I was excluded from my great grandmother's death and funeral in November, 1960, though I did not know why. I was very aware of my maternal grandmother's death six months earlier, though that happened far away in Italy. I do not recall the first funeral that I attended, though it may have been the Muslim burial of the father of my parents' friend Hosney. I had often visited churches and churchyards though, visiting family graves, usually as a consequence of my growing fascination with the history of my father's family. When thirteen or fourteen I cycled to Leek, Meerbrook, Astbury and Knutsford where many of my ancestors were buried. I was aware of the death of Mary Sarah, my great grandfather's older sister who died aged 16 in Knutsford, and who was still talked about.
All this must have contributed to a growing interest in death in all its aspects. I visited graveyards in France and Europe with my camera whilst a student. In 1970 or thereabouts I went for the day to Trieste and explored and photographed the graveyards of all the different faith communities.
I visited my grandfather in Devon when he was dying in 1972, and sat next to his bed and listened as he revisited his childhood and told me about his mother, their servant Prissie who was a Warburton cousin, and his running late to Princess Road School in Moss Side, Manchester, as his mother usually overslept. I attended his funeral, and saw my grandmother's grief when his coffin was lowered into his grave.
Some months later I returned to Devon to visit my grandmother and listened to her for over an hour as she talked about my grandfather, and at the end she thanked me for listening, saying that she had wanted so much to talk about him, but that people always stopped her as they thought talking about him would upset her. I had discovered quite by accident that the bereaved need to talk about their loss.
A couple of years later I became a lecturer at Hertfordshire College of Building, and part of my work was to design and teach General Studies modules to students from all branches of the construction industry. One of these modules was entitled 'Death and Dying', and it proved surprisingly popular, and I did my research for this, and approached the topic sensitively. These may have been tough lads, but many had experienced death, including the students who died in motorbike accidents that they knew. This had led to me offering a module in 'Motorcycle Safety' which also proved popular.
I visited my grandfather in Devon when he was dying in 1972, and sat next to his bed and listened as he revisited his childhood and told me about his mother, their servant Prissie who was a Warburton cousin, and his running late to Princess Road School in Moss Side, Manchester, as his mother usually overslept. I attended his funeral, and saw my grandmother's grief when his coffin was lowered into his grave.
Some months later I returned to Devon to visit my grandmother and listened to her for over an hour as she talked about my grandfather, and at the end she thanked me for listening, saying that she had wanted so much to talk about him, but that people always stopped her as they thought talking about him would upset her. I had discovered quite by accident that the bereaved need to talk about their loss.
A couple of years later I became a lecturer at Hertfordshire College of Building, and part of my work was to design and teach General Studies modules to students from all branches of the construction industry. One of these modules was entitled 'Death and Dying', and it proved surprisingly popular, and I did my research for this, and approached the topic sensitively. These may have been tough lads, but many had experienced death, including the students who died in motorbike accidents that they knew. This had led to me offering a module in 'Motorcycle Safety' which also proved popular.
It was at this time that I bought my first home, a ground floor maisonette in Vernon Close, St Albans. I held a housewarming party, but was distressed afterwards to learn that my immediate ground floor neighbour was a lady who was terminally ill. Another neighbour was Miss Alice Brockbank, in the first maisonette in the immediately adjacent block, and after a tricky start we became good friends. She gave me my copy of Manzoni's 'The Betrothed' which I have still, and which I have just taken off my shelf to examine.
Miss Brockbank was in her 80s, and increasingly frail, so that I did little jobs to help her, even making her comfortable in bed by adjusting her pillows. Eventually she went into hospital, and requested no visitors. I think that this happened while I was away, but upon my return to Vernon Close I went to the hospital and asked if she would see me. She agreed, and I spent a little time talking with her, and eventually when I rose to leave I kissed her on the cheek. She thanked me, and said she hadn't ever been kissed before.
I was away again for a week or so, but upon my return to St Albans I returned to the hospital, and the matron took me aside and said that Miss Brockbank had died. I was saddened by the news, and wept quietly, but glad that I had reached out to her and given her some comfort in her lonely old age. I recently found the kind letter that her niece wrote to me thanking me.
In 1979 I left the college and went to Israel. For a while I lived at Kibbutz Ein Hashofet whilst studying Modern Hebrew, but also worked on the carpenters' workshop – with local Arab craftsmen - where I repaired damaged dining room chairs, but also when required I built a simple, wooden coffin when a member of the kibbutz died. The tradition for all Jews is to have a simple, unpretentious burial. Coffins, if used, and they often aren't in Israel, are very plain and unornamented.
It was in 1981 that I went to live in Bideford, and also became involved with the Exeter synagogue. At first I just supported Harry Freedman in promoting the Sabbath services, producing a regular newsletter, but I also started organising and leading the annual Passover seder, and parties for the community to mark the festivals. Then when Derrick Boam stood down as president, he and his wife asked me to succeed him.
We became friends with Gilad and Nancy, and when Gilad lost his kidneys I visited him almost daily in hospital. When a transplant failed I was there too, holding him down when powerful drugs were used to try and prevent his body rejecting the transplant. When Nancy had a breakdown Gilad came to live with us when he came out of hospital, and it fell to me to nurse him. He was often close to death, not least when a second transplant failed. I got to know other patients who were going through the same challenges. Once I called in to see a patient I knew who had had a transplant, but that too had failed. he was alone in his room, sinking rapidly, but full of morphine. I shall never forget the terrible fear in his eyes as he struggled, alone in his room. I stayed with him and held his hand till his young wife arrived. I felt then that people should not be alone when they are dying, and that morphine isn't always for the benefit of the patient, but often used because others cannot cope with the reality of death and its emotional pain.
We became friends with Gilad and Nancy, and when Gilad lost his kidneys I visited him almost daily in hospital. When a transplant failed I was there too, holding him down when powerful drugs were used to try and prevent his body rejecting the transplant. When Nancy had a breakdown Gilad came to live with us when he came out of hospital, and it fell to me to nurse him. He was often close to death, not least when a second transplant failed. I got to know other patients who were going through the same challenges. Once I called in to see a patient I knew who had had a transplant, but that too had failed. he was alone in his room, sinking rapidly, but full of morphine. I shall never forget the terrible fear in his eyes as he struggled, alone in his room. I stayed with him and held his hand till his young wife arrived. I felt then that people should not be alone when they are dying, and that morphine isn't always for the benefit of the patient, but often used because others cannot cope with the reality of death and its emotional pain.
It would be in about 1986 that I received a phone call from the Rowcroft Hospice in Torquay, and I visited Jock who was dying of a brain tumour, leaving a wife and two young sons, and it fell to me to officiate at his funeral after his death. Over the past thirty years I must have officiated at scores of Jewish funerals, both burials and cremations. Cremations are not part of traditional Judaism, but I used to justify the practice with the comment that we were a very long way from London. I travelled to crematoria in Taunton, Exeter, Barnstaple, Plymouth and Truro, and to burials throughout the South West. I officiated at a few funerals for non-Jewish people at families' requests. I was a keynote speaker at the annual conference of the Cremation Society when it met in Torquay.
Gradually I improved what I was able to offer, and eventually re-established after a gap of decades the chevra kadisha, the burial societies for men and for women, who voluntarily wash bodies and prepare them for burial in the traditional ritual manner. I learnt how to do this, and passed on the skills to other men in the congregation. I also visited many dying people after Jock, being with them when they died, and allowing people to make their peace and die. This was not easy, as many of these people were already known to me, some were my friends, and all had a story that was touching. I sat with Ralph Collett in the hospital when he was dying, and when he stopped breathing I recited the shemà and waited quietly with him for a little while.
It was about this time that I lost two personal friends. With David Hill I had set up the Exeter branch of the Council of Christians and Jews, but increasing pain in his hip led to the discovery that he had cancer. I visited him in hospital that day, and that was the first and only time that I referred to cancer as a fight, and always regretted it and have never made that mistake again. I think I learnt that from John Diamond writing about his cancer in The Times in the late 1990s. I knew I had made a mistake saying it to David, but we remained friends, and I was able to spend time with him in hospital just chatting and sharing. When people are approaching death the barriers come down, especially between men. We were able to confide in each other and share. I spent a night with David at the very end of his life, when the cancer had reached his brain and he was no longer able to see or speak, but he could communicate by writing on scraps of paper. That was a difficult night but a precious one. David's Roman Catholic funeral took place in the large Anglican parish church, concelebrated by several priests – David, who was born Jewish but later raised a Catholic, was in minor orders – and I was honoured to be asked to deliver the eulogy.
Not long afterwards I lost another good friend, and neighbour, David Wagg. I visited him in hospital when he was diagnosed with liver cancer, and we stayed friends when he and his family moved home in preparation for the future. We called round and were unafraid to keep in contact. When I was asked to deliver the eulogy at his funeral in the same parish church, because of my persistent friendship and support, it came as a shock. I had not realised that many people stay away from the dying.
It was about this time that I lost two personal friends. With David Hill I had set up the Exeter branch of the Council of Christians and Jews, but increasing pain in his hip led to the discovery that he had cancer. I visited him in hospital that day, and that was the first and only time that I referred to cancer as a fight, and always regretted it and have never made that mistake again. I think I learnt that from John Diamond writing about his cancer in The Times in the late 1990s. I knew I had made a mistake saying it to David, but we remained friends, and I was able to spend time with him in hospital just chatting and sharing. When people are approaching death the barriers come down, especially between men. We were able to confide in each other and share. I spent a night with David at the very end of his life, when the cancer had reached his brain and he was no longer able to see or speak, but he could communicate by writing on scraps of paper. That was a difficult night but a precious one. David's Roman Catholic funeral took place in the large Anglican parish church, concelebrated by several priests – David, who was born Jewish but later raised a Catholic, was in minor orders – and I was honoured to be asked to deliver the eulogy.
Not long afterwards I lost another good friend, and neighbour, David Wagg. I visited him in hospital when he was diagnosed with liver cancer, and we stayed friends when he and his family moved home in preparation for the future. We called round and were unafraid to keep in contact. When I was asked to deliver the eulogy at his funeral in the same parish church, because of my persistent friendship and support, it came as a shock. I had not realised that many people stay away from the dying.
As part of my commitment to the Jewish community I took responsibility for the repair and maintenance of the historic cemetery at Bull Meadow in Exeter, having gates made, the walls rebuilt, the mortuary chapel reconstructed after its destruction. I made provision for the interment of ashes in a corner of the cemetery. I negotiated the acquisition of a new cemetery for Jewish burials at Exwick. I learnt to chant the traditional prayers, especially the 'El Male Rachamim' prayer. I leaned to be flexible and creative, as when I arrived at Barnstaple to take a funeral and discovered the very elderly person who died had been learning disabled, as were most of the mourners. The service included singing 'All things bright and beautiful' and at the committal everybody waved goodbye.
A few months ago I was able to be with my own mother as she was dying. I had only just left hospital myself after four months there, and my immune system was very weak still after the intensive chemotherapy, but I sensed that it was my last chance and so it proved. I told my family to tell her I was coming, to raise her spirits, which it did. The journey by train was awful: the main line from Birmingham was closed, and I had to travel on terribly overcrowded small, country trains, via Weston-super-Mare, Newport, Abergavenny, Shrewsbury and Crewe. I was glad I had booked assistance, and for my travelling companions: three of us with disabilities travelled together in a corner of the train next to the guard van, and even had to leave the train through his door at Newport because of the overcrowding. The journey took a difficult six hours.
I went straight to my mother in hospital in my brother's car to spend the afternoon with her. I went back in the evening, and was joined by my son when he arrived from London, staying late together with her. Early the next morning we were both with her at the hospital till he left to return to London. I stayed till other family arrived, ten of them, to be with her through the day. I returned alone for the evening, and that Saturday was to be her last evening, and the last time I saw her alive. She was distraught with thirst when I arrived, her tongue dry and swollen, but I managed to give her moisture in the form of blood orange juice with the help of special small sponges on short sticks, and this calmed her. I talked to her in Italian, and she was able to communicate a little with me, expressing her pain at some of her recent experiences. I was unhappy with the lack of care and support in the hospital, and even asked if there was the possibility of her being moved to a hospice. I had a brainwave, and with the help of my mobile phone I was able to play to my mother a recording of Giuseppe di Stefano singing 'Core 'ngrato', a song with a special resonance for my mother, both for the singer, her favourite, and the words, about a girl called Catarì, an abbreviation of Caterina, her own mother's name, a song that I remember made her cry when she heard it, remembering her own mother. She mouthed every single word of the song.
I held her hand and she fell asleep, finally calm. I left her before midnight, and at 6am we received a call from the hospital. We returned immediately but of course she had already died. I was comforted though by the comfort I had been able to give her.
A few months ago I was able to be with my own mother as she was dying. I had only just left hospital myself after four months there, and my immune system was very weak still after the intensive chemotherapy, but I sensed that it was my last chance and so it proved. I told my family to tell her I was coming, to raise her spirits, which it did. The journey by train was awful: the main line from Birmingham was closed, and I had to travel on terribly overcrowded small, country trains, via Weston-super-Mare, Newport, Abergavenny, Shrewsbury and Crewe. I was glad I had booked assistance, and for my travelling companions: three of us with disabilities travelled together in a corner of the train next to the guard van, and even had to leave the train through his door at Newport because of the overcrowding. The journey took a difficult six hours.
I went straight to my mother in hospital in my brother's car to spend the afternoon with her. I went back in the evening, and was joined by my son when he arrived from London, staying late together with her. Early the next morning we were both with her at the hospital till he left to return to London. I stayed till other family arrived, ten of them, to be with her through the day. I returned alone for the evening, and that Saturday was to be her last evening, and the last time I saw her alive. She was distraught with thirst when I arrived, her tongue dry and swollen, but I managed to give her moisture in the form of blood orange juice with the help of special small sponges on short sticks, and this calmed her. I talked to her in Italian, and she was able to communicate a little with me, expressing her pain at some of her recent experiences. I was unhappy with the lack of care and support in the hospital, and even asked if there was the possibility of her being moved to a hospice. I had a brainwave, and with the help of my mobile phone I was able to play to my mother a recording of Giuseppe di Stefano singing 'Core 'ngrato', a song with a special resonance for my mother, both for the singer, her favourite, and the words, about a girl called Catarì, an abbreviation of Caterina, her own mother's name, a song that I remember made her cry when she heard it, remembering her own mother. She mouthed every single word of the song.
I held her hand and she fell asleep, finally calm. I left her before midnight, and at 6am we received a call from the hospital. We returned immediately but of course she had already died. I was comforted though by the comfort I had been able to give her.
It was thus over a long period that I lost much of my fear around death and dying. I developed an adage in response to questions: 'Dying can be difficult, but death itself is actually easy in most cases.' It is this background that colours my attitude to my own death. I do not believe in heaven or an afterlife, and feel no need for them. I am happy that I have been able to live a good and full life, to have achieved much in my small way, especially to have touched other people's lives, and to have been touched by them. I am sad to be leaving the party early, it is such a wonderful party, life is still full and exciting for me, and I wish I had time to do more, to complete what I started, but I am grateful to have been allowed some extra time in which to tidy things up. I have been busy helping to make arrangements for my own funeral, and am honoured at some of the things that will happen, and am touched at people's kindness. I have been granted the privilege of hearing many good things, of being in contact with many people whose friendship or acquaintance I value. But I still wish the party didn't have to end quite yet.
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