The Death of Honesty
Why shielding kids is bad for them.
I had just finished helping my father wash my grandmother’s body. I couldn’t get her wedding ring off, but dad finally managed with lots of soap.
I was seventeen and it didn’t seem weird to be doing this. Granny had lived with us my whole life and I was happy to do my bit for her.
I had helped care for my Auntie Edith too before she died. I could only have been 12. There was nothing odd about my upbringing, it was just the way things were done in northern England in the 1980s. Death was a natural part of life and there was no such thing as being too young to learn about it.
The doctor who came to certify my grandmother’s death knew our family well. He was the leader of the local church bellringers and I was his star pupil. He sat down with us at the kitchen table to sign the paperwork. When he had finished, I waited for his words of consolation.
“Mr Lister,” he said, looking at my father. “The first thing I want to say to you is . . . congratulations.”
I was shocked, until he went on to say, “You’ve looked after your mother in your home and given her the very best love and care she could have had, right up to the end. It’s the best thing anyone could do for an elderly parent. Sadly, it’s becoming less common these days.”