I have always dreaded that moment at funerals when you see the coffin for the first time. Perhaps it’s the finality of death or the sadness of the loss, but that moment seemed an inevitable consequence of the dying process, until I was faced with the impending death of my father.

My father was 75 years old when he died of cholangiocarcinoma. He was a man with many friends. He was curious and loved to chat, he loved a beer, he made people laugh, he worked hard and was well loved. He was cared for at home, mostly by my mother. Friends and family came to pay their respects, and some came again for another “last time”. We sat with him, tended to his needs and contemplated life without him. The palliative care team visited often and waited for the cue to arrange hospice care because we could no longer cope; to us, this meant dad leaving and being cared for by someone else. The cue never came. The family rallied and dad stayed at home. This raised another issue I had with dying — the moment of separation when the body is taken away from the family. I had witnessed it often in my working life and wondered how families determined the right time to go and how they felt about leaving their loved one behind. Would they want to take the body with them?

A few days before dad died, the funeral director came to the house. We leafed through folders of coffins and flowers, and discussed the service. She said to call them at any time when he died and they would come to the house (to take him away). I took a breath. “Can’t we keep him here?” My mother looked at me. “Are you sure you’re allowed to?” We hadn’t discussed this option so I had no idea what she thought about it. In fact, I didn’t think I would raise it. I hadn’t thought it through completely but felt intuitively it was the right thing to do, for me and possibly for her. Between us we had attended many funerals but had no knowledge of anyone who had kept the body at home. Ultimately, the decision would be hers; he was her husband, and she would continue to live in the house. Maybe it would be too much for her to bear, but she didn’t seem opposed to the idea, and it was possible. In the warmer months a cold table can be provided, but we were in the middle of winter and the garage under the house was particularly cold, so a body could rest down there. After some discussion, we decided that dad would go to the garage and not leave us until the last. That decision would have a profound effect on my view of death and grieving.

Dad died early one Sunday morning at home, with my mother by his side. The rest of the family slowly arrived. Dad stayed in his bed, where we washed him and dressed him as if ready for golf. The children came in and out of the bedroom. They tied up his shoes and added things to his pockets. We ate lunch. The civil celebrant conducting the funeral came over and we talked about dad. Someone would disappear into the bedroom for a while and come out with red eyes. In the afternoon, the funeral directors arrived. We carried dad downstairs and placed him in the coffin, next to the caravan my parents used as their second home on travels. His golf clubs were beside him and his work bench just behind. Mum moved into the caravan for two nights. Dad was now in the garage.

Mum’s sister arrived after a long journey. After cups of tea, they went downstairs to see dad. The garage became a sanctuary where people came and went and the children ran and danced around the coffin. Being close by allowed many quiet moments to sit next to the coffin, talking, weeping and taking time. Mum sat beside him in the early hours of the morning.

On the day of the funeral, the family gathered for more food, more cups of tea and last-minute writing of speeches. We went down to the garage and lifted the lid of the coffin. Dad was still the same, looking pale and peaceful. We cried, laughed and added extra things that we thought he might want, or that we wanted him to have.

The hearse arrived and we carried dad out and drove slowly to the church in this small country town. The family carried the coffin into the church that was filled with dad’s family and friends, and the friends of his children and friends of friends. Many burst into tears at the sight of us and the coffin. It was a good ceremony, and then we carried him out again. We arrived at the cemetery and carried the coffin to the graveside. The children wondered whether we would also have to dig the hole. The coffin was lowered and we all went for more cups of tea, and sherry and cake.

The death of my father was an experience I had not expected. I imagined being inconsolable with grief and unable to make decisions. However, it was a gentle time that brought the family together and created a wonderful memory. He had a good death at home and a good after-death. Keeping his body at home was an unusual decision in the eyes of many. For the family, it represented an opportunity to do something special for someone we loved, but it also facilitated the grieving process. It seemed to slow down the period from the death to the funeral. There was no pressure to have the body removed or to pay visits to the funeral home for a “viewing”. He was in the garage and we could see him whenever we wanted; we grew accustomed to looking at the coffin and began to come to terms with his death. There was also comfort in continuing to offer care until the end, rather than his body being in the care of someone else.

There are cultures where it is the norm to keep the body at home. I had witnessed it in Tonga on my student elective, where I equally appreciated the symbolism of coming together and sharing a meal (or cups of tea!) at these times. In contrast, the ritual of keeping the body at home is uncommon in Australian culture. It certainly seemed uncommon to the funeral director and others I have spoken to. Maybe people think about it but don’t ask. Perhaps we should ask for them.