The vow is “til death do us part.” But for former Dutch prime minister Dries van Agt and his wife, Eugenie, the aim was to leave this life the same way they had spent the past seven decades — together.
The couple, both 93, died “hand in hand” earlier this month, according to a statement from the Rights Forum, a pro-Palestinian organization that Dries van Agt created. They chose to die by what is known as “duo euthanasia” — a growing trend in the Netherlands, where a small number of couples have been grantedtheir wish to die in unison in recent years, usually by a lethal dose of a drug.
A longtime politician who had conservative roots but campaigned for numerous liberal causes,van Agt served as prime minister of the Netherlands from 1977 to 1982. He later became the European Union’s ambassador to Japan and the United States
Photos of the couple from their decades-long careers as public figures often show them walking in step: waving to crowds through a car window, voting together at an election site and giving each other a smooch at a public event.
The van Agts’ health had declined in recent years, Dutch public broadcaster NOS reported. The former prime minister never fully recovered after suffering a brain hemorrhage in 2019, which happened while he was delivering a speech at a commemoration event for Palestinians. Eugenie’s health issues were largely kept private.
“I feel like it’s kind of beautiful, honestly, that you’ve lived your life together, you both happen to be gravely ill without a chance of getting better, you’re ready to go, and you would like to go together,” said Maria Carpiac, director of the gerontology program at California State University at Long Beach.
When it comes to the right to choose one’s own death, the Netherlands is “kind of the model” for any U.S. legislation on the topic, she said.
At least 29 couples — or 58 people — died together via duo euthanasia in 2022, the most recent year of data from the country’s Regional Euthanasia Review Committees. That’s more than double the 13 couples who did so in 2020, when the committee first started looking at partners specifically, but it still represents only a small fraction of the 8,720 people who legally died by euthanasia or assisted suicide in the Netherlands that year.
“It is likely that this will happen more and more often,” said Rob Edens, press officer for NVVE, a Dutch organization focused on research, lobbying and education about assisted suicide and euthanasia in the Netherlands. “We still see a reluctance among doctors to provide euthanasia based on an accumulation of age-related conditions. But it is permitted” in the country’s legal guidelines, he said in an email.
Assisted suicide is when a person self-administers a lethal dose while a physician is present, while euthanasia is when a medical professional administers the dose. Both are legal in the Netherlands when specific criteria are met. (Some groups prefer the term “medical aid in dying,” or MAID, due to religious and social stigma around suicide.)
Euthanasia is illegal in the United States, but assisted suicide is allowed in D.C. and at least 10 states: Oregon, Washington, Montana, Vermont, California, Colorado, Hawaii, New Jersey, Maine and New Mexico. Eligibility requirements tend to be strict across the country, Carpiac said, but there are differences between jurisdictions.
The Netherlands, a country of almost 18 million people, has allowed assisted suicide and euthanasia since 2002. It requires that individuals willingly request the termination of their life in a manner that is “well-considered,” with a sign-off from a doctor that they are experiencing “unbearable suffering with no prospect of improvement.”
Another physician then has to agree that the person qualifies, and doctors can choose whether they are involved in the procedure. After every death, doctors are required to notify a regional review committee, which examines whether each case was handled lawfully. Couples who seek duo euthanasia are required to apply and undergo the review process individually, with separate doctors.
“An accumulation of age-related complaints can lead to unbearable and hopeless suffering,” Edens said, explaining the Dutch guidelines. “The expectation is that if doctors are increasingly willing to provide euthanasia when there is an accumulation of old-age complaints, the number of duo euthanasia [cases] will increase.”
Research suggests that older Americans are at a higher risk of dying after losing a spouse, particularly in the first few months after their death. While the cause of this phenomenon is unclear, studies have found that grieving partners have higher rates of inflammation and are at increased risk of heart attack and stroke, often due to stress-induced changes in blood pressure, heart rate and blood clotting.
“The first thing that came to my mind was the widowhood effect,” Carpiac said, referring to the van Agts’ choice to die by duo euthanasia. “I have a grandmother who is 96, and she’s like, ‘I’m not going anywhere!’ But if I had a partner and they were my person, and we were both kind of at the end of our lives, would it be worth it if he were to go without me? Would I die of what I considered to be a broken heart? I would want to have a choice.”
Organizing and clearing out an entire home is not most people’s idea of a good time. Doing so while grieving compounds that sense of dread and overwhelm. So perhaps it’s a bit of a surprise that The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning, Margareta Magnusson’s 2017 book chronicling her approach to ordering an estate in the wake of a loss, was a smash success. Her humorous, accessible guide amassed a cult following among an audience of fans that grew even larger after Peacock released its eight-episode series of the same name last year. But because both the book and the show it inspired tackled an issue that most people will encounter—and one that’s often swept under the proverbial rug—perhaps it’s not all that surprising that consumers found themselves clamoring for more content on post-loss decluttering.
Public meditations on grief and discussions around it seem more easily broached following the COVID pandemic, which spurred a reckoning in how we deal with mourning. The years since 2020 have been characterized by plenty of discourse on grieving, Zoom grief groups, and other bereavement support efforts, opening the floodgates on conversations that might have struck folks as morbid prior but now feel decidedly necessary to have out in the open. Podcasts like Anderson Cooper’s All There Is serve an audience of those looking to reflect on loss and how to live afterward. In cleaning out the New York City home of his late mother, the celebrated designer and socialite Gloria Vanderbilt, Cooper was guided by a number of handwritten notes Vanderbilt left like breadcrumbs to help him along. “These are Daddy’s pyjamas,” read one dispatch on a piece of paper near a pair of satin trousers.
Family portrait of the Coopers as they play on a sofa in their home, Southampton, Long Island, New York, March 30, 1972. American author and actor Wyatt Emory Cooper and heiress Gloria Vanderbilt Cooper sit with their sons, Carter (1965 – 1988) and Anderson Cooper.
Not everyone is given such clear direction in how to sort through a loved one’s dwelling after their passing. AD caught up with some experts on the subject, including a professional organizer, the owner of a liquidation and clean-out service, a death doula, and Magnusson herself, to advise on how to face the inevitable task—which all our pros say can, and should, be put into practice before a loss occurs. “Start before you are too old, or too weak, or get that final diagnosis,” Magnusson tells AD. “The upside is a better, easier life in which you don’t have to worry about the people you leave behind and all your crap they have to go through.”
How do I clear out a house after someone dies?
Both Magnusson and Mark Ferracci, owner of the Central Maryland–based clean-out and liquidation service Sanford & Son Estate Specialists, say that age 60 is the time to start organizing the objects of your estate for those who will someday have to clear it all out.
Allie Shaw, a professional organizer operating in the Greater Toronto area, recommends starting off by taking inventory of all the important items inside the abode, including anything of sentimental value (like photo albums, beloved heirlooms, or official documents) or monetary value (such as jewelry or china). When her own mother was given months to live, she became Shaw’s first client. Over 10 months, Shaw and her mother “had lots of conversations, going through possessions room-by-room and item-by-item,” she says. “It was very cathartic and it was a time in my life that I was so grateful for. She often said, ‘I got more months because we had this time.’”
In conversations about death and estate organizing it may go without saying, but Shaw encourages having formal documentation in place, like a will indicating your wishes for certain belongings. Though the act of preparing a will and even death cleaning an abode while the resident is still alive and well might feel bleak to some people, it’s important to remember that setting things in order can alleviate major stress later down the line. “It is a monumental task and often people think they’re leaving everything behind as a gift, when I’d say most of the time it’s a big burden,” Shaw explains.
Consider what you can manage and when to call in the estate cleaning pros
There’s no rule of thumb to tell whether your particular estate will need a whole team of professionals to clean out. But whether it’s a small apartment or a sprawling mansion, clearing a loved one’s spaces after they’ve died is rarely a one-person job. Particularly for those who value sustainability and cringe at the thought of wasting the beloved items of a family member’s residence, estate clean-out services like Ferracci’s might be the way to go as they’re plugged into the proper channels to help prevent waste. His team is trained to recycle materials, to facilitate the sale of pieces that have value, and to donate items that no longer have a place with the deceased’s family members before resorting to the dumpster.
Like a number of estate clean-out services, Ferracci’s process begins with a simple conversation—an informal chat for which he doesn’t charge that takes place in the abode. “I always say the same thing to people: Get the personal stuff out, get the financial-related stuff out, get the family mementos out; things that you want, those are key,” he says of his preliminary discussions with clients. Making sure family members have combed through the residence for items they hold dear so that all that’s left are things they won’t mind parting with is crucial. “Before I come in to do the job, I want to know that all that stuff’s gone and that everybody’s picked through it.”
How much does it cost to hire professionals for estate cleaning? And how long will it take?
The cost of an estate clean-out varies by how large the home is, which determines how big of a crew the service will need and how many days to allot for the project. A typical family home will likely take two to three days for Ferracci’s team to process, and he estimates that 90% of his average clean-outs cost between between $2,500 and $5,000. His team will sometimes purchase items to sell from clients’ estates, which can help offset that cost: “One [clean-out] I just started, I quoted them $4,400. I gave them $800 for the contents and the price was $3,600, and I’ll be there about two and a half days.” Condos and smaller spaces will generally cost less, while hoarding situations as well as larger abodes drive the price tag up. Though it’s not the norm, Ferracci has encountered homes where the bill was as high as $20,000 to clean everything out.
If you’re coming at an estate clean-out from the “gentle” perspective, meaning you have time to get things in order while the resident is still with us, an organizer may be the way to get things going gradually. As Magnusson advises, “death cleaning is for the living.” Shaw says that in her experience, organizers will charge $50 to $100 an hour. The process usually takes place across several sessions of two or three hours each in order to get a sense for the volume and how much accounting there is to do.
How can I deal with the death-cleaning process while grieving?
Getting ahead of organizing and cleaning a home before a loss takes place is ideal, but that’s just not always possible. It’s likely that the majority of people faced with clearing out a loved one’s estate are still in the grieving process. Even when it’s not a full estate but rather a few rooms with the deceased’s items, the emotional weight can be heavy. Magnusson found clearing out her husband’s spaces in their shared home after his death, particularly his clothing, was “the saddest thing I have ever done.”
Some mourners seek the services of a death coach or death doula to help them navigate the complex emotions that surface during grieving. The process of estate cleaning, which can be stressful under any circumstances, is particularly difficult after a loss. New York City–based death doula Mangda Sengvanhpheng knows that there’s no official guidebook to navigating loss, but when it comes to sorting through the ephemera of a loved one’s life, it’s helpful to have a group of helpers around: “Whether that is with your family members, your loved ones, friends, doulas, therapists, whoever it is that can become a support team, find those people to help you move through that,” she suggests.
Parsing through the objects of a deceased family member’s home can often make for bitter fighting between relatives, something both Ferracci and Sengvanhpheng have experienced in their work. Whether or not there are fights over which items go to whom or which things should be kept versus which should be tossed, finding difficulty in the process of going through these items can be viewed as a microcosm for grief in general. For certain things from an estate that we simply have no place for, it’s ultimately about acknowledging that love and value and then letting go.
“An object is an object, right? A table is a table. But these things have meaning because we imbue meaning in them,” Sengvanhpheng says. “There are stories in the objects, there are memories in the objects. When we lose people, as irrational as it may feel, there’s a reason for [feeling tied to objects]. We lose someone physically and these items—something tangible from them that we’re holding onto—mean so much.”
Parting with a loved one’s things can feel like a jarring reality check in the wake of a loss. Sengvanhpheng’s work involves trying to reframe that: “Letting go of items can be a form of acceptance,” she says. “If, for example, your sister takes something from your mother’s estate that you wanted, you can acknowledge that and then find ways to accept that this is just the reality. How can we start letting go? We consider how you can connect to your mom in a different way.”
Sometimes, there’s a melancholy beauty about ushering these emotionally charged objects into their next phase and assigning them a new narrative. Grief coach Charlene Lam curated an art show on the experience of going through her mother’s home and the objects she decided to keep and discard. When Shaw was taking inventory of her mother’s estate, she happened upon a beautiful rocking chair that had a long history in the family and was very beloved to her mother. They landed on donating it to the local library so that generations to come might make good use of it. “It’s still there and they love it,” she says.
Delaying the death-cleaning process can end up costing you
For many people in the golden years of their life, Ferracci’s seen enough to recommend downsizing when a large family home no longer serves your needs. He’s met clients who have proclaimed that their parents’ move from a big house to a smaller condo in their twilight years was “the best thing they’d ever done”—giving them ability to travel, save money, and ease the burden of sorting through a massive house for their children when that time came. When elderly homeowners aren’t capable of maintaining their houses, issues like accumulated clutter, mold, rot, and overgrown yards can make for an especially pricey clean-out and can even cause the home’s value to go down.
For those looking to list the family home after clearing it out, delaying on a needed clean-out runs the risk of confronting a more difficult selling market later down the line. “You’re going to continue to do the maintenance and you continue to pay the bills for the house, and the house is vacant, and interest rates can start to go up,” Ferracci says. He’s dealt with clients who struggled to sort through items or found themselves in gridlock with family members about what to do with the estate, ultimately leading them to list the residence many months later for thousands less than if they would have been more efficient in the clean-out process.
Ultimately, your pace is your choice. How to prepare for a loss, or even your own death, is not something AD purports to have all the answers on, but dealing with the items of our lives is manageable with the proper tools, outlook, and support. “We are all dying,” Magnusson says. “This is not morbid. It is just fact. Take care of it.”
— During my first several hours administering ashes as a hospital chaplain, I kept cringing.
Chaplain Angela Song, right, places ashes on the forehead of surgeon Michele Carpenter at Providence St. Joseph Hospital in Orange, California, in February 2023.
Inside the vast, dimly lit chapel, I stand beside a stool that holds Q-tips, a number ticker, and a small jar of ash. The chapel is musty and dark, its stained-glass windows allowing little light to permeate the pews. It lacks a cross, bimah, or any other particular faith marker. This chapel is not a gathering place for a specific community but a refuge for the thousands of patients, family members, and staff who enter the Columbia University Irving Medical Center each day.
Nurses in navy scrubs begin to queue outside the entrance, and I ready a Q-tip in one hand and the jar of ash in the other. Then, as each person squats before my five-foot frame, I check their badge, make a black cross on their forehead, address them by name, and say, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Most of them murmur a thank-you and leave; a few walk past me to sit silently in the pews. One or two enthusiastically tell me how glad they are that the hospital offers ashes on Ash Wednesday. The mood, however, is mainly somber, and I wonder as I administer the ashes what these colleagues of mine—nurses and doctors and social workers—are thinking as they receive a sign of death on their bodies before making their way to the dying bodies they are caring for.
Ash Wednesday is the busiest day of the year for our spiritual care department. It’s a whole-team affair: the Catholic priest attends to specific sacramental needs, the chaplains who are comfortable with the imposition of ashes each cover an assigned part of the hospital, and those who are not handle the litany of calls and referrals that make up a day at the hospital. Like a symphony, it takes everyone doing their part to play the piece.
Last year, the day after Ash Wednesday I was sitting with my chaplain cohort when I saw a New York Times article about a man who was being investigated for hate crimes after multiple incidents in which he punched Asian Americans on the subway. I found myself suddenly in tears, unable to breathe—an intensely physiological response that was unusual for me. When my supervisor, a rabbi, realized what state I was in, she promptly invited me to accompany her and another chaplain friend to visit a colleague who’d gone into labor the day before. We made our way over to the maternity ward and held the beautiful baby. At the new mother’s request, we each spoke a blessing over the infant—one Jewish blessing, one Christian blessing, and one Indigenous blessing, representing each of our traditions. As we stood in the quiet, clean room blessing this new life that had entered the world on Ash Wednesday, my body calmed and I relaxed into the safety of my friends.
The mother, also a rabbi, now says that Ash Wednesday is her favorite non-Jewish holiday. She loves the personal resonance she feels with it as her daughter’s birthday, as well as the memory of the sacred moment of mutual blessing and respect that we shared the following day.
I, too, have come to love Ash Wednesday differently after two years of working in the hospital on this day. For me, the memory of being invited to provide a blessing in my own tradition to this daughter of a rabbi feels like the embodiment of interfaith chaplaincy. It baptizes this day with a kind of hospitality, marking it not merely as a day of somber repentance and meditation on mortality but also one of generosity and grace, a day that all can participate in regardless of their faith tradition.
The first time I administered ashes at the hospital, I was shocked both by how many people—patients, staff, visitors—wanted ashes and by the genuine gratitude and peace they seemed to feel upon receiving them. It felt incongruent to me, to feel peace at a symbol of one’s mortality: Why were they so grateful to have a stranger remind them that they will one day die? I felt as though I were saying, “Hello, good doctor—receive this sign that one day you will die just as inevitably as all your patients will.” I cringed for the first several hours that I administered ashes.
Then something shifted. I went to the pediatric ward and administered ashes to my patients, the children of parents desperate for hope and healing. I saw how this ritual gave them that hope and healing, the way their eyes closed, their heads bowed in gratitude, and their shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. I remember going into the room of a patient I’d been following for months, a five-year-old girl with leukemia, and feeling both a kind of dread and a strange, unexplainable grace as I marked her and her parents’ foreheads. It meant something—it meant everything, perhaps—that I, too, wore a cross of ash on my forehead as I marked theirs. I was not pronouncing their deaths like some kind of prophet or angel of death; I was joining them, and inviting them to join me, in the knowledge of our universal mortality. In a sense, I was saying, “We are all patients here. We are all going to die. We are all called to join Christ in his death and his resurrection.” Perhaps providing ashes on this holiday was the deepest embodiment of solidarity with sick and dying people that I possessed.
After that experience, I came to see administering ashes to staff differently as well. Rather than feeling like I was dooming the work of the doctors and nurses who came to me with their heads bowed—essentially telling them that no matter how hard they tried or how advanced medical science became, they would ultimately fail—I was relieving them of a burden too great to carry, one that medical providers are too often asked to hold. They are not, in fact, in the business of saving lives—not in the sense of endlessly deferring death, curing people of the disease of mortality.
Human beings cannot be cured of our mortal diagnosis; death will come for each of us at one time or another, no matter how healthy our lifestyles and how frequent our scans and checkups. Perhaps by administering ashes to these doctors and nurses, I was helping remind them of that truth, freeing them even a little from the enormous pressure that they carry. Their jobs are not to cure but to care, not to fix but to heal, until the inevitable and universal healing of our bodies comes in the form of the death we will all one day face.
According to the United States Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, physician and clinical services expenditures in 2021 totaled $864.6 billion. An estimated $4.3 trillion was spent on health care that year in the US, $1.3 trillion of it on hospital care. In 2017, a team of Australian health-care researchers reported that so-called futility disputes in that country—wherein patients with an extremely low or zero chance of recovery, such as those who are legally brain-dead, are kept on life-sustaining interventions in the hospital—cost $153.1 million per year.
The story behind these numbers is a complex one, and no single narrative can be extrapolated from it. Nevertheless, it seems clear that Western culture is too often a death-denying culture, one where the inevitable fact of our mortality stands in stark contrast to the billions of dollars spent each year not only on medically futile treatment but also on the many products aimed at denying death, halting the aging process, and alleviating the sting of acknowledging that we are mortal creatures. We know that we will die, but like children who cover their ears to ignore their parents’ commands, we block out the noise of our impending death with any device or entertainment we can find.
Distracting ourselves from death is not necessarily a bad thing. Human beings weren’t designed to dwell endlessly on our mortality, to read constant stories of violence and death on the news and ruminate over the inevitability that our loved ones will one day leave us. Jesus himself, even as he set his face toward Jerusalem and the violent death he knew would come, broke bread with his disciples, debated with his neighbors, and spent hours reclining after supper with friends and strangers.
Nevertheless, there is a difference between appropriate distraction and endless denial, and research has shown that such denial has enormous costs, from medical expenditures to the quality and length of one’s life (Atul Gawande makes this argument powerfully in Being Mortal). For my part, I have come to see Ash Wednesday, with its blunt liturgy and embodied rituals, as a profound antithesis, perhaps even a kind of antidote, to the particularly American denial of death. I now see the hospital setting as a uniquely appropriate stage for the drama of ashes, and its actors—the patients, families, and staff—as the people who have the most to teach us about how to live well as mortal beings, which is above all a question of how to die well.
The dramatization of death in the hospital that happens every year at the start of Lent leaves no room for escape, whether one wears a cross of ashes or shares a room with one who does, whether one is receiving a diagnosis or delivering one. We all bear witness with our bodies to the truth of our finitude, and for one day every year, perhaps we can help heal one another of our tendency to forget. There can be a grace to remembrance, after all. We remember that we are dust and that we will return to dust, and by remembering, we invite ourselves and one another to learn how to live in this fatal time between.
My father’s death was something I’d worried about for decades — probably since I learned that smoking kills. But years of pre-emptive angst didn’t prepare me for the crushing heartache that landed like a rock on my chest when he finally died from lung cancer at 82 last year.
I couldn’t have known how the deliberate way he chose to die would become part of his legacy. Or that Mom’s reticence would prevent me from sharing with the world that he had medical assistance in dying. I had hoped to honour my father with an obituary that inspired readers to live harder and love bigger. And, I wanted to package his life with all its complexities and idiosyncrasies into an honest tribute that — if you read between 20 column inches — revealed his authentic nature.
For example, I wrote he regaled us with tales that we never tired of hearing, that he was never one for small talk and that he was his most relaxed self when he travelled. I’ll decipher: Dad always prefaced his (albeit entertaining) stories with, “Stop me if you’ve heard this,” and then launched right in with nary a nanosecond pause for interjections; he did not suffer fools and, without a margarita in hand on a tropical beach, he could be pretty set in his ways.
The one thing I didn’t want to couch was how he died.
I’m reticent to use a hackneyed term like transformational but it’s the only one I have to describe what we experienced. Medical assistance in dying spared Dad many indignities and, for the family he left behind, knowing in advance the exact day and time of his death provided us with a chance to say everything we needed to say and send him off steeped in the love he deserved.
As I watched Dad take his last peaceful breath (not a euphemism, it really was), I was flooded with gratitude for living in a country where my father had the option to forgo a long, slow death. I wanted to share it with the world.
The federal government wants another pause in allowing medical assistance in dying (MAID) requests from those suffering solely from mental illnesses. CBC’s Christine Birak breaks down the division among doctors and what it means for patients who have waited years for a decision.
So, I asked Mom.
“Can I write that Dad had MAID in the obituary?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
I’m not usually one to demur. But this was my mother — just a day after her husband of 60 years had died. Plus, obituaries cost a bundle, and she was paying.
“OK, no problem,” I said and went on the hunt for a breadcrumb to drop in the obit. Dad’s death was neither “sudden” nor “unexpected” or “tragic,” leaving me unsure of what coded language to use for assisted dying.
In the end, I settled for the truth: Dad died surrounded by his family as the sun set.
Korbin’s parents, David and Judi, were married for 60 years.
For the next year, I regretted what felt like a lie of omission. Then, on the first anniversary of his death, Mom said to me, “It’s taken me a while, but now I see that your dad traded a few months of his life to give us a beautiful death.
She was right.
Dad had always been generous with material things, but his deliberate death was perhaps his greatest gift. Watching him make his difficult decision with grace and equanimity was the bravest thing I’ve experienced. We have always been a close family, but I don’t think any of us, even Dad, could have predicted the way sharing this rite of passage would bring us closer. Even a year after our patriarch’s death, I can feel a deeper intimacy between those of us he left behind.
Beautiful indeed.
I took my mom’s opening to probe further.
“Why didn’t you want me to put MAID in the obituary? Were you worried about the stigma?”
“Me? Stigma? Not at all,” she said, “I just didn’t think it was relevant.”
And then she added, “But I do now. So you go and tell the world about your father’s big, beautiful, assisted death.”
It was only relatively recently that I learned that holding funerals within 24 hours was a Jewish custom, and not the general norm. I’ve been extremely lucky in having gone to quite few funerals, and almost all of these have been those of Jewish family members, so it simply didn’t occur to me that we might be doing anything unusual in having them so quickly. Without the understanding that this wasn’t standard practice, I didn’t consider it exceptional — but the impact it has on the process of mourning can be, in my opinion, a significant and unifying one.
In the Torah, we are told that “You shall bury him the same day. His body should not remain all night.” And traditionally, the urgency of the funeral is linked to the importance of returning the body to the earth and allowing the soul to return to God. As a culturally-not-religiously Jewish person, I was unaware of both the scriptural and spiritual reasoning until very recently. I would have placed the emphasis on the emotional reasoning, which argues that the immediate experience of loss, mourning and proximity to death is a deep pain to feel, and one which should not be undergone any longer than absolutely necessary. Now it seems clear to me that it’s more about custom than anything else. Either way, I have come to hold it as an immensely important, beautiful aspect of the Jewish culture around death.
In December, my great-great auntie Marjorie became quite ill and we as a family braced ourselves for an upcoming funeral. She, along with much of my family, lived in Manchester, so in the lead-up to her passing, the London sect of us were on slight tenterhooks in anticipation of journeying up on little notice. In these moments, the banal and the profound are forced to find some kind of harmony. When contemplating loss is simply too vast, logistics take on a special importance.
In some ways, the knowledge that you’re just waiting for a death to occur so that the chain of events can start to unfold can be quite tiring. Maintaining a state of urgency over an extended period of time is logistically and emotionally tricky, and having to be pragmatic in the face of something so sad can feel like an unnecessary added encumbrance. But ultimately, there is no actively good time for a funeral. No one is looking at their diary and finding the perfect date to dedicate to doing something none of us want to do. In some ways, recognizing that the funeral will be hard no matter what, and then allowing it to take precedence over all other commitments, is the best way to allow a loss the appropriate space it deserves in our lives.
When the day arrived, a large portion of it for me was taken up by travel. We woke up to cancelled trains — standard — and then huddled alongside however many other disgruntled passengers at Euston. My mum’s cousin Caroline and I ran at absolute breakneck pace through crowds of people to get seats as soon as the platform was announced. On the drive from the station to the cemetery, we passed innumerable family monuments: the prison to which my uncle was told his parents had been sent in a prank by his cousin, the sandhills where Caroline reported “practically torturing” my mum when they were little, the shop to which it was a very grown up privilege to be allowed to walk to alone. Despite most of my visits to Manchester now being for funerals, the city will always feel full of life. Our memories and our history are part of the fabric of the place, and so many of those who we’ve lost are kept alive in the stories we can’t help but keep telling.
The funeral itself was brief and beautiful. My great-great aunt was a truly incredible person whose innate kindness and protectiveness distinguished her as remarkable to everyone around her. With it all having to come together so quickly, the words people choose take on a special significance: they are candid, and emotional, and cut straight to the core.
And yet, alongside mourning and meaning exists the mundane. People keep being people, and we continue to have to get ourselves from A to B. On the journey back to the station after the funeral, I sat squashed between my uncle and my grandfather in the backseat of my great uncle’s car, and we sat for a short eternity in a gridlock outside my grandma’s primary school, entertained by stories about that time of her life. When we finally got to the station, we caught a train by the skin of our teeth. By holding funerals so quickly, we force our lives to fit into the space around them, and require them to find a way to enmesh themselves into the day to day. There is something quite moving about all this grief amongst all this routine.
Sitting on trains gives you the wonderful gift of time to think. I reflected on my privileged position, experiencing the funeral of someone so beloved as a peripheral mourner, and how this offered another insight into the magic of having a funeral within 24 hours of a death. With this custom, in the direct aftermath of losing someone the people closest to the deceased are immediately wrapped in love. Their family and friends flock to them and make sure they aren’t alone with their grief. The initial experience of living without someone involves being in a room full of people who are there to remember and celebrate them. A funeral within 24 hours catches you just as you fall into the abyss.
And whilst there are undeniable impracticalities, the system manages to account for most. For those who are unable to make it, attending a shiva in the coming days offers them another chance to support and commemorate and mourn for themselves, as well as to contribute to the elongation of the period in which those closest to the deceased are surrounded by care. Whilst the funeral comes quickly, this does not mark the end of the grieving process — rather, it’s the beginning of the talking, processing and feeling. I am grateful that, thanks to Jewish custom, that beginning starts within 24 hours of a death. It’s exactly what we need.
An early and pivotal scene in Greta Gerwig’s “Barbie” finds a rager underway at the Dreamhouse. Dressed in sequins and spangles, Margot Robbie leads the Barbies in a choreographed routine to Dua Lipa’s “Dance the Night.” After they throw their synchronized hands in the air, certain that tomorrow will be “the best day ever,” Robbie pauses, an ecstatic perma-grin on her face, and blurts out, “Do you guys ever think about dying?” Screeeech. The dancing stops; Barbie’s grin falls away. “I don’t know why I just said that,” she stammers. “I’m just dying…to dance!” Everyone cheers, the music resumes and all is right once again in Barbieland.
Minus the disco dancing, the scene is a fairly accurate depiction of how conversations around death tend to go in our society. But there are signs that this may be changing, thanks to a growing “death positive” movement that seeks to normalize the recognition and embrace of the ultimate elephant in the room. The movement’s advance can be measured by the growing popularity of Death Cafes such as the one I joined on a recent Thursday afternoon in the L.A. neighborhood of Los Feliz.
Around 20 of us had gathered for the monthly meeting inside a sanctuary hung with silk Buddha tapestries on the second floor of the Philosophical Research Society. Ranging in age from mid-20s to mid-70s, we knew little about each other beyond our common interest in talking about death and dying. As per Death Café tradition, tea, coffee and cake were served. First-timers quickly learned that the meetups were not grief or bereavement groups by another name.
It was during the pandemic that Lui began to explore how Western culture related — and failed to relate — to death.
“It is really just giving people the opportunity to talk about death from whatever perspective they feel is important to them at the moment,” said the event’s founder and facilitator, a 72-year-old artist, transformational psychologist and scholar of comparative religions named Elizabeth Gill Lui.
It was during the pandemic that Lui began to explore how Western culture related — and failed to relate — to death. “You’d think we would find common ground,” she recalled. “Instead, it’s politicized. Because I’m closer to my own death, I felt that I should have been more informed about the issues surrounding death and dying.” Lui took a course on Zoom to become certified as a death doula, or an end-of-life caretaker who provides non-medical assistance and guidance to the dying and those close to them. In September of 2022, she organized her first Death Café at the Philosophical Research Society, a spiritual and cultural center she considers her “intellectual home.” It has met on the third Thursday of the month ever since.
The first-ever Death Café was hosted by Jon Underwood in his London basement in 2011. According to his original guidelines, the meetings must always be not-for-profit and remain fundamentally unstructured. Inviting a guest speaker, selecting a book to discuss, choosing a theme — any such activity disqualifies the event from using the Death Cafe name. The host is obliged only to serve tea, coffee and cake, and open up a conversation.
Because death is not an easy subject to broach, the freeform meetings are designed to help participants find their own way. “If you get people talking about it, they start to find the language,” said Lui. “Everyone has something they can think about and share that needs to be heard.” In this moment in history, when overdoses, suicides, school shootings, climate crises and war are part of the daily discourse, a death discussion might also address societal and environmental devastation.
Caitlin Doughty founded The Order of the Good Death in 2011.
Every meeting brings together newbies and regulars, many of whom are relieved to discover a meaningful social outing devoid of small talk. “From the moment we start talking, it’s authentic,” said Lui. “It gives people the opportunity to touch something that’s at the core of who they are. It’s not about the weather or traffic, or ‘What did you do today?’ I think people are hungry for that.”
On the afternoon I attended, Lui opened the conversation by asking what brought us here. The responses varied from the loss and illness of friends or family members, to the dawning awareness of death by people in their 70s, some of whom were beginning to educate themselves about the right-to-die movement and eco-friendly burial alternatives. Several were end-of-life or grief counselors. A few people admitted they were simply afraid of dying. Whatever our motivations, Lui encouraged us to “befriend death.” When a companion is as constant as death, it is preferable that it be a friend rather than an enemy.
When my turn came, I explained that the death of my beloved dog earlier that year had been part of a personal reckoning around mortality — my own and that of everyone I loved. I admitted that I found the subject difficult to discuss even with close friends. And yet here I was, opening up with a group of strangers. Over the course of two hours, the conversation touched upon the effects of the hallucinogen DMT, Anderson Cooper’s grief podcast, an episode of “Black Mirror” that explored the digital afterlife, and a Getty Villa exhibition about the “Egyptian Book of the Dead.”
Lui’s is just one of a number of Death Cafés that meet in and around Los Angeles. Through the organization’s website you can find information for similar gatherings in San Diego, Santa Barbara and Palm Springs. To date, Death Cafes have been held in 87 countries, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe, but Lui’s is the only one where you might be served her legendary carrot cake.
Death Cafes are part of what has come to be known as the “death positive” movement. The term can be traced to the work of an L.A. mortician named Caitlin Doughty, who in 2011 founded The Order of the Good Death, an organization that advocates for funeral industry reform and a more openness around death and dying. The pandemic acted as an accelerant for “death positivity,” as millions of people found themselves forced to confront illness and mortality in previously unimaginable ways. Since 2019, membership in the U.S.’s National End of Life Doula Alliance has more than quadrupled, with new training programs being offered across the country to meet demand.
The growing field of end-of-life care is increasingly reflected in popular culture. The title character of Mikki Brammer’s 2023 novel, “The Collected Regrets of Clover,” for example, is a death doula in New York City who attends Death Cafes at the public library and drinks cocktails on the Lower East Side. “The secret to a beautiful death is to live a beautiful life,” Clover’s 87-year-old neighbor Leo tells her as he breathes his last, and more and more resources are consciously intertwining the two. The Brooklyn-based Morbid Anatomy has grown from a blog into an online platform, library and brick-and-mortar space where one can take classes, participate in a “Death Meditation,” and pick up objects like Victorian memento mori and Dia de Los Muertos-related folk art. There’s even a #DeathTok hashtag on TikTok featuring posts with billions of views.
This November, dozens of speakers on subjects such as psychedelic therapy and assisted suicide addressed 600 attendees from the death-and-dying field at the the sixth End Well Symposium in Los Angeles. Professional hospice care has been available for over 50 years — Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s 1969 book “On Death and Dying,” which introduced the idea of the five stages of death, is a venerated classic — but with the death-positive movement, death is being embraced as a vital part of life, not just the end of it.
The site is a wealth of practical resources and information on death preparedness, end-of-life care, funerals and grief.
Things were different as recently as 2018, when Departing Dearly founder Wendy Mullin found herself researching end-of-life services for her mother. “I realized during the process that there were a lot of things that didn’t make sense,” recalled Mullin, a designer of clothing and interiors. “Why are we putting these lacquered boxes in the ground and embalming people?” she wondered. For the creator of the fashion brand Built by Wendy, known for its rock ‘n’ roll tailoring and coveted guitar straps, the presentation of information was its own form of stylistic hell. “Everything was either religious or ugly. I felt like I was looking at the Zales Jewelers of death information.”
Finding no website that spoke to her aesthetically, Mullin began thinking about the need for something new. “Goop — but for death. Instead of lifestyle, what about deathstyle?” she said with a chuckle. In 2019, Mullin started developing a deck and talking to people about the project. When COVID hit, the idea of monetizing a site lost its appeal, and she turned down a couple of potential investors before deciding to build the site as a public offering in her own “punk rock” style.
The main image on the Departing Dearly homepage is a person stage diving into a crowd. It’s an analogy for “the process of dying,” said Mullin. “It’s like jumping into the unknown. You’re hoping someone is gonna catch you. You’re trusting other people to help you.”
The site is a wealth of practical resources and information on death preparedness, end-of-life care, funerals and grief. It also explores how death shows up in art and pop culture, from a classic film like 1965’s “The Loved One” to a virtual reality near-death experience called Virtual Awakening. Recent posts on the Departing Dearly Instagram account feature the show “Succession,” the climate activist group Extinction Rebellion, and the 97-year-old artist Betye Saar, whose large-scale commissioned work “Drifting Toward Twilight” recently opened at The Huntington in Pasadena.
Like Lui, Mullin became certified as a death doula during the pandemic as a way to deepen her relationship with death and dying. The training helped her initiate meaningful conversations with older relatives and allowed her to get more comfortable with her own mortality. Fundamental to her understanding was Ernest Becker’s 1973 book, “Denial of Death,” which posits that our society’s competitive drives toward status and success are elaborate distractions, as Mullin described it, “so we don’t have to stop and look at the fact that we’re gonna die.” (She also links our phone addictions to “death anxiety.”)
“I think it’s literally being ‘woke,’” she said of the decision to face death. “We’re waking up to our own lives.”
Last month, I found myself at the Philosophical Research Society again, this time for a Living Funeral Ceremony. Essentially a guided mortality meditation, this ritual was created and led by Emily Cross, a musician and death doula who runs the Steady Waves Center for Contemplation, an end-of-life space in Dorset, England. Cross had traveled to the U.S. to host several ceremonies on the West Coast; this one was organized with the group Floating, which facilitates events related to music and healing.Although ceremonies at Cross’s center can involve lying in a woven willow coffin, for this one we sat and lay on yoga mats.
I found unexpected solace in the idea that my spirit could exist as a ray of light or the sound of a bell, struck just once but reverberating through eternity.
Cross created the Living Funeral Ceremony after hearing about the South Korean tradition of mock funerals, which were developed to curb the country’s high suicide rates. “The purpose of this ceremony,” she said, while moving softly through the room as we contemplated our own image, “is to enrich your life by bringing death into immediate and clear view.” There were some tears shed as we were guided to say goodbye to everything we knew and loved. Before each mat was placed a clipboard with a single sheet of paper, on which we were to write our last words. Then, Cross began a deep, guided visualization of letting go of our physical bodies as we covered ourselves with a funereal shroud. After some time inhabiting this fugue-like state, we were guided back by her voice.
I will admit that my own “final” words included regrets and unresolved emotions. I am not one of those people who could die happily tomorrow, satisfied that my purpose has been fulfilled. Yet I was surprised to discover that, when contemplating what I might “leave behind” after death, the idea of worldly accomplishments barely registered. My mind wasn’t trained on legacy or immortality, but on love and energy. I found unexpected solace in the idea that my spirit could exist as a ray of light or the sound of a bell, struck just once but reverberating through eternity.
After we came back to “life” and shared our experiences, I felt grateful and glad to get to live another day — and to have time to work on those regrets. When the time does arrive, I hope to have cultivated Lui’s fearlessness. “I want to experience death,” she told us with a smile. “I’m convinced it’s going to be interesting.”
After his father’s sudden death while on vacation in the Philippines, Jim Agapito rushed to his funeral. But when he arrived from Canada, he was thrown into an unfamiliar world where his sombre understanding of mourning was replaced by superstition and festivities.
It took three days to get to my dad’s funeral in the Philippines because of a chaotic string of flights and cancellations: Winnipeg to Vancouver, Vancouver to Tokyo and Tokyo to Manila. When I landed, it took another four-hour drive to my mom’s home in a small, rural area called Jaen, Nueva Ecija.
I was tired and devastated. When I saw the coffin, all I wanted to do was burst into tears. But I couldn’t.
Crying on the coffin is bad luck, I heard in my mind. It’s what I had been told again and again by my Filipino family, who were all intent on observing Filipino customs and superstitions for my dad’s journey from the living to the afterlife
Imagine that. You rush halfway around the world to grieve your father’s death but don’t cry on the coffin because it could curse both of you.
I thought, Rest his soul, Dad is already dead.Who would be getting the bad luck?
I felt torn standing before his coffin, surrounded by family and friends who seemed to be keeping it together. On the inside, I was a wreck, and I just wanted to grieve for my father the only way I knew how. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be sad. I wanted to be alone with my mom and my brother.
But in the Philippines, there’s an unwritten but important rule: No one grieves alone, and it’s the family’s duty to create a happy atmosphere for grieving loved ones. Even if that means karaoke.
Agapito, centre, with his mom Yolanda Agapito, left, and dad Simeon Agapito, right, grabbing coffee in 2018 in Winnipeg.
Fulfilling my father’s dream
This push and pull of how to grieve was a shock because it had been 34 years since I’d been to the Philippines. I was born in Canada and visited my parents’ homeland only once when I was nine.
After they retired, my parents split their time each year between the Philippines and Winnipeg. Dad was in the Philippines for Christmas when he suddenly died of a heart attack.
It was my dad’s wish that my older brother and I would explore this country he loved so much. And there I was, fulfilling his dream under the worst circumstances imaginable.
I’ve been exploring my Filipino culture through a podcast I host called Recovering Filipino. I delve into everything from why we as a community love basketball so much to what’s the obsession with sweet spaghetti.
But all of that exploration and learning didn’t quite prepare me for this deep dive into Filipino customs surrounding death.
A different way of grieving
Funeral parlours are expensive in the Philippines and there is no refrigeration for the body.
Instead, my dad’s coffin was placed in the living room of my family’s home. A home that consisted of my entire extended family — Lola (grandma,) three aunts, three uncles, five cousins and their children.
The house is big, but it’s also in a rural environment and a farm. As a city-slicker living in Winnipeg, It wasn’t like any of the Manitoban farms I went to on school trips in grade school. Our family home in the Philippines was an open door. It felt like every cat and dog in the neighbourhood roamed in the house, and goats and chickens roamed the yard. My family had to rearrange their living space based on burial tradition and superstition to accommodate the funeral. People argued about the proper procedures for mourning and how the donation box should be presented (one aunt said it has to be covered in a certain way or it’s bad luck).
Agapito, centre back, with his mother Yolanda, Lola (Epifania Bulaong) and brother Mark Agapito grieving by Simeon’s casket at Yolanda’s home in Jaen, Nueva Ecija, Philippines.
When my extended family gave their condolences and tried to talk to me, it would go in one ear and out the other. It felt like there were too many people surrounding me, and there was an expectation to entertain the guests who came for the funeral. It was a nightmare.
Dad’s funeral also coincided with Christmas. Christmas to Filipinos is like the Super Bowl of holidays. It’s the absolute biggest event of the year. Everyone is celebrating.
I was unprepared for this highly superstitious, party-the-pain-away take on mourning.
After the funeral service, we had a party to celebrate my dad’s life. Filipinos don’t believe the family should be alone and sad; it’s the job of the guests to make sure the family will be OK.
The party atmosphere was hard for me to stomach. I felt guilty for having fun after my dad died. I thought about locking myself in a room and just crying. In fact, I did try doing that at first but it’s something my family wouldn’t let me do.
Instead, they took me to shopping malls, public markets and to eat all the sugar and fried chicken my body could inhale. There was dancing, there was karaoke singing, and they even took me to ride ATVs and hold snakes at an agriculture and off-road park.
Initially, it was uncomfortable and strange to mourn like this, but I soon realized that being surrounded by family in this way actually made the initial grieving process easier.
Agapito holds a Burmese python while visiting the Philippines for his dad’s funeral in December 2023.
Even the dead aren’t left alone.
Filipinos believe the body must have company so that the person can go to heaven peacefully. They believe mourners must stay with the body for at least three days so the person’s soul knows they’re dead but they have family to support them on their journey to the afterlife. It’s called the Lamay or wake.
Although many people I met in the Philippines for the funeral were strangers to me, they showed me that my dad always made people feel like they were not alone.
“You’re probably unaware, but your dad was why I could attend college,” one of my cousins told me. He helped pay for that cousin’s tuition for several years.
I heard so many stories like this.
Dad’s body wasn’t cremated with the casket. Initially, this made me angry. It felt like he was being cheated somehow. But then my mom told me, “We didn’t burn the coffin so it could be donated to a family. People here are poor. It’s something your dad would have wanted.”
Once called a ‘bad Filipino’ by his lola (grandma), Agapito, second from left with the rest of his family, has been on a cultural recovery mission to learn more about his roots.
A different type of loss
I see now that my dad was a guy who loved living life. He liked to have a good time, so celebrating his life with laughter, singing and dancing made sense.
But how do I reconcile that with my understanding of mourning?
Back home in Canada, I often think about the time with my family in the Philippines. They helped me get through a lot of difficult times when the crushing weight of my dad’s death left me paralyzed and speechless. They taught me it’s OK to let loose and have fun.
It’s been hard being back in Canada. I feel so alone. I don’t have the warm and fuzzy security blanket of the family to grab me when I feel sad. But my mom reminds me that all of them, including her, are just a video message away.
