I know I should talk to my parents about death. So why can't I do it?
Having watched first-hand how her friend juggled the stress of organising a funeral while grieving her father's death, CNA TODAY's Amanda Yeap knows it's important to talk to her own parents about death. Starting the conversation, however, is still a struggle.
by Amanda Yeap · CNA · JoinRead a summary of this article on FAST.
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I'm now in my mid-30s – about the age where, one by one, friends and peers are making social media posts announcing the passing of some of their elderly loved ones.
Every time, each new post sparks vivid imaginations about what I envision will be the worst moments of my life – when it's time for the two people who made me and raised me to be laid to rest forever.
My parents, both in their late 60s, are very much alive and healthy.
They keep fit with qigong, maintain balanced diets with home-cooked meals, and, at this very moment, are living their best lives in China, where they're on a long vacation with friends.
So why is it that their eldest daughter is sitting here, thinking about the worst possibilities – and wondering why she still hasn't actually talked these end-of-life matters through with the two people involved?
THE PERILS OF AVOIDING THE 'DEATH TALK'
Anyone who has dealt with the death of loved ones, especially parents, will know that grief is just the tip of the iceberg.
Besides the emotional fallout, there's a flurry of tasks to be urgently attended to: funerals, paperwork, legalities, and so on. How will the final rites be conducted? Who handles death registration? What about wills and inheritance arrangements?
Some aspects are very personal and sensitive, even painful.
Your parents won't have been able to tell you what medical decisions they'd have made for themselves if they had been in a coma, or how they'd prefer their assets to be handled after they're dead.
Ideally, you should already have all that information from them while they're still able to give it. And things can get real messy when you don't.
Some years ago, a friend's father died very suddenly of a serious illness. In the weeks that followed, I saw how she struggled with making decisions she wasn't prepared for.
She dutifully spoke to lawyers and looked at documents, but was barely able to grasp any of it. She spent a lot of time and energy second-guessing whether she was doing what her father would have wanted – all while trying not to buckle under the weight of her own grief.
I offered her what support I could but ultimately, some family affairs need to be handled privately. I made sure to be there for her, but there were some things she could do only on her own.
Watching a dear friend go through this with my own hands tied, it hit home for me: There are some aspects of death that we simply can't avoid talking about.
And yet, I still find myself avoiding it with my own parents.
NO EASY WAY TO START THE HARDEST CONVERSATION
I've always had a good relationship with my mother and father. All my life, I've been able to talk to them about anything under the sun – anything but this.
I find myself getting very emotional – aggravated, upset or depressed when my thoughts turn in this direction. I'd simply rather not think about the inevitable until I have to.
At the same time, I'm aware that waiting until the moment when I "have to" think about it might be too late. How can I respect my parents' final wishes if I don't know what they are?
After the death of my friend's parent, I've been reflecting on my aversion to having such a vital conversation with my own mother and father.
Am I simply afraid of making them uncomfortable or upset? I don't want to bring up something that feels so dark and heavy, especially when they're still here, still healthy, still living their lives.
Or is this something deeper – a fundamental terror of what such a loss may do to me?
Among my friends, we don't talk about these things a lot either, for obvious reasons. But on the rare occasions that we do, I get mixed reactions.
One friend has already had this conversation with his parents – or at least, a discussion on a Lasting Power of Attorney (LPA), which allows us to appoint someone we trust to manage our affairs should we lose the mental capacity to do so.
A few admitted to feeling iffy about having this discussion at first, but acknowledged it as a practical necessity for ensuring that things are in order after a death.
Some others are in turmoil over the issue – usually because it was their parents who insisted on talking about this. These friends felt like they had little control over how and when the discussion took place, and this made it harder for them to accept and digest what they were hearing.
And then there were those like me, avoiding the subject altogether despite knowing full well that we shouldn't.
Many, like me, said they keep putting it off because they want to wait for a "good time" – but is there ever a "good time" for discussing death?
STILL NOT READY TO SAY IT
In the early years of my career as a journalist, I covered stories that involved sudden deaths, morgue visits and mourning families.
In a family's deepest moments of grief, I had to absorb their emotions while maintaining focus on the task at hand, give them space yet get the answers I needed from them, and then go back to work pretending like everything was normal. Like their lives hadn't just permanently changed overnight.
It was part and parcel of the job – but it didn't make it any easier when I had to work on such stories.
"Is this what I'm going to be like when I lose my parents?" a small voice asked in the back of my mind as I conducted interview after interview, played back voice recordings or typed up notes.
It's been years since I've had to do that for work, but the fear and the dread linger still.
And now, when I think about asking my parents about their post-mortem wishes, that feeling resurfaces again. I don't want to revisit the grief I've been carrying from witnessing other people's losses.
I also tend to push this aside, convincing myself we have time. As I said, my parents are still healthy. What's the rush?
But I know it's a trap of my own making, an attempt to self-soothe rather than solve the issue.
It's so strange to be aware and sensitive to how important something is, yet not be able to bring yourself to just do it.
WHAT THIS MEANS NOW
I know I can't put off having the "death talk" with my parents forever.
Perhaps ironically, I know that if I were to try, my parents would be open to listening. They have always been understanding towards me and my younger sister, even in times where we chose to go against tradition (and perhaps, their wishes) – like when I opted for a small wedding attended by my closest friends instead of a grand affair with hundreds of guests.
But it still feels wrong, somehow, to simply sit down at the dinner table and blurt out: "So Daddy, Mummy, have you ever thought about what you'd want us to do… when the time comes? Like your final rites and arrangements, who's going to be in charge of things?"
Two months ago, a family friend died and was cremated, and I thought that could be my way in to gently start the conversation with my own parents about their final wishes.
I didn't know what I expected them to say, but I definitely did not expect my mum to say, as casually as if we were discussing the weather: "At the end, I won't be here anymore lah, I won't know anything. So you can do what you feel is best."
We did scratch the surface by talking a bit more about the topic, though, given how nervous I was the whole time, I can't remember exactly what my father said. From what I recall, the vibe was that he wasn't entirely against discussing it or treating it as taboo.
Still, the conversation gradually moved on to something else.
Deep down, some part of me was grateful that it was as brief as it was. But rationally, I knew it wasn't enough.
After allowing myself some time and space to process that exchange, I understand now that I wasn't fully ready for confronting all of death right away.
But I've also realised that it's not about conquering all my emotional hang-ups in one leap. What matters more is taking steps, no matter how small, that bring you closer and closer.
I've taken a small first step: Testing how to open a difficult conversation I've spent years avoiding completely.
Now, I've settled on my next goal: Figuring out how to stay in it, and to graciously accept the dread and discomfort it may bring.
Amanda Yeap is a senior journalist at CNA TODAY.
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