Kentish Gazette Canterbury & District
Bereavement is not uncommon... people must treat it like flu
My stepdad, appalled by a surfeit of funerals and the bills they engender, has decided he wants his body donated to science.
In truth he is something of a medical miracle, having smoked 80 a day from the age of 13, while approaching vegetables with the same level of suspicion with which you or I might regard plutonium. Despite this, he’s reached 66 in reasonable nick.
But given he lives in Margate, which has the worst life expectancy in Kent, coming in at about 73 for chaps, it might be time to make a few swift decisions.
It seems quite simple. You have to find your closest medical school - for Thanet bods, that’s the London anatomy school at Guy’s print off a form, sign it, get it witnessed.
They ask a few questions, like how long they can keep your body and make use of it, to which the only possible answer must be, why would I care?
Then you send them one form and stash a copy with your will, and tell your doctor too, to avoid any indecorous tussles over your cooling flesh. Not everyone is suitable to donate.
If you die abroad, need a coroner’s inquest, have bed sores or certain infections, HIV, hepatitis, or Alzheimer’s, they may consider you more trouble than you’re worth. Lots of people need coroner’s inquests, sadly. If you haven’t seen a doctor for a few months, they might find it necessary to take a look in you.
And who on earth has managed to see a doctor recently? Mine’s never even clapped eyes on me.
The donated cadavers are used to teach anatomy to students, or to conduct research.
You can’t donate your organs first, but if after your death you’re found unsuitable to be a donor, as so many are, you can then donate the whole of your self to science.
They cremate you after, give back your ashes to a relative, and hold a memorial service for you and all the other noble guinea pigs they’ve sliced up. Critically, you needn’t pay a fortune for a funeral. They meet the costs of disposing of you once they’ve done with you.
So I thought I’d do it myself.
I’m all for recycling. Moreover, I’ve been a professional show off from birth, and I like the idea of death not being allowed to intervene.
Funerals are so ghastly. You have to wear uncomfortable clothes and snivel, drink tea and endure stiff small talk with second cousins, and it’s not as if the person concerned gets any less dead for your efforts.
I’m confident my son can find a better use for £4,000 than enduring a miserable morning. And the flowers, oh God! Let’s mark our respect by cutting down some other pretty living organisms in their prime, £150 to make more compost, nah, you’re alright, pal.
Give it to the living to benefit by, and your heaving bosom to boot.
People are obsessed with their emotions. Particularly the negative ones.
They seem to imagine wallowing in them will make them vanish.
The reverse is true. Wallowing in grief prolongs it. Bereavement is hardly uncommon; one must treat it like a dose of flu.
Some grief is natural, inevitable, reflexive, akin to starting upon hearing a loud noise; but the rest should be resisted, suppressed, buried deep.
Otherwise we could all spend the rest of our lives sobbing over our losses, and what an idiotic waste of a life that would be.
Received wisdom would call this a terrible idea, of course. In fact, encouraging people to luxuriate in their negative feelings only extends their longevity and intensity. This has been shown in studies of abused children and Holocaust survivors, as well as more mundane, universal tragedies, like losing a loved one. So i told my son of my decision.
He said “well, if you’re sure”, then got back to telling me all about his exciting new job, which is exactly as it should be.
Death isn’t tragic. It’s far worse: a dreary inconvenience.