One last walk
No dress rehearsal
Diane* had been an event planner for close to three decades, and retired only due to her illness. If she had it her way, she would have died on the job - that was how much she loved it. Weddings, bridal showers, engagement parties, baby jamborees, sweet sixteen celebrations - if you can name it, she’s planned dozens of versions of it. So when she told us on the day of her admission that she would like our help to plan one final event, we were all very excited for what it would be. Perhaps a living wake, or a milestone celebration of sorts that we could all participate in.
Diane requested a formal death procession. We had to clarify further what she meant by this, but it turned out to be exactly as she had phrased it - a formal procession to the mortuary following her death.
To offer some insight into what normally happens during a transfer to the mortuary:
We request other patients and families to keep their room doors closed for ten minutes, and we block off the corridors temporarily while the deceased is carefully transported via hospital bed to the mortuary. We generally pay our respects and stay silent as the patient is wheeled past, before resuming activities after the mortuary doors are shut. Diane wanted none of this 'solemn business'; she wished for it to be ‘a proper procession’.
It was entirely unplanned, but her room happened to be the furthest from the mortuary. We do sometimes need to shuffle rooms based on clinical need (proximity to nursing stations, necessity for single rooms, patio access for large animal visits etc.), but Diane was very frail on admission and it was unlikely we would be moving her elsewhere - apart from the mortuary, as she reminded us each day.
She generously extended the invitation to all other patients and families, and even had simple invitations printed with the date 'to be confirmed'.
There was a concise three-step flow sheet that she laminated and placed by her bedside, so all staff would be aware.
Death
Procession with music + toast to life
Chocolate muffins in pantry
She wanted everyone to 'toast to life' as she was wheeled down the corridor, and then enjoy some muffins together in the pantry afterwards. She asked for us to raise a glass not just to her life, but to life in general and all the blessings that came with it.
Being an experienced event planner, she wanted a plan that could still be executed in the event of unexpected circumstances, i.e. if she died out of hours when there were less staff available, or in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep. Plan B was for the same to happen, but with the music at a lower volume and chocolate muffins delayed to the next morning instead.
She even wanted to 'map the journey out' and requested a walk-through tour to the mortuary entrance early on in her planning. Whilst sitting in her wheelchair, she took out her stopwatch - the same one she had used countless times to time bridal entrances - and extended the total time by a carefully calculated portion to account for it being a hospital bed with her 'dead weight, no pun intended' on it.
No dress rehearsal
Diane being Diane, she reminded us each day that we had only one chance to get it right - there was to be no dress rehearsal.
Diane died peacefully after a long battle with multiple ailments. After her death was verified and last rites had been performed, our team set off to execute her final event.
She had a lovely procession from her room all the way to the mortuary that morning. We were even joined by some other patients and family members as we made two lines along the ward corridor to send her off. She had her little analogue radio next to her in the bed as she was wheeled down the corridor. She chose ‘God Only Knows’ by The Beach Boys, which lasted almost the exact 3 minutes it took to transfer her to the mortuary from her corner room.
There was an array of drinks held up as she was wheeled past - thermal flasks filled with coffee, plastic water bottles, mugs of hot chocolate - and we all toasted to life as Diane was wheeled past. As planned, her family brought in boxes of warm chocolate muffins from her favourite bakery, which we devoured in even less time than it took for her to get to the mortuary.
Just for that morning, we put a sign on the mortuary door with the words 'Welcome, Diane' with the date on it.
We were delighted to have been a part of her special procession. Some of our other patients present started discussing planning something similar; few even quipped that they would hire Diane to return to plan this for them.
It was such a refreshing way to send off a patient - what a meaningful change in routine Diane gave us that morning, and what a privilege it is to be present for such a special life moment.
How would you like to be sent off?
*All names and details have been changed to protect patient confidentiality
great story as usual. I don't know why you want to keep them to a few people on Substack. Put them in a book!!!
This is a lovely way to go. :-)