Shock read: I went to my own wake
Lin Dalton, 63, was determined not to miss out on the chance to celebrate the end of her life
It was my daughter, Laura, who chose my outfit for my wake. I described to her a dress I’d owned years ago and loved. After just a few taps on her phone, she found something remarkably similar – I couldn’t believe it. Shopping for something to wear to your own wake may not be a very typical mother-anddaughter activity. But Laura and I have learnt to cherish every experience.
We both know there will be moments we won’t get to share. I’ll never help her choose a wedding dress, celebrate her 40th birthday or hold her children in my arms. However, when you know your time is running out, everything takes on a special meaning. And when I look back on my life, my wake is certainly one of those unforgettable moments.
I stopped treatment for cancer in February this year. The same month, I threw a party to bring together everyone I love so they could remember me in a positive way. People who say they don’t want a fuss when they die… well, that’s not me! As my mind turned to the end of my life, I realised I shouldn’t miss out on the chance to celebrate it. I didn’t want a sombre affair, I wanted to go out with a bang and for people to look back on what a brilliant night we had.
Eighty-five family and friends came together for an evening of dancing and drinking. I booked a singer, a friend paid for a professional photographer as a gift, and there was lots of reminiscing. It was all very upbeat – I didn’t want people sitting around feeling sad.
There’s something very surreal about standing in front of everyone you love, preparing to make a farewell speech. How do you find the right words? I could see people in the crowd crying, but I felt
empowered. Cancer has robbed me of so much control but this was a chance to say thank you, and saying goodbye was something I was determined to do. When I’d finished, it felt like everyone in the room was hugging me. I felt sad, but not for me, because I will be gone and they’ll be left with pain and sadness.
Difficult decision
I was diagnosed with rectal cancer in January 2017 and, in June 2018, I was told it was incurable, despite gruelling radiotherapy and chemotherapy. My consultant told me future treatment would prolong, but not save, my life.
I persevered at first, deciding to have more chemotherapy. Being a mother influenced that decision. I wasn’t ready to die, and I wanted to prolong my life for Laura and my son Chris’ sake. It’s been a fine line to walk since then, trying to work out what’s best for me – and them.
In February, after another horrific cycle of chemotherapy, I made the decision to stop. I’d reached the point where I wanted quality not quantity of life. I’ve made peace with the fact I’m going to die, albeit I don’t know exactly when. Two days before my wake, I was rushed to hospital in agony due to a blockage in my small bowel. I was given pain relief, IV fluids and the wonderful staff promised they’d do everything they could to get me to my party, but I didn’t know if I’d make it. I was temporarily discharged before the party, with a portable morphine pump attached to my tummy, snaked down a sleeve of my dress and fitted in my handbag. Apart from a few family members, no one knew and, when I left just before midnight, I returned to hospital. I arrived back to the ward exhausted, but elated.
Cherished memories
An unexpected silver lining has been Laura moving back to Birmingham to spend more time with me. I felt guilty that she was uprooting, but I also felt joy at the prospect of seeing her more. She was by my side throughout the evening of my wake and it was important to me that she saw me enjoying myself – because I really was. I truly had the most marvellous night.
I want her to hold tight to those memories of me, particularly as I know her final one will be of my death. I’m planning to die at a local Marie Curie hospice and would like Laura and Chris to be with me. I was with my parents when they died and, although it was hard, I’ve never regretted it. When I’m gone, I hope it will give them some comfort to have been with me.
I’ve known the end of my story since I was given my incurable diagnosis. There are still some chapters yet to live, though, and Laura and I are making the most of every moment together.
● Sadly, Lin died at the Marie Curie hospice in the West Midlands this June. To support Marie Curie’s emergency appeal, donate at mariecurie.org.uk/donate
‘My chance to say thanks and goodbye’