of the payment. Henceforth, the capped sum of £700 was to be seen as a ‘substantial contribution’ only; it was not intended to be sufficient to pay for the entire funeral.

That £700 is now wholly inadequate. Worse still, applications take too long to process and have no certainty of approval. The bereaved now suffer precisely the shame and degradation that the original payment sought to prevent — not to mention the attentions of loan sharks.  You’d think that an organisation like Co-operative Funeralcare (founded by working people for working people) would be doing all it can to mitigate the distress of those in difficulty, but it coldly carries on extracting top dollar — far more than most independents.

The present government wants to reduce dependency on the state. Well, if there’s a dependency culture around funerals, it is of the state’s making.

Which isn’t to say that fecklessness does not play its part in bringing about the predicament that so many bereaved people find themselves in. If people started saving earlier for their funeral, most, probably, would be able to salt away enough to pay for it. But they don’t. They don’t even think to do that. Many don’t save anything at all. And no one’s terrified any more by the ignominy of a pauper’s funeral into stashing away a sum for the simple reason that a pauper’s funeral is not ignominious. 

Though it matters not how much debt a person dies with, their next of kin cannot be held responsible for any of it. And yet failure to make provision for funeral expenses transmits to next of kin a responsibility which has the full force of a debt for which they are responsible. Any person who dies in old age without having made provision for their funeral is wholly spared the consequences. It’s their nearest and dearest who suffer. 

We cannot expect people to save for the funerals of those members of their family who have been unable or have failed to do so.

So: we should not subject them to the humiliations they presently undergo. 

If a simple sense of duty is not enough to impel people to provide for their own disposal, perhaps an element of compulsion is required, together with a radical approach. 

The state has already diversified into moneylending. It lends money to young people to enable them to go to higher education. Why not extend this to funerals? Try this for size:

When a child is born, it is automatically lent, say, £3000 in the form of an untouchable loan which grows at the rate of funeral costs. When that child starts work, repayments are collected via HMRC calculated according to the person’s level of income. Should their income fall below a particular level, repayments are halted. The debt is cancelled when it is discharged or when the borrower reaches a particular age — retirement, perhaps. The sum goes on growing.  When they die, the matured sum is immediately made available to their executor/administrator. 

If anyone should die before their loan is paid off, their executor/administrator would receive the matured sum in full. Everyone would get a decent funeral. Children’s funerals would, of course, be paid for in full by the state. 

The cost to the state would be far less than it is today.

We’d have no longer have any need of funeral plans.

People would live with an enhanced sense of their mortality and the awareness that death can happen at any time. 

Spot the flaw. 

Painted, young and damned and fair

Posted by Vole

When I think back to the days after Diana’s death I remember a strange time: hot days and a sense of shared grief lying like a miasma over the whole country. I was working for a council in those days and the queue of people, waiting to sign the book of remembrance in the lobby of the library, stretching out of the doors and into the square, seemed then and seems still quite extraordinary.

Writing about royalty and royal women in the London review of Books, Hilary Mantel describes Diana’s short life and terrible death as a sort of mythic drama. Diana was, she suggests, more royal than the royals; her life an enactment of a ritual progress. She writes that Diana:

passed through trials, through ordeals at the world’s hands. For a time the public refrained from demanding her blood so she shed it herself, cutting her arms and legs. Her death still makes me shudder because although I know it was an accident, it wasn’t just an accident. It was fate showing her hand, fate with her twisted grin. Diana visited the most feminine of cities to meet her end as a woman: to move on, from the City of Light to the place beyond black. She went into the underpass to be reborn, but reborn this time without a physical body: the airy subject of a hundred thousand photographs, a flicker at the corner of the eye, a sigh on the breeze.

For a time it was hoped, and it was feared, that Diana had changed the nation. Her funeral was a pagan outpouring, a lawless fiesta of grief. We are bad at mourning our dead. We don’t make time or space for grief. The world tugs us along, back into its harsh rhythm before we are ready for it, and for the pain of loss doctors can prescribe a pill. We are at war with our nature, and nature will win; all the bottled anguish, the grief dammed up, burst the barriers of politeness and formality and restraint, and broke down the divide between private and public, so that strangers wailed in the street, people who had never met Diana lamented her with maladjusted fervour, and we all remembered our secret pain and unleashed it in one huge carnival of mass mourning… none of us who lived through it will forget that dislocating time, when the skin came off the surface of the world, and our inner vision cleared, and we saw the archetypes clear and plain, and we saw the collective psyche at work, and the gods pulling our strings. To quote Stevie Smith again:

An antique story comes to me
And fills me with anxiety,
I wonder why I fear so much
What surely has no modern touch?

is there any other modern death that has gripped us so tightly or affected us so much? The full article – well worth a read – can be found here.

Blogs away!

Extraordinary communiqué from Sir Basil Batesville-Caskett Bt, CDM, RLSS (Bronze)

I have just been handed a note. It reads: 

Yo Bazza

Hey, about that week’s holiday you’ve been promising me. Well, I’m taking it. I’ve gone to the seaside with my lovely missus. See ya next Monday!

Blog-ed x x

I of course apologise to readers for the interruption in service brought about by this deplorable dereliction of duty. We may talk of holidays here at the GFG-Batesville Shard, but we most emphatically do not take them. 

I have every hope that a chap called Richard Rawlinson and a fella known as Vole may attempt to sail a jury-rigged blog through the next seven days. 

Please be assured that normal service will be resumed as soon as possible — ie, after we have interviewed suitable candidates. 

This is the most infuriation I have endured since Mrs Mollington upped and died on us.

Bah!

Great myths of Funeralworld

Posted by Richard Rawlinson

No.7 : Cremation is greener than burial.

 The writer of Ilkley Moor Bar T’at was ahead of his time. Here’s a translation of the lyrics from the Yorkshire dialect:

On Ilkley Moor without a hat

You have been courting Mary Jane

You are bound to catch your death of cold

Then we will have to bury you

Then the worms will come and eat you up

Then the ducks will come and eat up the worms

Then we will go and eat up the ducks

Then we will all have eaten you

That’s where we get our own back

This is exactly why some scientists claim cremation is less environmentally harmful than burial. Back in the day, a rotting corpse was deemed excellent manure, a benefit to the food chain. Now humankind is almost as toxic when dead as when alive. Over a long period of time, we leak our noxious substances first into the water in soil, then into small organisms, then into larger animals until, somewhere down the line, they end up in the mouths and bodies of our descendants.

A decomposing body also releases methane gas as the carbon content breaks down whereas cremation oxidises this carbon content. But surely, decomposition continues to release nutrients, too? And cremation, aside from guzzling fuel, emits poisons in the smoke from cremator chimneys. Toxins from burning plastic drapes, for example. Granted, carbon capture technology (upgraded scrubbers etc) reduces the impact. Perhaps science favours cremation over burial as clever Man, not Mother Nature, is in control.

Throughout our lives, we draw into our bodies elements from the environment and return elements to the environment. Some elements are consumed in our bodies and pass through them, and others remains with us until we die. Once we are dead we cease to borrow and start the process of returning to the environment what we have retained.

Gradual breakdown of the body when buried, or rapid breakdown by fire when cremated affects the rate and state in which elements are returned. But the same elements are released into the environment in one form or another.

The jury is still out on which is the greener.

RIP Ted and Poppy

It’s been a tough few days here at HQ, to be honest. Ted, our faithful, faulty bull terrier was put down on Wednesday morning. He had lymphoma.

Ted was rescued from Essex where he had been brutally treated. Thereafter, it was difficult to know which of his eccentric/dysfunctional traits to assign to nature and which to nurture. Always a dog of very low self-esteem, he also had the uproarious sense of humour common to bullys (other delightful traits include complete untrainability) and, while gentle as can be most of the time, he had a hilarious penchant for nipping people’s backsides. He got to know a good many undertakers and was one of the country’s leading experts on natural burial grounds (from a particular point of view).

Some years ago he went to see the team at Arka, where he met Jean Francis’s golden labrador, Poppy. The two of them chased each other round and round the office and nearly wrecked it while Jean and I collapsed in laughter.

Poppy died just a few weeks ago, so Jean and I have been exchanging condolences. We both agree that it’s much easier to be sensible when humans die. 

Jean sent me the following poem. If you’re a sensible sort, you may think it thoroughly sentimental. Well, Jean and I don’t. 

The Rainbow Bridge Poem

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old, are restored to health and vigour. Those who were hurt, or maimed are made whole and strong again. Just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing. They each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together…but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers.

Suddenly…he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster, and faster.

You have been spotted.

When you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again.

The happy kisses rain upon your face. Your hands again caress the beloved head. You look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then… you cross the Rainbow Bridge together.

Can pills cure grief?

“The grieving process gets close at what it means to be human; it’s understandable that handing it over to professionals armed with pills approaches the most dangerous misuse of pharmaceuticals we can imagine.

“Whereas depression is usually constant, grief is more likely to ebb and flow in waves and it does not usually invoke the feelings of worthlessness and low self-esteem that are so characteristic of depression. Grievers long to be reunited with someone they loved; the depressed often believe that they are unlovable.”

A thoughtful piece, this, well worth a read. Find it here.

Positively the end

“Most of us do not want to talk about [drawing up an advance directive]. Is it up to our doctors to bring this up only in a crisis situation? Shouldn’t we be informed about our health care options, even when healthy, and especially when we have a chronic or terminal illness, and to discuss these with our doctors and family?

“My hope is that we can overcome our fears of losing loved ones, and of them losing us. These conversations can be the best gift of love we can provide to those who are close to us.

“My goal is to read my advance directive on my birthday as a celebration of life, of my taking responsibility for myself and not leaving it to others.

“There is no right or wrong answer here. You make your choice, I have made mine.”

Full article here

The race grows sweeter

Posted by Vale

Here on the blog we often rail against society’s thoughtless pursuit of longevity. Rightly so – it is cowardice not kindness that endorses the suffering that medicine – seemingly without reflection or conscience – prolongs.

But it’s important to remind ourselves that it isn’t always so; that old age can bring wisdom and unlooked for joys as well.

In the New York Times recently, in piece called The Race Grows Sweeter Near Its Final Lap, Eve Pell tells the story of the love she found. She writes:

Old love is different. In our 70s and 80s, we had been through enough of life’s ups and downs to know who we were, and we had learned to compromise. We knew something about death because we had seen loved ones die. The finish line was drawing closer. Why not have one last blossoming of the heart?

I was no longer so pretty, but I was not so neurotic either. I had survived loss and mistakes and ill-considered decisions; if this relationship failed, I’d survive that too. And unlike other men I’d been with, Sam was a grown-up, unafraid of intimacy, who joyfully explored what life had to offer. We followed our hearts and gambled, and for a few years we had a bit of heaven on earth.

Not only was I happy during my short years with Sam, I knew I was happy. I had one of the most precious blessings available to human beings — real love. I went for it and found it.

It’s a moving story of love and age and I defy you read to the end without a tear in your eye. Read it here