I sat on a chair with 3 legs and a cardboard box for a table. He talked of his life which was filled with horror and distress. But he owned that life and his choices. His choice was the street, music, drugs. He looked for love and and acceptance in his family but it never came. He was dying and it was painful, dirty and isolated. But he owned that dying. I promised him he would die in his way with his choices intact. I listened to his funeral wishes of music, beer and drugs of his community his 'family'. He wouldn't let me write them down. But I left him... days off.. it was Christmas. And he was seen by others who did what services do and took him to hospital and cleaned him up and made it better for them. And his family came - his wishes rejected in favour of tradition, religion, horse drawn carriage. He was powerless. He withered and I failed. So why the story?
Because I can't promise this won't happen again
Because we need to reclaim death, accept who we are in our death without judgement, allow freedom and choice. Even if it challenges the system and our assumptions. Shout about it. Take it out of the cupboard.
Start the conversation. Make it real. Own it.