Bring back the bell!

 

Bring back the bell!

 Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Today I read about a horrifying event in Thailand this year. A bedridden lady of sixty-five was presumed dead and placed in a coffin and driven three hundred miles from her home to a Buddhist temple for cremation. As the priest and the relatives were talking before the ceremony, they heard a knocking from the coffin. On opening it, they discovered that the lady, though weak, was still alive. She was taken to hospital for treatment.

Although unusual, such an event is not without precedent. Indeed, one of the commenters on this article disclosed that his great-great-grandmother had sat up in her coffin partway through her funeral service. The custom at the time was to leave the coffin open until the conclusion of the service. The lady, obviously made of stern stuff, stored the coffin under her bed, and lived for a further fifteen years.

In 1999, a teacher, aged thirty-two, collapsed while swimming in Egypt. Having been certified dead, his body was being stored in a hospital refrigerator, when he woke up. Too cold to speak, he grabbed the hand of one of the mortuary staff who was trying to shut the door. Naturally, they were extremely shocked, as were his family members when he ‘phoned them to tell them the good news.

Another reported case was that of an eighty-year-old woman in Los Angeles, in 2010. She had a heart attack and was declared dead. She was put into cold storage in the hospital morgue, but regained consciousness and attempted to escape. The escape was unsuccessful. One can only imagine the fear and panic of her situation.

In 2012, in China, a lady aged ninety-five was found not moving and thought to be dead. In keeping with tradition, her body was laid in a coffin in her home. Six days later, just before her funeral, the coffin was found empty, its occupant sitting in her kitchen, preparing food.

In 2023, in New York, a nursing home declared one of its residents dead and removed the body to a funeral home (why are they called ‘homes’?) The funeral staff discovered that she was very much alive when they began to remove her from the body bag and found that she was still breathing.

It would appear that it is time to reinstate the ancient custom of the wake. ‘Wake’ comes from Old English ‘waec’ which means watch or vigil. If the coffin is to be kept in the house, family and friends can visit at any time, to pay their respects to the dead person, and to commiserate with the living and exchange memories and anecdotes. It also means that any sign of life will be noticed.

 Another form is the public viewing, when mourners can go to the funeral director’s premises to see the body in the coffin. This is a source of great comfort to many people.

 In the 19^th century, when it was difficult to be confident that life was extinct, coffins were sometimes supplied with a bell and cord. The cord might be attached to any part of the body. Should the unthinkable occur, the cord would be pulled, the bell would tinkle, and the body would receive appropriate attention, hopefully before interment.

It is rare, indeed, that people are mistakenly declared dead, but it has happened.

George Washington had taphophobia, a dread of being buried alive. He told his secretary, Tobias Lear, ‘Have me decently buried; and do not let my body be put into the Vault in less than three days after I am dead.’ His coffin also had a number of holes bored in it, so that he should be able to breathe if he were to come back to life.

He also requested that his funeral be a simple, private affair, without pomp or ceremony, but that wish was not honoured. The nation mourned.

The Sisters Death and Night

For each night’s sleep is a little death

When the Sisters enter, arm in arm,

Smiling gently at each breath,

Wondering which of them will charm

The soul to dream or travel on?

And if at dawn the sleeper stirs,

Death nods to Night, cedes her downfall,

On this still morning she defers

To Night who knows Death conquers all -

Death whispers soft, ‘Anon, anon.’

A small amount of plagiarism – I had not realised I had used Arthur Schopenhauer’s words in the first line, or a variation of them, until I thought them rather familiar and researched them

To see more and better verse please follow the link here

Free me!

A grave at the Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow

My first irreverent thought was ‘We gotta get out of this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do’ which I’m considering having played at my funeral but then it was followed almost immediately by the sense of beseeching implicit in this monument.

Free me!

Free me, I beseech you,

Free me from this world of woe,

Dead roses and cold rubies

Are not enough to hold me.

See my hands outstretched,

Fingers splayed and reaching

Out from the grave below -

Release me from this clay.

My spirit fled my body

Yet you strive to keep me here,

Your tears and words restrain me,

Please let me go.

Remember the person I was

And laugh at the memories we made –

Don’t enclose me in your sadness,

Please let me go.

You can read more Mags here, thanks to Tess Kincaid who organises this meme.

Blogging from A to Z April challenge Brother

A year ago my brother died.

He was five years older than me and emigrated to Canada more than forty years ago. After many years he left Canada to teach English in a Chinese school. He was made very welcome by the Chinese, finding them most hospitable and generous. Sadly, the climate disagreed with him and he developed health problems from which he never really recovered, so he returned to British Columbia, much to the relief of his daughter.

There was rarely any communication from him. My parents said little on this subject. When he did write letters they were like long essays, with nothing personal in them.

My father died and then my sister and he didn’t come back for their funerals. He returned later to spend a year at my mother’s home but didn’t maintain close contact with her after he left for Canada again. He was her only son and although she and my father repeatedly said that he had ‘always been odd’ I think she was probably hurt by his apparent indifference. I don’t believe she thought it was deliberate – more that he lived in another world inside his head.

Eventually, my mother died and once again he couldn’t afford to return to England, until he learnt that there was a legacy from her which gave him the wherewithal to travel.  So, he came back for her funeral, staying with us and then going to Norfolk to spend time with my late sister’s family.

At this time we discovered just how ‘odd’ he had become, believing that the world had been invaded by space aliens. He was not delusional – at least, not certifiably. He was just a gentle, quite passive, undemanding man who had probably spent too much time on his own and been persuaded by plausible writers of implausible things.

When my niece phoned to tell me he had died in his sleep I felt nothing apart from deep sadness for her. I hadn’t known him for many, many years and it was like hearing of the death of a slight acquaintance. I have never shed a tear over his passing and never will. I suppose I am angry with him for his lack of consideration for my parents. They deserved better.

From a different perspective . . . Today

Today is the last day of my life. I expected to be bitter, resentful, angry even, that my efforts have been overcome and I have been vanquished, but I am too exhausted to feel anything other than resignation and perhaps a sense of relief that I can relinquish the fight for existence.
I have recognised the advent of my death for some months now, though I have not cared to acknowledge it. I have never allowed myself to become despondent or to admit that the outcome was inescapable. I continued to make my plans, almost defiantly, as though to do so would guarantee my survival - but everyone knew the actuality of the situation. In sombre moments, in quiet corners, it was discussed, repetitively and in detail, as if the repetition made reality less certain, gentler, more familiar. In public, though, everyone retained an obstinate air of determined cheerfulness, planning . . . for a future they feared was too short. I feel no regrets, just a dull sense of inevitability. The pulse is slower, the breathing lighter, shallower. The morphine is working its ineffable magic, slowing, calming . . . deadening. I hear voices, but they are muffled and indistinct and soon I shall not hear them anymore. That will be a relief, for they have said things I would rather not have heard, comments that upset my equilibrium and allowed doubts to surface, though of course, they can have had no idea that I could hear them, still less understand them.
I have a short time left, then, to reflect on my life. It hasn't been disagreeable, though, naturally, I should have liked to survive long enough to see my descendants grow and prosper. I've had my trials and tribulations – a few spells in hospital, some rather unpleasant treatment, but I've always come through, even when everyone was convinced I was beaten. I've invariably returned to life, quietly at first, then with gathering strength . . . until now.
I haven't had a long life, by most standards, but, in my small vanity, I would like to think I've left my mark, made an impression on those who have known me. I think, in all modesty, that I will be remembered after my passing, albeit with sadness and incomprehension.
I was conceived twenty-eight years ago and remember little of my early existence, except that it was quiet, pleasant, unremarkable and spent in congenial surroundings. I was nurtured and protected against all possible ills, yet still I was quite young when I had my first notable encounter with the medical profession. After a less than routine visit to the doctor, there was a referral, fairly urgently, to a specialist – such dread is engendered by that title! - and thereafter to the Oncology Unit. My treatment was harsh and hard to bear – the chemotherapy made me very sick. I felt weak and almost defeated but I rallied, and little by little, my strength returned and with it a resurgence of energy and optimism. I had an inner confidence that I would survive and so I did, living quietly, reserving my strength, never losing hope.
Circumstances forced a move to a new location and within the decade I was receiving treatment once more. I underwent a serious and dangerous major operation, and those dear, close relatives prayed and wept and feared the worst, but I survived, recovered and planned for the next few years. Life seemed sweet, for I had gambled with death and won.
However, three years later, I was once more fighting for my very existence, subjected to surgery, a merciless barrage of chemotherapy and finally more radiotherapy. The treatment almost destroyed me but I confounded everyone. Once again, I proved too strong and demonstrated my determination to triumph over every coercion, all intimidation. I truly believed I was indomitable - and I won!
Against all the odds, I won, and yet, in winning, I discovered, too late, that I had lost everything! In the heat of battle I had forgotten that, without my host, I could not survive. My malign influence will die with the last breath of the woman I have destroyed and I will exist no more.
Today is the last day of my life.
(The idea of writing from another perspective is not new. People have written about 'the gun that shot the bullet' or 'the journey of the letter' – that last a favourite at one time with teachers! I wrote this piece a few years ago shortly after my sister died following a long relationship with cancer.)