Euthanasia

I am cautiously in favour of allowing terminally ill people to die with dignity, if and only if they choose to do so when they are capable of making such a choice, under strict medical supervision and with checks and balances that are as failsafe as possible. I know this is a very difficult issue and there are strong arguments on both sides. But I do think that if I was, for example, in the advanced stages of motor neurone disease, and facing the imminent prospect of death by suffocation, like Diane Pretty I might prefer a chemical cocktail if the option was available. I also find it hard to get past the point that we regard it as humane to put animals out of their misery when they are suffering intensely with no hope of recovery, but we are not willing to do so for our fellow human beings.

But this article by Jon Ronson highlights some horrifying practices within the euthanasia community. It features an American Unitarian minister who helps others to die when they are not terminally ill but have mental health problems. I had no idea this went on. I do know that mental health problems can feel unbearable to sufferers, and that there is a strong link between some types of mental health problem and suicide. But surely, with mental health problems, there is always - or almost always - some hope of recovery or improvement, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time to the person concerned? Two members of my family, both now dead of old age, had severe and enduring mental health problems, self-harmed and attempted suicide, but also had periods when they were comparatively stable and happy. I saw these alternate over decades and, in the good times, they would each say that although there had been times when they wanted to die, they were glad they hadn't succeeded because they were now enjoying their lives.

Even worse, the article features someone who is helping people to die in exchange for money. Quite a lot of money - approximately $7000 per person, apparently (although let's remember this is being reported in a newspaper, even if it is the Guardian, so we can't be sure about the figures).

Jon Ronson has made a documentary about this which will be shown tonight in the UK (Monday 19th May, 10 pm, Channel 4 if you're interested). Apparently, part of the rationale for the American Unitarian minister is that he is helping people on to a better life. I guess if you believe that, the whole thing might be more defensible. But it doesn't work for me.

Copyrights and Copywrongs

All bloggers need to know that under UK law, a writer owns the copyright to their work, even when they have published it on the Internet, even if they publish it under a pseudonym. (I'm not sure about international copyright law. But this is how it works in the UK.) The only way you can change that is by signing a contract that transfers the copyright to someone else. If you haven't done that, it's yours.

Recently there have been a number of cases of newspapers stealing bloggers' writing and republishing it without permission or payment. This is a criminal offence and if any newspaper did it to me, I'd be looking for a 'no win, no fee' intellectual property lawyer. Zoe of Girl With A One-Track Mind wrote an interesting piece on this in the Guardian last week, focusing on the experience of JonnyB who had whole posts published in the Mail on Sunday without his knowledge. Jonny, being a kindly soul, simply sent the Mail a stern reprimand and an invoice for £200, which they duly paid. In their reply they described bloggers as 'amateur writers' which made me seethe with rage - how do they know? Jonny blogs under a pseudonym, I've never met him and I don't know his real name, but I've read his blog for years, he writes like an angel, he works from home, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if writing of some kind is part if not all of his real-life professional identity.

But it gets worse. I found out from Rachel that Natalie, a blogger I hadn't come across before, has not only had parts of her blog published in the Daily Mail (you'll notice I'm not dignifying these 'news'papers with links), but also has been totally misrepresented there as an 'e-venge blogger'. There are various good posts about this already up on the web, so I'm not going to go into all the details here. Natalie has asked bloggers to spread the word and I'm happy to help, because this treatment of the new media by the old media is outrageous and should be stopped.

Advice As Requested

Emerging Writer asked what advice I have for couples with different religious backgrounds (Catholic and atheist) when it comes to funerals. This is an interesting question. I've done funerals for couples who are Church of England and atheist or agnostic, but Catholicism is a different matter.

I was brought up as a Catholic, so I know a bit about it. In my research for this post I consulted one of the most thoughtful, intelligent Catholics I know, who also happens to be my dad. This is a work in progress and there may be another post about it in due course, but here are my thoughts so far.

For any Christian, a funeral is about someone's passing on into the next world. Although Christians naturally grieve for the loss of someone they love from this world, they rejoice that people are going to meet their maker, friends and family, and feel comforted because they believe they will meet those people again one day themselves.

For atheists, a funeral is part of the process of coming to terms with the end of someone's life. It's a celebration of that life (at least, it is if I'm doing it), and a recognition that the person lives on in the memories of others and in the unique influence they have had on their family and friends.

So in a funeral service, atheists look backwards, primarily, while Christians look forwards. As an experienced ceremony designer, I can't see a problem in creating a ceremony to honour both belief systems – and as many of you know, I have done a double-act with a vicar (more than once in fact).

However, I'm not sure this would work for Catholics, who value their religious services very highly. A full-scale requiem mass has no space for a secular tribute. A progressive priest might choose to make space, or be happy to do a double-act with a humanist celebrant, but a traditionalist wouldn't.

So I think Emerging Writer's couple have several options. If they liked the idea, they could try for a double-act – but they would need to be aware that some Catholic priests would be unwilling to do this. Another option would be to have two funerals on the same day, say one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with lunch in between. However, you would have to bear in mind that you can only have one committal (where the curtains close in a crematorium chapel – the most common choice for atheists – or burial in a graveyard, the most common choice for Catholics). So it might be possible to have a Catholic requiem mass in the morning, then a celebratory humanist-led wake in the afternoon; or a humanist funeral in the morning, and a Catholic memorial service in the afternoon.

A further option for this couple, if they're in Britain, would be to seek the services of a Unitarian. Unitarians describe themselves as 'a creedless religious movement of people who encourage freedom of thought and nurturing community.' I have a lot of respect for Unitarians; if I believed in God, I'd probably be one. Many people in our pluralist, multi-cultural society - myself included - profess respect for the beliefs of others. Some take pains to be sensitive to those beliefs, e.g. by not eating in front of Muslims during daylight hours in Ramadan. But few of us willingly engage with others' beliefs and use the experience to reassess our own. The Unitarian community 'welcomes you for who you are, complete with your beliefs, doubts and questions.' They are also, uniquely, very willing to design services for weddings, funerals etc for mixed-faith couples. I think we could all learn a lot from their approach.

But the main piece of advice I would give to this couple is to work out what they want, write it down, and make sure their nearest and dearest have copies or know where to find them. That will make life much easier for everyone when the time comes.

Humph RIP

I don't have much truck with celebrity anything, particularly as I'm not a TV watcher. I read the Guardian online, so I pick up bits and pieces. But I often find myself puzzled, in conversation, when someone is talking to me about people they assume I know – most recently a couple called 'Adam and Joe' (or maybe it's 'Adam and Jo') – who usually turn out to be from television.

And when something happens to a celebrity I have heard of, I don't feel emotionally involved; I keep that for people I know in person. For example, my most vivid memory from when Diana died was the experience of a journalist girlfriend who was telephoned by a colleague at 4 am that Sunday morning. He told her Diana had died in a car crash and she needed to get her arse into the office pronto. As the office was in London, and my friend was asleep in bed with her lover in Manchester, she asked her colleague if he thought she was born yesterday, gave him a stream of abuse for disturbing her with such a ridiculous mickey-take, and slammed the phone down. Apparently he had to ring back several times before she would believe him.

I didn't cry when Diana died. I felt sorry for her, and more sorry for her sons, but I watched the public outpouring of grief with detached fascination. Yet I shed tears this week for Humph.

Humphrey Lyttelton wasn't a celebrity, he was a personality. He was full of contradictions: a modest man of great stature; a toff who became a conviction socialist; a perfect gentleman who told the rudest jokes on radio. He was impossible to categorise: he was a professional musician with his own record label, had a lifelong interest in calligraphy, and held silliness in high regard. He was a journalist and author, too. And he felt like part of my family. He chaired the wonderful anarchic radio comedy game I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue from its inception in 1972. I was eight years old then, and listening soon became a family ritual. We didn't have a television, so the radio was enormously important in our lives. And of course in those days there was no option to 'listen again'; I can still hear the urgent cries of 'Quick! It's starting!' that brought us all from our various pursuits to the living room as the opening music played.

I got married a couple of decades ago. He'd never listened to I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue. I should have realised it wasn't going to work. Top Bloke, on the other hand, grew up with the programme like I did. Humph and his colleagues influenced the development of our own humour as much as The Goon Show or Monty Python or Molesworth. One of the best things Top Bloke ever did for me was to get tickets for a live recording of the show. These tickets were rarer than testosterone in a frock shop, and despite Top Bloke's best efforts over the years we only managed to go that one time, but it was a fantastic evening. I laughed until I cried, until my ribs and face hurt, until I could barely breathe. I felt incredibly privileged to be privy to the off-mike banter of Humph and the teams. And now I know what Samantha looks like!

This has puzzled my friends, at times, as much as their televisual references puzzle me. These days Top Bloke and I can introduce people to I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue through the 'listen again' function on Radio 7 or the clips on the programme's own page on the BBC website. They don't always get it. 'Mornington Crescent' will have us in stitches while our friends try to work out the rules. 'One Song To The Tune Of Another' makes other people go 'eh?' but often has us laughing from the announcement, particularly when it's something challenging for Jeremy Hardy, Stephen Fry or Sandi Toksvig – or yet another way of getting Rob Brydon, with his silken vocal cords, to sing 'Delilah'. (The words of 'Whiter Shade Of Pale' to the tune of 'My Old Man's A Dustman' was a classic – try it, it works.) The programme is so entrenched in my head that my own personal cure for insomnia is an imaginary round of that game where each panellist has to say a word that has no links whatsoever to the word said by the previous panellist. This has a wonderfully surreal effect, and I find it stops me worrying about whatever's keeping me awake, and amuses my brain gently into sleep.

For me, I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue was the main attraction where Humph was concerned. I also listened, albeit more sporadically, to his 'Best Of Jazz' programme on Radio 2. Humph had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things jazz, and was a well-regarded professional player himself, working with an eclectic range of musicians from Sidney Bechet to Elkie Brooks, Helen Shapiro to Radiohead. I love jazz, and I enjoyed the programme. But for me, the best music was always when Humph got his trumpet out at the end of the I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue Christmas Special, and his joy in jazz mingled, for a few moments, with his joy in comedy.

Humph chaired the show with a unique combination of the reluctant and the irrepressible. He affected a world-weary air, and often subverted the stereotype of the chairman by feigning inattention or boredom. When I saw the show live, they recorded a half-hour show in one take, and then re-recorded a couple of segments where something hadn't quite gone right – a panellist coughing, perhaps, or a slip in someone's speech. The producer would come onto the stage, give instructions to whoever needed to repeat a line, then re-record it. Humph had to do a couple of these, and one wasn't quite up to the required standard. 'Sorry, Humph, could you do that again?' the producer said. Humph propped his chin on one hand, looked at the audience, heaved a sigh and said 'I'm losing the will to live.' As he was over 80 at the time, this was edgy humour, and got a big laugh.

But he never did lose the will to live, or to work, which for Humph seems to have been much the same thing. He did the last gig with his jazz band the night before he went into hospital, was in the middle of recording the latest series of I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue, and had almost finished both a book and an album. He leaves a tremendous legacy of music and humour, and his life is definitely something to celebrate rather than mourn.

So, as the comedy jazzman of time meets the grim reaper of eternity, and the sad listeners of fate snivel and reach for their handkerchiefs... it's the end of the show.

Danny #2

Outside the crematorium I saw Geoff stepping out of the shiny black limousine and went over to say hello. His face was taut and he took my hands and held on to them as if he needed an anchor.

‘How are you doing?’ I said.

‘I don’t know how people get through this kind of thing that don’t have a close family.’

And they were clustering around him, the three sons unmistakably Geoff’s with the same smooth kindly faces, their partners, and a younger woman with a small boy at her side wearing a dark blue waistcoat, tailored trousers and white shirt. I looked down and saw sticky-out ears, a spiky blond crew cut, and alert blue eyes above cheeky cheeks.

‘You must be Danny,’ I said. ‘You look very smart.’

He grinned with his whole face, then looked up at Hannah to check that she’d heard. She smiled back at him. I looked at the others and they were all smiling, even Geoff, who had let go of my hands for those of a daughter-in-law. I could feel a smile on my own face, and I thought maybe I understood why Danny was so special to Edith. He hadn’t said a word to me but he radiated charm.

None of the other grandchildren were there; they must have been at school. Danny was the only child present and I hoped his mother had brought a colouring book or something to keep him occupied during the service. I think funerals often seem long and boring for small children, so I don’t mind children running around during my services, and sometimes two or more will play quietly together in a pew or in one of the aisles. But there wasn’t anyone for Danny to play with.

I needn’t have worried. He sat still on his mother’s lap, blue eyes looking around the chapel like searchlights, occasionally stretching up to whisper a question which she would answer just as quietly.

I worked through the service which seemed to be going down well. The audience was attentive, nodding at tales of Edith's dedicated teaching career, smiling at stories of dancing and flowers, laughing at anecdotes of her frequent malapropisms – like when she told Geoff proudly after winning a prize in a pub quiz that ‘we extinguished ourselves tonight’, and her insistence that a doctor who specialised in looking after important ladyparts was called a ‘groinacologist’.

Usually when I’m constructing a tribute to someone from information their family has given me, I put the family chronology first and stories of work, holidays, hobbies etc second. Mostly it seems to work better that way, with the family presented as the backdrop for the rest of a person’s life. But for Edith it seemed to make sense to do it the other way around, to talk about who she was at work and in her social life, and then focus in on the family that seemed the very core of her existence. So I spoke about how she met and married Geoff, and then their joy at becoming parents, Edith’s life as a mother, and a grandmother, how she loved being a hands-on grandma and taking care of her own sons’ children.

‘And then,’ I said, ‘just as she thought she’d run out of grandchildren to care for and play with, Danny came along.’

Danny sat bolt upright as if I’d poked him with a cattle prod, and his mother narrowly avoided a headbutt to the chin.

‘Edith loved Danny very much,’ I said.

‘She’s talking about ME!’ squeaked Danny, unable to contain his surprise in a whisper.

A chuckle ran round the chapel.

‘Mum, did you hear? The lady’s talking about ME!’

The chuckle grew through stifled giggles and a few irrepressible snorts into a full-scale blast of contagious laughter. Danny caught it and his own laughter rose above the rest, spurring everyone else on to greater heights of mirth.

During my training I learned techniques for managing the threat of tears, but nobody taught me how to avoid getting the giggles when everyone else was already hooting with laughter. I bit my lips and dug my nails into my palms, and then I caught sight of Geoff. He was rocking back and forth in the front pew, tears of laughter streaming down his face, the sight of me trying not to laugh evidently rendering him completely helpless. He caught my eye and pointed at me, and I was lost too, cackling away with the rest of them. Even the funeral director, sitting at the back of the chapel, was gasping and dabbing her eyes.

Eventually the laughter subsided and I was able to finish the service. At the end, as usual, I walked out through the exit doors and waited for the funeral director to lead the mourners from the chapel. Geoff came first and took my hands again, not clinging this time but with a friendly handshake.

‘That was marvellous,’ he said. ‘I told you I wanted a happy funeral for Edith, but I never imagined that.’

‘Not my doing,’ I said. ‘It was that great-grandson of yours.’

Geoff’s eyes twinkled. ‘He did help it along, didn’t he? He's a one-off, that boy.’

‘He’s a star,’ I said. ‘Do you hire him out?’

Danny #1

Edith died a lovely death. Sitting in her comfy armchair, with her beloved husband Geoff by her side, after a good dinner, at the end of her favourite television show, she turned to him and said 'I feel a bit queer. I think I'd better go to the bathroom.' But she never made it out of her chair; she had a massive heart attack and was dead in moments.

Geoff and Edith had been married for 58 years and had three sons, five grandchildren and one great-grandson. Geoff was a dapper, courteous man; shocked and sad, but – unlike many people – showed no sign that he felt Edith's death was unfair.

'It was bound to happen to one of us sooner or later,' he said. 'I miss her terribly. But what a way to go.'

'Great for her,' I said. 'Bit hard on you, though.'

'That's life,' he said, and one side of his mouth smiled.

'You said on the phone that you'd been to a humanist funeral before.'

'Several, as it happens. Including two of yours.' He grinned at the surprise on my face. 'I wouldn't expect you to remember. You must shake an awful lot of hands.'

'So as an experienced person, have you had any thoughts about what you want for Edith?'

'I don't know what you'll think of this.' His expression was serious now. 'I really want a happy service. She was such a happy person. We are so happy as a family. And so lucky. She used to say that to me, almost every day, how lucky we are. We're not rich, or famous, but equally none of us has drug problems, or are alcoholic, or suffer much from health troubles, and we have enough money to live comfortably.' He gestured around the living room of his small bungalow, immaculately clean and tidy with ornaments on every available surface. 'All the boys found good partners and good jobs. We're a close family, and we have close friends. And we were born English. I don't care what the papers say, I'm glad to live in a country with democracy and pubs and the NHS. Edith was right. We're very, very lucky.'

'You'd like the service to reflect that?'

'I would. I've chosen the music, it's all songs we used to dance to. She loved to dance, right up until the end, she went to line dancing at the community centre every Thursday night, and we'd go to tea dances in the town hall on a Sunday afternoon.' He handed me a CD with glamorous dancers on the front. 'They're all on here. "I Could Have Danced All Night" coming in, then "Romance de Amor" in the middle, and "'S Wonderful" to go out.'

'Dancing made Edith happy, then.'

'It was one of the things that made her most happy. Dancing, and flowers, and children. She grew beautiful flowers.'

'I can see that.' The little front garden was visible through the window, its small square lawn edged with a profusion of bulbs in full bloom: various daffodils and narcissi, and tulips in every size and colour.

'Yes, that was all her own work, I wasn't allowed to get involved.' He chuckled proudly. 'But children were her favourite thing. She was a primary school teacher, she taught the second year children, the seven and eight year olds.'

'Which school?'

'She started at St John's primary school in the City, after she'd done her training. Then of course she had a gap when the boys were young. But as soon as Alex, that's our youngest, as soon as he was settled at school she went back. She said she got bored at home on her own all day. And she found a job at the school at the end of the road here, where the boys went. She was there for the rest of her working life. Loved it. Especially when children she'd taught brought their own children to her class. That made her so happy, you'd have thought it was all her doing!'

I answered his smile with one of my own. 'So did she find it hard to retire?'

'She would have done, if it hadn't been for the grandchildren. We had three by that time. One is older, Hannah, because our oldest boy married a woman who already had a child from a teenage liaison, didn't matter to us, Hannah was our first grandchild and that was all there was to it. She was at secondary school, but then they had two more in quick succession, and Alison, that's their mum, needed to go back to work, but childcare is so expensive, and Edith stepped in. And by the time they got to school, our middle boy had two, so she looked after them. And then by the time the last one of those had gone to school, Hannah had Danny, the first great-grandchild.'

'Sounds like Edith never got a break.'

'She didn't want one. She just loved being with children, playing with them, feeding them, cleaning them up, and always chatting as she went. Some of our friends are different, they say to their children no, you sort it out, I've done my time. I can see why people might feel like that. They've every right. But Edith didn't want to. She lived for children, and they loved her too.'

'She sounds like the perfect grandma.'

'And great-grandma. She and Danny had a really special relationship. She would never have said so, but I think he was her favourite, out of all the children. Maybe she knew he'd be the last. He's nearly five now, he's really going to miss her.'

'I think you all are.'

His chin trembled, but he held onto his control. 'Yes. We are.'

To be continued...

Life Before Death

Look, okay, let's redefine this blogbreak, shall we? I'm not reading much, and hardly commenting at all - which I'm finding surprisingly liberating. But I'm obviously still posting. I'm sure I'll get back to regular reading, and commenting, in due course. Then again, maybe I will take a break from posting at some point in the next month or two. The trouble is that I keep coming across things I want to tell you about.

An exhibition in London is one of them. It's called Life Before Death, and it's at the Wellcome Collection in Euston Road until 18th May. I will be in London between now and 18th May, for one day, which happens to be a Monday, which is the only day of the week when the Wellcome Collection is closed, which is very very annoying. But luckily I was able to see some of the photos from this exhibition on the Guardian website last week. And they were fascinating, moving, incredible pictures.

They are black-and-white portraits of people taken shortly before, and immediately after, their death. I know that news of this exhibition spread round the web like a virus, but if you haven't seen the photos yet, you can have a look at some of them here. There's an interesting article by the excellent Joanna Moorhead about the exhibition here.

Talking of viruses, if you've had an email from me claiming to be a big international e-commerce company, don't be fooled; I'm only a blogger. And my apologies for the inconvenience. Some spamming hacking moron got into my hotmail account. I have now changed my password and notified Hotmail Support, so with any luck it won't happen again - at least for a while.