This is beautiful Layla. I wrote about the washing of the dead in The Orange Notebooks, my novel, and how often midwives accompanied birth and also cared for the dead.
Thanks for reading Susanna. I’ve always found it such a powerful practice. And yes, the midwifing of both birth and death. A friend of mine is a birth doula and attended to her father as her was passing on and said the journey was so so similar, even down to the sounds made.
Love this Layla. I feel awed by their bodies in the sun cream moments (definitely some wriggly/frustrating elements too!) The softness of the skin, the freckles, the smoothness/lack of lines, the bony bits, the soft bits, sacred, all of it
Gorgeous words, Layla. As a nurse, my granny was responsible for caring for the bodies of the dead. She used to tell us stories about it from time to time…we found it fascinating and would ask a lot of questions…there were of course the funny memories like the time an old man passed wind and she jumped out of her skin! But mostly I just thought what a tender and loving thing to do 💛
Thanks Sarah - I just love all the stories being shared of those who cared for bodies in this way. And we definitely need the stories that make us laugh, too! ☺️
These are such gloriously tender and touchful thoughts and words Layla. All the years as parents of little ones, tending their little bodies which in turn soothes our own. I accompanied a friend on her death journey recently and sensed that she felt deeply grateful for the life to touch that we brought in to share with her in her final days. My dog who padded and coiled gently in around her on the bed and whose furry shape she was able to stroke though not see. My son's hand stroking over her wrist.
Thank you Layla. I loved listening to you read this, imagining the bodies gently being held, bathed. I washed my father's body when he died. It was, as you say, a final act of care and I'm grateful to the nurse who helped and guided me. It mattered.
Beautiful words Layla and that feeling/memory of being unconditionally held - yes! I’ve been writing this month about sitting with my mum’s body. I didn’t get to wash her but it was so important to be with her body after she’d died and to say goodbye to all her parts (especially her hands and feet). Your piece also made me think about caring for Mum during her final months, and how similar it was in so many ways to caring for my then toddler son.
Beautiful writing, as usual, Layla. My youngest just turned 8 and I know exactly what you mean about their changing needs, how their (and to some extent, our) bodies rightly, and by way of privilege become their own private spaces.
You may have come across Joy Harjo's writing on washing her dead mother's body - what you have written here reminds of her words about this sacred rite: "I never got to wash my mother’s body when she died. I return to take care of her in memory. That’s how I make peace when things are left undone. I go back and open the door. I step in to make my ritual. To do what should have been done, what needs to be fixed so that my spirit can move on, So that the children and grandchildren are not caught in a knot of regret they do not understand.” (from her collection, American Sunrise)
Oh do check her out. She is a Muscogee (Creek) Nation poet writing in the U.S., I think you would really vibe with her work. American Sunrise is a beautiful collection 🧡
I love this writing Layla. In my palliative care work, nurses would consider it an honour to do this washing ritual on the deceased They would place a flower on them afterwards in the holding room before the funeral directors came.
Thank you, this is stunning in its pure description of overwhelming, heart-piercing love.
As a mother of children who are at the in-between age, where they can wash themselves but don’t always want to, I’m reminded to cherish the moment and notice the joy of that parent-child intimacy.
Your beautiful words on the rituals of washing the dead struck a chord too: I used to be a surgeon. On the (thankfully rare) occasions that a patient died on the operating table I would join the theatre team in bathing their body before they were taken to the mortuary. One case that felt especially poignant was a young man who had donated his organs. I’d been invited to scrub and assist the visiting transplant retrieval team, and after they had completed their procedure I stayed to perform the last offices with the scrub nurse. It was the most incredible privilege to be involved and I felt the reverence in the room as we cleansed and dressed his body and the wounds that would never heal. I told him thank you with my hands as well as my words. That particular night was almost two decades ago now. Thank you for taking me back there. A gift like that should never be forgotten.
There's so much to absorb from this beautiful piece of writing. I have a 10 year old whose body no longer fits within my body and a 3 year old whose touch sometimes sends aversion through me (plus another child to tend in between these two). I almost always want to be touching them and physically separate from them simultaneously which is testament to the ambivalence of motherhood.
Also, when I'm in bed at night I often imagine myself being carried as a sleeping child would be carried over a parents arms when they're being transferred from car to bed after a long journey. This is what came to me when I read about the 'deeply patterned body memories of being a baby' - this deep desire to surrender all my weight and be held like a child.
Oh Jessica, this is all so resonant. I identify so strongly with that sense in motherhood of wanting never to be more than inches apart, and at the same time finding it almost impossible to be so close, so touched, so few boundaries in place.
And oh my, yes. The abandon of giving our body entirely to someone else, carried from car to bed. That is imprinted in my body, too.
It made me remember my sessions with a male nurse with PTSD from working in intensive care during covid and their distress and moral injury of not being able to attend to those that died (washing them etc) in the way that they deserved because of the numbers and time: this being the trauma not the deaths themselves.
Last week on the last day of my strenuous and adventurous family holiday I visited the city spa in Almaty Kazakstan. This spa is vast and built to prioritise personal well being for the masses at very affordable pricing. To have my aching body being tended, scrubbed and rubbed, massaged and soothed with the careful gentle but firm hands of a stranger without shared spoken language felt really special: I lay there, present, loving the touch of these human hands in this special place. Xx
P.S. A propo of houseplants - they mostly survived my absence! Phew 😂
Oh Esther, this really touched me - not the death itself, but the lack of being able to properly attend to the patients as they passed.
And yes, I think it can make it even more precious when there is no shared language between us except that of touch. What a tender contract to form between strangers!
and very glad house plants survived! I'm away for a week now, and although husband and kids are home, I'll wait and see if plants have lived (we are already one goldfish down after 5 days!!!)
I loved this beautiful piece. The importance of being touched and held, your naming of the sensory, almost sensuous experience of motherhood and how temporary it is. I think before my parents died I would have said I wanted to wash their bodies and spend time with them, but that wasn’t my experience at all when it happened, so that provoked reflection too. I wonder if I’d feel very differently if it was a child (universe forbid…). Thank you 🙏🏻
Hi Sasha. Do you know after I wrote the piece I had this thought - would it be what I wanted in the moment? So it is interesting you bring this to the fore here… thanks for sharing it x
Such a beautiful piece, Layla. I'm still in the very physical motherhood stages of bum wiping and clammy bodies pressed on my face..nice to know it ends, and good to appreciate the moment.. (sometimes)
This is beautiful Layla. I wrote about the washing of the dead in The Orange Notebooks, my novel, and how often midwives accompanied birth and also cared for the dead.
Thanks for reading Susanna. I’ve always found it such a powerful practice. And yes, the midwifing of both birth and death. A friend of mine is a birth doula and attended to her father as her was passing on and said the journey was so so similar, even down to the sounds made.
Love this Layla. I feel awed by their bodies in the sun cream moments (definitely some wriggly/frustrating elements too!) The softness of the skin, the freckles, the smoothness/lack of lines, the bony bits, the soft bits, sacred, all of it
Yes, I’m with you with all of this Chloe 💙
Gorgeous words, Layla. As a nurse, my granny was responsible for caring for the bodies of the dead. She used to tell us stories about it from time to time…we found it fascinating and would ask a lot of questions…there were of course the funny memories like the time an old man passed wind and she jumped out of her skin! But mostly I just thought what a tender and loving thing to do 💛
Thanks Sarah - I just love all the stories being shared of those who cared for bodies in this way. And we definitely need the stories that make us laugh, too! ☺️
These are such gloriously tender and touchful thoughts and words Layla. All the years as parents of little ones, tending their little bodies which in turn soothes our own. I accompanied a friend on her death journey recently and sensed that she felt deeply grateful for the life to touch that we brought in to share with her in her final days. My dog who padded and coiled gently in around her on the bed and whose furry shape she was able to stroke though not see. My son's hand stroking over her wrist.
Thank you for sharing these tender intimate moments Sarah, I feel very blessed x
Thank you Layla. I loved listening to you read this, imagining the bodies gently being held, bathed. I washed my father's body when he died. It was, as you say, a final act of care and I'm grateful to the nurse who helped and guided me. It mattered.
Thank you for sharing this Helen. It is such a tender tender thing 💙
Beautiful words Layla and that feeling/memory of being unconditionally held - yes! I’ve been writing this month about sitting with my mum’s body. I didn’t get to wash her but it was so important to be with her body after she’d died and to say goodbye to all her parts (especially her hands and feet). Your piece also made me think about caring for Mum during her final months, and how similar it was in so many ways to caring for my then toddler son.
Thank you for sharing this Ellen. The shape of birth and death seem so similar in so many ways. Both portals x
Beautiful writing, as usual, Layla. My youngest just turned 8 and I know exactly what you mean about their changing needs, how their (and to some extent, our) bodies rightly, and by way of privilege become their own private spaces.
You may have come across Joy Harjo's writing on washing her dead mother's body - what you have written here reminds of her words about this sacred rite: "I never got to wash my mother’s body when she died. I return to take care of her in memory. That’s how I make peace when things are left undone. I go back and open the door. I step in to make my ritual. To do what should have been done, what needs to be fixed so that my spirit can move on, So that the children and grandchildren are not caught in a knot of regret they do not understand.” (from her collection, American Sunrise)
I don’t know her work Caroline, I thank you you for sharing, it sounds wonderful xx
Oh do check her out. She is a Muscogee (Creek) Nation poet writing in the U.S., I think you would really vibe with her work. American Sunrise is a beautiful collection 🧡
I will seek her out for sure thank You Caroline x
I love this writing Layla. In my palliative care work, nurses would consider it an honour to do this washing ritual on the deceased They would place a flower on them afterwards in the holding room before the funeral directors came.
How beautiful Claire. I find it so touching, this ritual. Thanks for sharing x
Beautiful. Thank you.
thank you for reading John
Thank you, this is stunning in its pure description of overwhelming, heart-piercing love.
As a mother of children who are at the in-between age, where they can wash themselves but don’t always want to, I’m reminded to cherish the moment and notice the joy of that parent-child intimacy.
Your beautiful words on the rituals of washing the dead struck a chord too: I used to be a surgeon. On the (thankfully rare) occasions that a patient died on the operating table I would join the theatre team in bathing their body before they were taken to the mortuary. One case that felt especially poignant was a young man who had donated his organs. I’d been invited to scrub and assist the visiting transplant retrieval team, and after they had completed their procedure I stayed to perform the last offices with the scrub nurse. It was the most incredible privilege to be involved and I felt the reverence in the room as we cleansed and dressed his body and the wounds that would never heal. I told him thank you with my hands as well as my words. That particular night was almost two decades ago now. Thank you for taking me back there. A gift like that should never be forgotten.
This brought me to tears Louise. What an honour to have you share this memory. Thank you 🙏🏽
Thank you! For unearthing it for me again. It was one of the most profound learning experiences of my career.
I’ll think about it for a long time to come x🙏🏽
There's so much to absorb from this beautiful piece of writing. I have a 10 year old whose body no longer fits within my body and a 3 year old whose touch sometimes sends aversion through me (plus another child to tend in between these two). I almost always want to be touching them and physically separate from them simultaneously which is testament to the ambivalence of motherhood.
Also, when I'm in bed at night I often imagine myself being carried as a sleeping child would be carried over a parents arms when they're being transferred from car to bed after a long journey. This is what came to me when I read about the 'deeply patterned body memories of being a baby' - this deep desire to surrender all my weight and be held like a child.
Oh Jessica, this is all so resonant. I identify so strongly with that sense in motherhood of wanting never to be more than inches apart, and at the same time finding it almost impossible to be so close, so touched, so few boundaries in place.
And oh my, yes. The abandon of giving our body entirely to someone else, carried from car to bed. That is imprinted in my body, too.
thanks for this gorgeous share x
As always beautiful and thought provoking post.
It made me remember my sessions with a male nurse with PTSD from working in intensive care during covid and their distress and moral injury of not being able to attend to those that died (washing them etc) in the way that they deserved because of the numbers and time: this being the trauma not the deaths themselves.
Last week on the last day of my strenuous and adventurous family holiday I visited the city spa in Almaty Kazakstan. This spa is vast and built to prioritise personal well being for the masses at very affordable pricing. To have my aching body being tended, scrubbed and rubbed, massaged and soothed with the careful gentle but firm hands of a stranger without shared spoken language felt really special: I lay there, present, loving the touch of these human hands in this special place. Xx
P.S. A propo of houseplants - they mostly survived my absence! Phew 😂
Oh Esther, this really touched me - not the death itself, but the lack of being able to properly attend to the patients as they passed.
And yes, I think it can make it even more precious when there is no shared language between us except that of touch. What a tender contract to form between strangers!
and very glad house plants survived! I'm away for a week now, and although husband and kids are home, I'll wait and see if plants have lived (we are already one goldfish down after 5 days!!!)
Thanks for this lovely share x
Ah, I didn't mention our fish losses while away ... plants survived better than fish here (too?)! Hope you enjoy your break x
I loved this beautiful piece. The importance of being touched and held, your naming of the sensory, almost sensuous experience of motherhood and how temporary it is. I think before my parents died I would have said I wanted to wash their bodies and spend time with them, but that wasn’t my experience at all when it happened, so that provoked reflection too. I wonder if I’d feel very differently if it was a child (universe forbid…). Thank you 🙏🏻
Hi Sasha. Do you know after I wrote the piece I had this thought - would it be what I wanted in the moment? So it is interesting you bring this to the fore here… thanks for sharing it x
This is so tender. The intersection of bodies, ages, the art of holding and being held. So beautiful.
Thank you for reading Petra x
Beautiful ❤️
Thank you lovely x
Such a beautiful piece, Layla. I'm still in the very physical motherhood stages of bum wiping and clammy bodies pressed on my face..nice to know it ends, and good to appreciate the moment.. (sometimes)