Róisín Ingle on ... body donation

The round-robin email from my mother to all eight of her offspring came through just as some of us were about to sit down to Sunday dinner. In the subject box she’d put “Afterwards”.

“After what?” I wondered, but not for long.

“I hope I am not going to upset your Sunday dinner,” the email thoughtfully read, “but I just wanted to let you know that on my death I will be donating my body to medical science via The Royal College of Surgeons or, if they are full up, to one of the other medical schools.”

I can’t say I was thrilled to see the word death in such close proximity to my mother’s name, but the message didn’t exactly put me off my roast potatoes – it would take a lot more than that, to be fair.

I had recently seen a documentary about the body donation programme at Trinity College. A Parting Gift was so profoundly moving that I woke my life partner up to tell him that if I "go" unexpectedly that he was to "donate" me to whoever would have me. So I knew where my mother was coming from.

She continued: “The college will cover the cost of cremation and provision of an urn. The cremation will take place from 1-3 years after my death.”

An urn. That didn’t upset me either because I am with my mother in believing that graveyards are a terrible waste of space. But I was torn. Torn between having finger-in-the-ear thoughts about my mother never dying (because she is immortal, obviously la, la, la) and thinking: “But who will get the urn?”

She carried on: “All you do is contact them. This will be free and so no unnecessary money need be spent as there will be no funeral as such. Now that is off my chest, I hope you are all well ...”

Now that was off her chest, I wondered how we’d all respond to the news. I got in early, telling my mother she was doing a beautiful thing and that while I didn’t like to think of her dying, her decision could help many people.

My younger brother said he hoped we wouldn’t need to be contacting the College of Surgeons for many, many years: “With regards to your decision, it’s your body to do with as you wish ... except maybe tattoos.”

Another brother got deeply practical, saying that he had once dissected cadavers at osteopathic school and so if my mother wanted any details about that part of the proceedings, she should let him know.

Then he got existential, requesting a message from beyond the urn: “If there is any way you can tell me where the rest of you has gone when you do leave the body, I would be very grateful. Some sign, a dream, anything that works would be just fine ... anyway I would be very happy if you are around much longer before those medical students get their hands on you.”

One sister’s response made me cry at my desk: “I can’t imagine how hard it is to send an email like yours to us all and thanks for finding the courage to do so ... when I read your email my stomach turned and I felt so sad last night at the thought of you not being around. But on reflection I think your email is well timed.

“We can take each other for granted too easily and life really is short and precious. I think this correspondence should prompt all of us to look into ourselves and how we would feel if any one of us were not here tomorrow, as death unfortunately is not just about old age.”

In England there are Death Cafes, where people gather to talk about the subject of their dying over flat whites and tea and cake. Their aim is to “increase awareness of death so people can get on with their (finite) lives”.

Until these exchanges about my mother’s generous future donation, I didn’t really get what Death Cafes were all about. I do now. For my mother, sorting this bit of paperwork was not a morbid move, just something that, aged 76, she wanted to have in order so she could carry on with her matinees at The Abbey and her movies and her writing classes and appointments with children and grandchildren and friends. As she put it: “Once dying is out of the way I can stop thinking about it and get on with living life to the full.”

I’ve learned so much from my mother over the years, some of which I’ve absorbed and much of which has yet to sink in. I’ll treasure this latest life-lesson which has many layers including: “Don’t let death talk upset your Sunday dinner and enjoy your roasties while ye may.”

[ roisin@irishtimes.com ]