I need to stop banging on about death and dying, I know, or people are going to start crossing the street when they see me coming. But there is one more thing I need to share. I’ve had many nice texts and emails from friends close and distant over the last few weeks since my dad died. Here’s one that I stared at for a long time. It came from a woman I’ve known for 50 years, since we were kids on holiday at the seaside. Our families had neighbouring caravans on the same site on the Gower peninsula way back in the last century. Our parents were close friends; three of the four of them are no longer with us. Actually, “no longer with us” is a truly crap phrase. I will not be using it again. Those we love are forever with us, obviously. Anyway, this is what she wrote. She speaks, by the way, in that astoundingly sing-song variant of the south Walian accent spoken by people from Neath.
Just read your article about losing your dad. As a nurse I have been privileged to see many pass away. It’s different when you love the one who passes. Your emotions will be all over the place for a while. I still have days. It does get easier and I have learned to now see mum and dad in my dreams. Sometimes, I don’t want to wake. Everyone around you loves you, use their shoulder. Sending love, thinking of you. ❤️❤️
There’s a lot of good stuff to unpack there but it’s the unselfconscious use of the word “privileged” that struck me in the solar plexus. I mean unselfconscious in the sense that she’s not making a particularly big deal of framing it in this way. She is not saying: “Hey, you need to see what you’ve been through as a privilege!” No, it’s plainly just the way she feels. And the more I think about it, the more I think she’s right, or rather, the more I think that I’d like to do a job on myself and feel the same way. For me, I suspect this will necessitate the mother of all reframing exercises. But perhaps not. After all, if I was present at a birth, I would certainly regard that as a privilege. If witnessing someone coming into the world is a privilege then it’s surely not a great stretch to feel the same way about being there when someone leaves the world at the other end of their lives.
In lockdown, when we were banned from seeing our friends and relatives in hospitals and care homes, I got a text into my radio programme. It was from a former special forces soldier. He said he had been in all sorts of danger all over the world and none of it had ever held any fear for him. Only one thing had ever frightened him and that was the thought of dying alone. That text stayed with me, too. But this one from my friend went further than that; it was more than about just being there as an antidote to unspeakable loneliness. It was about embracing the idea of being there, of seeing it as a gift, as a privilege. I just wish this thought had been planted in my mind a month or two ago. Even if I’d been able to take on board 1% of the notion of it being a privilege to be there, it would have helped no end. Still, you live and learn.
And that’s it from me on death for a while. I’ve said my piece. For the time being at least, I choose life.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
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