I’m not afraid of dying – but I do think about what could possibly be involved in the run up to that event.

As a fiercely independent woman, the prospect of a long debilitating physical illness or of me losing my marbles makes me cringe!

Since the death of my son in 2002, my life has been far from care-free but it has been fear-free. Knowing that I have survived the worst possible thing that could ever have happened to me – I feel that I have nothing to fear, including death.

People with religious faith have asked me how I can face the end without the comfort of planning to be with family and friends again in an afterlife. However, I can’t gain comfort from something I don’t believe in and simply concentrate on enjoying life now.

My only concern about me no longer being in existence is the pain and loss that may affect those who have cared about me and valued having me in their lives.

I know just how devastating grief can be and during my thirteen years of conducting Humanist funerals, I see that in other people in some way most days.

I hope that my nearest and dearest won’t suffer the loss of me for a few years yet and meanwhile I will continue to make the most of every day with family and friends – hopefully creating a catalogue of memories for them to look back on in the future.

I’ve never thought I am immortal, so I have always accepted mortality as a given. Who would want to be immortal anyway? Imagine your friends and loved ones all growing old and dying, while you still lived on. Imagine the world changing to such an extent that you could no longer cope with what it required. No, we live our one life, then our lives end and we leave room for others.

I was brought up by atheists and largely avoided churchgoing and religious dogma, even though I went to church schools. Heaven and hell were not for me, though on my first day at primary school I was told I would go to hell because I hadn’t been baptised. We were a tiny family – me, my parents, and one childless aunt. This was my adoptive family. The first time I saw a blood relative was when my daughter was born when I was 39. Thirty years later, she has decided that she will not have children, because of the state of the world and the environment. So, I struggle to even recognise that there is a kind of immortality, in the memory of others, or through our genes. When I’m gone, I’m gone.

On mortality

To try to understand my own mortality I must look back at my life and look forward to my death. Mortality meaning the fact that I am subject to death, I am not immortal. In my mind I wish to dispute this solid truth. Although I am old, I try not to be old.

My death will be defined by my life; the life I have lived. On balance, without false modesty, I believe that I have been more positive rather than negative. I have experienced great successes and acknowledge dismal failures. Such has been my life’s pattern. I was an unwanted child but I am privileged to have known great love for forty years, from my wife who departed some years ago. In my life, I have touched people, influenced them or given cause for reflection. Those whom I have inspired or taught and, in more recent years perhaps, those whom I have married and the loved ones of those whose funerals I have conducted. I will have left behind some monuments, things that I have made or written, that will outlive me. Eventually, these also will fade away. So, what is this life of mine? I want to say that I have done my best to be a useful contributor to the kaleidoscope of events and philosophies that have surrounded me and, I suppose, none of us can ask for more than that.

I have no fear of death but great concern about the manner of my dying. I might come to the point where I am a burden on others or am stripped by disease of my dignity. If I see that coming I shall slip, quietly, away.

Dying, death and being dead. I’m perfectly at ease with all three – in fact, I rather look forward to them, whenever and however they come. We’re certain these things will happen, and if we’re lucky we have plenty of time to prepare for them.

Dying is about coming to terms with the end of life. It’s a process, not an event – an opportunity to reflect on one’s achievements and impact, mistakes and oversights. It’s a time to leave nothing unsaid.

Death is about letting go – that moment of sweet surrender when you allow the inevitable to take over and relax into unconsciousness, like that delicious point between exhaustion and a much-needed sleep. Buddhist thought holds that suffering comes from struggle, and death comes when you allow both to end.

Being dead is simply about physically being no more. Everything you were persists and all that you’ve done remains, but your body has moved on for recycling. It’s exactly as things were before you were born, but the world and the people you love and who love you have had the benefit of your being. Whether life lasts minutes, days, years or decades makes no difference to the universe: you have been.

This is how I view my mortality. Life and death come as an inseparable package deal, and each of these elements play an essential part. I accept them, value them and embrace them for the essential experiences they are.

Some talk about or believe in a life after death. And of course they’re right: the stuff we’re made of has been around since the beginning of time, and will be until its end. I just think of the joyous chance and good luck that for a brief, wonderful blink of time, some of those molecules were assembled into me.

I am fortunate that my life has been a happy one. Now retired, my days still fill with simple pleasures, a favourite of which are walks with my wife Lek, our still-growing family, and my whippet. Lek and I treasure above all else these times spent with our family. But I am now getting close to the end of my life. This prospect does not trouble me greatly even though, as a scientist, I discounted long ago any supernatural explanation of life in favour of one based on natural forces, including evolution, genetics, and heredity. My own genetic make-up, inherited from my parents and theirs, has already been passed to our children and grandchildren in that cycle from birth to birth that bypasses death. Although I am saddened to think that my death may cause my family grief, they will surely be comforted knowing as they walk away from the grave, that they together represent more of me than lies behind. And they will know that I loved them each and that their company was my greatest pleasure. I find immense comfort also in knowing that the same ties of heredity binds us to all life on earth, in all its various forms. We must therefore be kind, and look after each other.

Looking towards my final days, I want to avoid that greatest of all indignities and distresses, of declining into mental confusion and helplessness. If that seems likely I have planned a merciful end to my own happy life.

Two days after my 56th birthday, without any warning at all, I was floored by pains in my chest. Without hesitation, my husband took me to A&E who swiftly declared I was having a heart attack. I had not been ill, not at all. That day I’d walked in the sunshine, had a chicken in the oven, washing on the line. It was January and the day was clear and blue. I had been reading quietly whilst the chicken roasted when the pain gripped me at 2.00pm. By 3:30 pm I had had a stent inserted in an artery by an extraordinary team of professionals and was being wheeled back to the ward. My husband was standing there holding my jacket and shoes, pensive, concerned, and reached out and took my hand.

In two months of recovery I had a lot of time to reflect. I was told that due to the quick actions of my husband I had no lasting heart damage – this is good! I was also told that I had a congenital heart defect that had only emerged now in middle age, so that was good to know! By holding onto the science, I gradually emerged from the emotional gloom and let go of the fear. And by absorbing the love of all those around me, I climbed back to health.

Science matters, love matters, and how we live our lives matters. Death will come to me one day, of course. But until it does I am going to carry on living my life openly, fully, and lovingly, believing this is the best legacy I can leave about me to those who I love who will live life beyond me.

I was aware of mortality from a young age, due to the loss of people close to me, but found my grief was managed and directed by others. I was told ‘they are in a better place’, ‘you will get to see them again’, ‘they are watching over you’. Whilst the intention behind these sentiments was good, it did nothing to help me move on, accept the grieving, and take comfort in the best memories of those I had lost.

When I was old enough to challenge my beliefs, and really think about the ‘end of life’, I found much more comfort in living for now and not some idea of anything after this life. I don’t have any fear of death or dying. Losing someone you love is still heartbreaking but focusing on what you shared whilst they were alive, the experiences and memories, that makes grieving less painful. It also makes me more determined to make the most out of every moment.

Now I am in the position of guiding my children through difficult times, I can understand the tendency for people to fall back on what they see as paths of hope and reconciliation that may be perceived as easier for children to comprehend. But honesty is much better in the long run. Explaining that people believe many different things but nobody can give a definitive answer gives children the opportunity to find a path through grief which works best for them. I don’t know if there is an afterlife, but I believe there isn’t, so concentrate on now and live life to the fullest. I think about how I want people to remember me the most, and that is laughing, learning, loving and finding joy in everything I do. That is enough for me.

Our society shuns away from talking or thinking about death. We know it hovers in the background, like a cloud, somewhere, but we never wish to turn and look it in the face. We certainly are not encouraged to talk about it.

The deaths of my father, my much loved cousin (who was like a brother to me) and then two years ago my beloved husband, have caused me to face this wispish cloud. I am still determined to live forever, but now realise this may not be reality!

I have no children to carry on my line, a great sadness.

Instead, I write and paint, hoping that my creations will remain treasured in the world long after I am gone. Maybe they will offer comfort to others and bring smiles to faces unknown to me.

What we leave behind are memories, with our family, our friends and sadly also with our enemies. So, it seems to me that a great importance in life is to try to ensure that we have no enemies. That there will be no one who thinks badly of us in the future. That we leave only golden memories, happy memories with lots of laughter, fun, wisdom and friendship.

The way to do this is to live well, think before we speak, love others, be happy.

I want to be remembered with a smile, or not at all.

My death is certain. There is no doubt. Life is not certain. It may be lost or hindered at any time. That is why it must be lived with purpose.

When I die I shall make way for those who follow, to build with renewed vigour and knowledge on the world as they find it, including the effects of my existence. I shall be no more than atoms available for recycling by some other animals, plants or rocks. Those who love me will be sad, that I regret, but lasting impressions have been made from the day I was born. My existence can never be erased. And that is surely more than enough.

I believe that after death we just stop; there is nothing else. So, I don’t have the comfort and luxury of hoping to meet people again. This only adds to the brutal finality of death, and means that every moment of life is precious.

I am in awe of life, of nature, the cosmos, science, literature, music and art. I’m lucky; though I have arthritis with a lowered immune system due to medications, I’m otherwise reasonably healthy. I love my job as a humanist celebrant (when I’m not shielding, as now). My family consists of my husband and grown-up daughter, my sister and nephew and niece, all of whom I love very much. I have a lot of interests and crave as much time as possible to continue them. I do not need to feel that my genes will go on; they won’t – my daughter is adopted. But I believe love goes on, for a while, and when it stops because no one is left to remember you, then in a way it doesn’t matter. ‘All things must pass.’ So, something of me will go on, for a while, in my daughter.

Of course, what I want is to live a full life for as long as possible and die peacefully in my sleep at a ripe old age. But, I’m a realist, and I know that might not happen, so I don’t dwell on it. Shielding has made me think more about my own death. I don’t want it to be because of Covid. Hopefully, it won’t be. In the meantime, I intend to make the most of life, which, as always, means embracing the lows as well as the highs, the sorrow as well as the joy, the dark as well as the light. It is now that matters.

I dyed my hair shocking pink mid-pandemic as a cheer-up measure. Friends wanted to see photos of it. One noted, ‘Enjoy yourself. Keep smiling in your pink hair and cherish your time with your grandchildren – you’re making memories for them that could be around the next 90+ years’.

My death is getting closer. If I live to 90 I have 20 years left. Cherishing those years holds my legacy to the future and my part in it. I am not dead until all memories of me have been sequestered by those who hold them.

Memories are vested liveable moments when you can conjure up the presence of those physically gone. My mother died 3 years ago but she often seems to be at my side and more frequently in cold, windy weather which she hated. It’s been windy recently. I hear her telling me, ‘I’m not going out in this scarifying wind’, and I smile to myself.

Chris, my dead husband, visits me in my dreams, giving me words of his confidence that I can handle whatever situation is bothering me.

Mortality is one-sided. I will be dead, but for others I will be in a different form of life. Memory life. I won’t be ‘here’ except in what others experience as my ‘hereness’. I won’t be able to interact from myself, only from what they create as my responses.

Thus, now, I still have means to shape those creations to some extent. My grandchildren may remember my pink hair. I hope they remember I love them. I wonder if they will tell their grandchildren stories about me and the times we planted acorns, confident of the generations ahead enjoying the oak trees.

My responsibility is huge and I may have 20 years to fulfil it. Mortality is one type of end. The legacies, gifts, and memories of it are possibilities that stretch beyond mortality.

Thoughts Towards The End of a Lifespan

I’ve lived more than my three score years and ten.
Hips, knees and fingers all ache to be still.
My once-smooth skin is lined and getting thin.
Departed friends have left big holes to fill.

But now at last I’ve free time to deploy
Without the need to please all those I see.
Grandchildren and their parents give me joy;
And savings let my thought and life be free.

As fellow baby-boomers disappear
I wonder what I will have left behind.
Some things I’ve done and said others can share;
My genes you’ll now in better places find

Each night, relaxing with a sigh of peace,
I hope death’s much the same: just breathing’s cease.