We need to talk about my dead dad in the living room

‘So what are you doing now, you ok?’

‘Yeah, my dad’s home now, he’s in the living room.’

‘He’s what?’

‘He’s in the living room.’

‘I thought you said he was dead…’ 

‘I did. He’s in the coffin, in the living room.’

This is an extract from a WhatsApp conversation I had with my then-relatively new English boyfriend, a little over 48 hours after my dad died in a Dublin hospital on a late summer evening last September.

Ok, it’s not verbatim. But such was his shock at the thought of my father’s corpse laid out in the middle of my family home, it might as well have been.

After much assurance that ‘taking the body home’ is, in fact, a normal practice in many parts of the Republic, his stunned reaction left me pondering profound questions about how Irish and British societies approach the great equaliser that is death.

I wondered if Brits like my boyfriend, and indeed people from myriad other cultures, are missing out on something by keeping mortality more at arms length.

Do they crave a final goodbye? Do they wish for more support? Does one tradition, for want of a better phrase, do death better?

Like many of its ancient customs, Ireland has a long and ritualistic history with death. Central to this culture is the tradition of the wake, a social gathering held the night before a funeral where loved ones come to pay their respects and watch over the body of the deceased, usually in their own home. Friends and family take turns with the dead, sitting beside the open coffin to bear witness to the final transition between life and death. Does it sound strange enough yet?

Wakes happen quickly, just two or three days after death. Conventional wisdom is that the Catholic church historically held funerals as soon as possible so that those in mourning could begin healing. In reality, it was most likely to avoid the spread of disease in a country so poor, it wasn’t uncommon for 19 families to share a single house just over 100 years ago.

Wakes are a time to celebrate the life of those who have gone. To sing songs, to tell stories, and to make sure, or so old tales go, that the person is actually dead and not simply stocious (an Irish expression meaning totally, absolutely, almost irrevocably, drunk).

Back in the old days, wakes went on for what seemed like forever. When my widely adored aunt died suddenly in the late 1990s at the age of 42, it felt as if half the nation had descended on the quiet country lane that led to her house.

I can’t remember much, but I’ve been told it went on for more than two days and nights, hundreds of people filing in and out, kissing the forehead of the woman they had loved, sharing snippets of her life over cups of tea and sandwiches plucked from stacks that would give the pyramids at Giza a run for their money.

Years ago, Ireland’s dead would be washed, groomed and clothed in a white shroud in the privacy of the home. Windows would be thrown open to let the soul leave the room, mirrors covered to prevent their spirit being trapped and candles lit in a nod to our pagan Celtic heritage.

These days, the undertakers take care of the body, superstitions are fewer, and all that really matters is that you put on a spread big enough to feed everyone from the neighbourhood (at least twice).

Steady streams of relatives arrive at the door with serving plates piled high with scones and soda bread; somebody’s niece drops off catering containers for tea and coffee borrowed from her part-time job at the local pub. There’s a saying in my friend’s family that after an Irish funeral, ‘you feel like drinking bleach’ to clear the unholy volume of cake consumed.

Beyond the ceremonial feeding, wakes are a time of great sadness and reconnection. When my dad died, my friends flew home from London to be with me and play their part in the great Irish ode to life. Old pals of my dad’s came out of the woodwork, distant relatives too, and one of my oldest friends, having lived years in New York, turned up on our doorstep for the first time in four years.

But while I cherish the memories of my family’s final goodbyes, there is no disputing the thought of a congregation in deep conversation round an open coffin paints a peculiar picture to many uninitiated neighbours across the water.

Psychology consultant Bayu Prihandito assures me there is no ‘ideal’ way to deal with death.

All that matters, he says, is creating an environment where the bereaved feel supported, understood and allowed to express emotion without judgment.

‘The emotional and mental well-being of the grieving is the priority, rather than strictly adhering to certain societal norms or traditions,’ the founder of Life Architekture explains.

But without rituals like the wake, I worry that a piece of the healing puzzle is lost.

Bayu tells me there are merits in both approaches. He believes the Irish wake offers an immediate confrontation with death and a tangible goodbye, while the English tradition of holding funerals weeks after the event offers more time for reflection and acceptance of a new reality.

‘This way can be helpful for people who need more time to process their emotions,’ he explains.

My culture makes me biased, but I truly believe the expression of communal grief sharing outweighs any benefit that time could provide. It’s comforting, and somehow makes the agony of loss easier to accept.

While she agrees that there is no ‘perfect’ process, Sharon Jenkins, bereavement counsellor at end of life charity Marie Curie, finds the majority of her clients are in most distress during the period between death and the funeral.

‘I see a lot of families who feel they can’t grieve properly until they’ve had the funeral, the symbolic goodbye,’ she tells me.

Sharon adds that having a close-knit support group like those realised at wakes is one of the healthiest ways to heal. ‘Evidence shows that community support is the most effective in managing grief, and those who have people around them are less likely to access counselling,’ she explains.

But for all its benefits, it seems Ireland’s head-on approach to bereavement could be setting us up for a long, lonelier road. It’s important to remember that once the ritual of the wake and ensuing funeral day is done, friends and relatives – all except the deceased’s closest family – go back to their normal lives. For those experiencing the deepest loss, grief truly begins when the door closes on the final guest.

‘It hits when you are no longer being called on to make decisions, or contacting people to inform them of the death,’ Sharon observes. ‘It’s the time you really feel most alone’.

In the Irish language, you can’t say ‘I am sad’. You say ‘tá brón orm’, which literally translates to ‘I feel sadness on me’ – a transient emotion that comes and goes like the undulating of the ocean. You acknowledge it, you welcome it, knowing it will fade to make way for happiness at some point once more.

Perhaps that’s the most important lesson Ireland can teach the rest of the world when we are gripped by grief: that this, too, will pass.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected] 

Share your views in the comments below.

MORE : Navigating my children through grief made me a fiercely protective parent

MORE : After his wife died and sons left home, Paul found new purpose in the sweetest way

MORE : My dad was only 62 when he was diagnosed with dementia – we lost him 5 years later

This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.