When I was a young man, people would often say, “cheer up Ken, it might never happen”. I never suffered with depression but the pressures of a poor childhood took their toll. Older than my years, it was no surprise that I went to work in a cemetery. That was as a horticultural trainee but I transferred to funeral work and was, consequently, pitched into the world of the dead. From that day onwards, I worked for 45 years with involvement in more than 100,000 funerals. The reality was that I was always comfortable with funerals.
Living with the dead took on a new slant when my boss suggested that a cemetery lodge was available for rent. Knowing I was considering marriage, his ultimatum was to marry quickly and take over the tenancy. Our seeming shotgun marriage disappointed many when no baby arrived. The tenancy meant that one of us had to lock all the cemetery gates at sundown. This involved a one mile walk through the ranks of graves and no, we never saw a ghost. However, other occupants of the cemetery were upset at our intrusion; the barn owls living in the church tower. They would sweep over in the gloom, screech and startle us.
I spent short periods in two more cemetery lodges. In that role, as guardian of the cemetery, I always felt in charge of the dead. On a number of occasions I chased people out of the cemetery or otherwise gave them a real fright.
Those of us who work with funerals are a tiny fraction of the community. In many societies we are deemed untouchables, and in those countries people dread working with the dead. In reality, we are privileged because we see, as Wordsworth wrote, into the life of things. We also spend our lives with older people, most often women simply because men die first. You may not have noticed that there are far more widows than widowers.
Much as I hate the word widow, no other word fits. It is far better than the old word ‘relict’. I met so many impressive widows, women in control. By that, I mean capable of recognising their changed circumstances and coming to terms with them. For instance, many were facing severe financial constraints because they were unaware that their late husband’s pension died with them. I was, at least in my early career, overly protective, always assuming I had to ease subjects into the conversation without further upsetting them. One widow, conscious I was embarrassed to talk of cheap coffins, upbraided me. She said, “Ken, he’s dead!” That was part of my education.
Women were always more ready to talk about death. I recall one daughter, in the early 1980’s, telling me about her mother’s death. How, as she aged, she no longer recognised her daughter. That was the first time somebody explained dementia to me, a kind of death seemingly unrecognised until that point. Other women talked to me about the early deaths from Aids and the insensitivity they faced. Funeral directors were refusing to allow the body to be viewed and cemeteries were insistent on sealing the coffin with concrete. This was unnecessary because Aids is not contagious after death. It was quite distressing to hear these stories and realise how they added to the trauma of bereavement.
In the 1990’s I introduced natural burial and was immediately labled as a pagan. I was then asked to source cardboard coffins and these were duly labelled insensitive. Worse, I then introduced a re-usable coffin. The furore caused by these changes to the traditional funeral often created doubts in me. However, I will be ever grateful to a number of widows who gave me support when I needed it most. It reinforced my realisation that women are the mainstays of community. Both puberty and the experience of birth force women to manage change and not fear it. It was always the men who made casual quips about ignoring death and its consequences. Their preferred funeral option, of being thrown over a wall in a black plastic bag was never, ever, said to me by a woman. At the times of great crisis, such as death, you need a woman’s shoulder to cry on.
Now, at the age of 76, I think I am prepared for death. Perhaps I was a dour child because, as the eldest, I was responsible for deaths in my family. At first, it was feline funerals, numerous of which died and my three sisters expected me to create a decent burial at the bottom of the garden. Then, my mother died early and later, two of those sisters. More confident, I delivered their funeral ceremonies and integrated family where I could. It was a privilege to do so but I still feel their loss.
Women who had experienced stillbirth had a particular impact on me. It was why I introduced individual graves for stillbirth and began to realise that some women lose two or even three babies. The funerals of all children had the most emotional impact upon me.
Living with the dead was fundamental in my life. The dead must be cared for and in my early career I followed tradition without thinking. The black Victorian funeral was a business and it became ever more expensive. However, my communication with the bereaved challenged age old practice and made me see into the life of things. A funeral should be what you want it to be rather than what society dictates. It does not need religion or black clothing. That is why modern funerals have become more spiritual, more colourful and more celebratory. All that remains is keeping them affordable.
If I have a message then it is to talk to family and friends, prepare a will and arrange a pension or finance to protect any surviving partner. Living with the dead has enabled me to touch the lives of so many people, which has been a privilege.
Article by Ken West
