India Reynolds

‘I opened a death café to help the bereaved’ Charlotte Haigh, 45, from Kingstonupon-Thames, is bringing people together to help break down the taboo surrounding death g deat h

Around 3pm on a bright Saturday afternoon, I’m sitting with a group of people in a suburban café. We’re pouring tea, eating muffins – and chatting about death.

A woman in her twenties is talking about her funeral. “I want everyone to wear bright colours,” she says. “And I want it to be outside, in nature. I’d like to be buried in one of those pods that grows into a tree. I love the idea of my body helping something grow.” This is the sort of conversation you hear in a death café, where people come together to chat about mortality over tea and cake.

Death Café is an international movement set up to encourage people to talk about something that’s usually the ultimate taboo. The idea is that in a relaxed setting, having permission to discuss death can help dissolve fear, sadness and superstition, so we can make the most of living.

I decided to start a regular death café in 2017, after seeing bereaved friends struggle because those around them found it difficult to talk openly about their losses. One friend, Alice, had a little boy who died aged two from cancer. Alongside coping with unimaginable grief, she also found herself having to deal with people in her local village crossing the street to avoid her because they didn’t know what to say. Just when she most needed support, she became more isolated.

Another friend, Steve, was widowed suddenly at 41, leaving him to raise two young children alone. His wife’s religious family, heartbroken at the loss of their daughter, refused to allow any conversations about her death, forcing Steve to put on a brave face when he spent time with them.

Talking to Alice and Steve, I realised if death and dying were more familiar topics of conversation in our society, people in their situations would be more likely to get the

support they need – and find it easier to ask for it. I decided I could help make a difference by setting up a death café in my own local area in south-west London. I had personal reasons for wanting to help people talk about death and loss, too. I got married in my late thirties and two muchwanted pregnancies ended in miscarriage – the second at 15 weeks, due to a rare complication. Then my marriage crumbled and I had to face a childless future.

This is a type of grief that isn’t well understood because you’re not mourning someone who’s gone from your life – you are mourning a life you will never have. Living and working alone at home, I fell into a depression and knew I needed to find a meaningful way of connecting with my community. I thought running a death café might be it. NO AGENDA I’d trained as a counsellor in the past, but you don’t need a qualification to run a death café. The movement’s website gives clear instructions – you book a quiet space, advertise your death café, then wait for guests to arrive.

The only rules are that everyone respects each other’s beliefs and there’s no agenda – people are allowed to talk about death in any way they wish. Sometimes, this means the conversation can take unexpected turns.

‘I had personal reasons for wanting to help people talk about death’

Charlotte wanted to make a difference

One young man turned up wanting to chat about cryogenics – the process of having your body frozen after death in the hope there may one day be technology to revive you.

A death café isn’t a substitute for bereavement support, but invariably people often bring repressed grief. At one café, a photographer in her forties wept as she told us her father’s new wife had forbidden her from having any involvement in his funeral, other than as a guest. As a result, she felt she hadn’t said goodbye properly.

“In the pub after the funeral, my stepmother shoved a tray of sandwiches at me and told me to pass it round, as though I was a waitress, not a daughter grieving her beloved dad,” she told us, sobbing.

Afterwards, she told me she hadn’t been for bereavement counselling as it felt overwhelming. “But being able to express these feelings with kind strangers in a less formal way felt safe,” she said. “I knew nobody was going to push me to talk more than I wanted, but I felt totally heard and nting to rocess er ne u. te for riably rief. her ather’s m having ther than he hadn’t