Living grief: What a visit to the undertaker taught me about saying goodbye

It’s a typical day in November and a typical day in Hamburg: It’s windy and it’s raining from all sides. How appropriate, I think, this gray, sad weather, after all, I’m on the way to an undertaker. Anyone who lives near Hamburg’s largest cemetery, like me, is often confronted with death. Here the gravestones of the stonemasons line the main street, coffins, candles and urns are used as decoration in the shop windows. But this house I’m standing in front of now is different.

An appointment with the deceased

When Bettina Strang from Trostwerk Hamburg opens the door for me, I enter a spacious hallway decorated in soft earth tones. It smells of wood and warmth, as if there was a fire crackling in the fireplace somewhere and we had agreed to meet for tea for a nice chat. It is a little like that. She leads me into a large room, the patio: a wooden table, cookies and fragrant tea, candlelight and that hamburger Rain that beats tirelessly on the glass roof. The funeral ceremonies usually take place here, but today the three of us are meeting: Bettina, me and Death.

She asks me if I would like to see the premises. I say “yes” very quickly and then realize that I haven’t really prepared for it. Talking about death is one thing, getting close to it is another. We go into the small adjoining room where the deceased are laid out, along with their relatives Farewell can take – if you want. In the middle there is an open coffin, lined in white, simple, made of light wood. I can’t help but think of the last time I stood in front of a coffin: at my grandfather’s funeral. My grandfather – I will see him here more often today.

Flowers in the relaxation room, appreciation and comfort

Bettina shows me the warehouse and the workshop where the coffins are lined, a few models are standing next door, the vehicles, the flower arranging shop. She explains to me the processes and why cars are red instead of black and that she has had difficulties a few times when she had to park awkwardly because the car was not recognizable as a hearse. But for the relatives it is nicer to be not black. She shows me the room where the care of the dead takes place, the deceased are washed and dressed, and the cupboard where the urns are stored until burial. Instead of being in an external cold storage hall, the dead from the Trostwerk are here, in a cooled rest room.

This is what we are facing now. A drawing of the room hangs next to the door so that relatives – and now me too – can imagine what it looks like inside. Because, Bettina explains to me, it is essential for many people to know who is looking after their loved ones and where they are.

It doesn’t look like a pathology in there. We don’t have drawers. The deceased lie in their own coffins in the room. Our florist also stores her flowers here. It’s basically a kind of refrigerator. The temperature is 5 ° C. A win-win situation for the flowers and the dead, I think.

It’s a strange feeling to stand in front of this door and a beautiful thought that this room is filled with flowers. Death and life come together here, as in the entire house. It is a meeting place that feels like a big hug. Bettina’s every word and every stone in this house speak of appreciation for the life lived and Consolation for the survivors.

Farewells are meant to create memories

They say death is cold. But this place is warm. A place of farewell where time seems to stand still and where you can take as much of it as you need. The Trostwerk is a farewell house and the people who work here see themselves less as undertakers and more as companions. You feel that every feeling is allowed here. It is sad and beautiful and there is an appreciation for the deceased in the rooms, as well as gratitude for life. The farewells should fit the person and create a memory that is not just black and gloomy.

“For us it’s about a culture of farewell. The courage to encounter death, being able to live the beautiful aspects of even the sad. And this includes, for example, finding a framework in which I can express my desire to say goodbye or to be creative in the encounter with death,” explains Bettina and tells of a man whose purpose in life was his garden. But not in the flowery way, but in a rustic way: potatoes and vegetables. It was clear to his family: he would be cremated in his green dungarees, with a rake and rubber boots. The urn came from a tree trunk and the chapel was decorated with vegetable baskets, mushrooms and tomatoes instead of flowers during the funeral service.

How nice, I say, my grandpa would have liked that too.

“The way people lived is how they should meet here.”

The focus here is on the grieving process and educational work. Only people who are informed about their options would have the choice of what they need for their journey. “For example, whiskey tastings have already taken place here at the open coffin. The way people have lived is how they should meet here. Many people are also not aware that someone who dies in the hospital, for example, will be brought home again could, to say goodbye. It doesn’t have to be here. What’s important for me is to focus on what the relatives need. What’s good for them? And that’s what I try to make possible as a funeral director.”

The time between death and burial is already very stressful for those left behind and feels like an in-between time. That’s why Bettina often advises: “Take your time, you have time.”

“You can’t bury the pain away.”

I don’t actually know anyone who really took a lot of time after the death of someone close to them. On the contrary: everyone always wanted to get the funeral over with quickly. So that this is done.

Some people have so much pressure behind it and think that the sooner this funeral is over, the sooner I can put an end to it. But that’s not correct. You can’t bury the pain away.

The mourning journey actually only begins after the funeral, says Bettina, “only then does the absence really become noticeable. While those around you often think that half a year has already passed and that things have to slowly get better, the bereaved only realize that what that actually means, that the other person really won’t come back. It’s very important to understand that someone is dead in order to arrive in this reality at some point.”

And in reality all the first times follow: the first Christmas without the person, birthday, wedding anniversary and finally the first anniversary of death.

Rituals provide support and comfort

“The more consciously you plan your farewell, the more you can get out of it.” One reason why it is so important for the consolation work to make death tangible and to offer relatives the chance to experience that the familiar body is still there, but completely different. That’s why relatives can be there every step of the way if they want. Rituals such as caring for the dead, coming to the coffin again, painting the coffin, placing coffin goods in it or going to the crematorium and determining the moment of cremation yourself help to integrate death into one’s own reality. “That can be very important for some because death always means a loss of control and that can often trigger the impulse to want to control as much as possible.”

You don’t just have this one memory of the person, but many, many.

With Bettina, it all sounds completely normal that you see your deceased again and spend time with him or her, while I’ve always heard the opposite: “It’s better to remember Grandpa the way he was when he was still alive.” That sounded logical to me. But Bettina explains: “You don’t just have this one memory of the person, but many, many.” She is right. Still, I would be afraid of it, I say.

That’s completely normal, answers Bettina, that’s why the relatives are well supported here and not everyone needs that. “But if you approach it calmly and at your own pace, you can experience that the anxiety is released, that you are completely Being quiet at the coffin, you can also laugh with the family. There’s a lot in it: remembering, doing final things, experiencing that death is part of life. I would never dare to say that everyone should do that. But I think it’s good for more people than they think.”

What does an undertaker think about death?

As we come to the end of our conversation, I want to know what this job does to her and ask whether her view of life has changed?

“Yes,” she says, she thinks she has a much greater appreciation for life because of the awareness of how thin the line is. Just there and then suddenly gone.

“Does that scare you?” I want to know.

“No, at least not for herself,” she replies. The mystery of death fascinates her in a certain way and she asks herself what it actually is, this life or this animated thing? And where did that go?

Maybe there will be an after…?

“I’m not an atheist,” says Bettina. She doesn’t think there will be anything after that. “Far too many things always happen for that, where I sometimes think: ‘This can’t be happening now. This is like a bad movie, it’s so cheesy that it’s embarrassing. And if it isn’t all now If we had seen her, then everyone would think that she wanted something.'” I ask what exactly she means by that. “Certain lighting conditions at burials, for example. The sky opens up when you’re standing at the grave and the sun’s rays go directly onto the grave, not the one next to it, but exactly that. Or it’s February and a butterfly flies by. That may be selective perception “But somehow it happens to me so often in my daily activities that I think I don’t know who has a hand in it. I don’t have to. I’m happy to accept that it’s not a coincidence.”

Why not, I think it’s a nice thought.

And I remember the picture I took shortly after my grandfather’s funeral. We went for walks, on the trails we have all walked thousands of times, by the river we all swam in as children, and on the boardwalks where we looked at the water and breathed.

Bettina Strang isPart of the team of around 20 Trostwerk Hamburgthe individual, life-friendly Offers farewells. However, the Trostwerk sees itself not only as a companion during the initial period, but also advocates for a new culture of mourning that no longer pushes death out of life. Instead, it should encourage those who mourn to rediscover their own liveliness, especially in the face of death.

Bridget