That evening’s death café was held in the bowels of the New York Public Library. I usually avoided going to the same death café too frequently. Though each session attracted newcomers, there were inevitably regulars who would latch on to any familiar face. Luckily, there were enough death cafés held across the city these days that it was easy to remain relatively anonymous.
The room was empty when I arrived, except for a circle of black plastic chairs awaiting their occupants. I never liked the pressure of being the first one in the room. It meant you had to acknowledge each person as they entered and then withstand the threat of small talk until the meeting started. So I hovered next to the nearby bookshelves, pretending to peruse the neatly arranged volumes on aeronautical engineering.
When I finally took up my position in the circle, all the other chairs were filled except for one. It was easy to spot the first-timers; they had the darting glances and fidgeting hands of someone well beyond their comfort zone. As the wall clock nudged past the hour, restlessness plagued the room. The moderator, a cheerful Italian woman, bounced the stack of papers on her knee to signal it was time to begin. I hadn’t seen her before—I would have remembered that Roman nose.
“Welcome, everybody,” she said buoyantly. “My name is Allegra.” She paused, noticing a thirtysomething white man peering tentatively into the room while holding a cellphone to his ear.
“Hello, sir! Are you here for the death café?” It was normal for at least one person to have to be coaxed into the room at these meetings.
He cupped his palm over the cellphone and laughed nervously. “Yes, I think so. I mean, I am,” he said. “Sorry I’m a bit late.” He nodded contritely at everyone.
“Well, then it’s lucky we’re saving you a seat,” Allegra chirped. I envied her ease—the air of confidence that came from knowing you were well loved. “Come on in! We’re just getting started.”
The man hurried over to the vacant chair but paused mid-circle, as if just remembering there was someone still on the other end of the phone. “I’ve got to go, I’m in the middle of something,” he whispered into it. “Just make sure it stays confidential.” He shoved the phone into his pocket and abruptly sat down without removing his coat, even though the windowless space was stifling. “Sorry,” he said, addressing the room again. “Work stuff.” His obvious nerves seemed to amplify everyone else’s fidgeting, like a meeting of electrical currents.
“Now that we’re all settled, let me say I’m so happy to be here with you all for this death café,” Allegra said, and I wondered how her honeyed, shoulder-length hair achieved that elusive equilibrium between neat and disheveled. “I understand that this might be the first time for many of you and so I wanted to explain a little about what we do here.” She paused to scan the circle serenely, undeterred by the panicked expressions of people—the latecomer included—who looked like they might flee at any moment. “This is a space for open discussion and we follow no set agenda, so we encourage you to bring up any topics or questions related to death that might be on your mind. There are many death cafés across the city, and some of you may have attended those already. The only difference here, since we are in a library, is that we cannot serve food and drink.”
One of several reasons why this death café wasn’t my favorite—I’d have to scrounge up dinner when I got home instead of filling up on appetizers. Fingers crossed there was something in my freezer I could heat up.
“Now,” Allegra said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s go around and introduce ourselves.”
The attendees were varied, as always.
A twentysomething man in an emerald turtleneck who’d always been fascinated by death but found that no one ever really wanted to discuss it.
An elderly woman in thick red glasses who’d been diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s and was grappling with the reality of watching her mind slip away.
A theater major who’d been raised an atheist and felt her lack of spirituality left her ill-equipped to deal with the finality of death.
A Dutch tourist who’d come across the death café flier in the library and thought it would be a good way to “experience New York City” while also practicing his English. (Remembering my first death café in Switzerland, I felt a spark of camaraderie with him.)
The latecomer was up next, his right leg jackhammering. I wasn’t sure if my left leg mirrored his out of empathy or my own nerves.
“Uh, hi, I’m Sebastian.” He offered an awkward wave then adjusted the edges of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I guess I’m here because my family never really talked about death and so, well, it’s pretty foreign to me. I kind of have an intense fear of it, actually. I thought by coming here and learning more about it, I could maybe overcome that.”
A few others in the room nodded sympathetically. Sebastian looked at the woman next to him, hoping to shift the spotlight away from himself as soon as possible.
As she introduced herself, explaining that she was there because she suspected her apartment was haunted, I braced myself and silently rehearsed in my head. Memorizing what I was going to say always reduced the chance of oratory mishaps. I never revealed my actual profession at a death café—that would only lead to brimming curiosity and well-meaning but invasive questions. Most people had never even heard of a death doula, let alone met one. Instead, I assumed a much more relatable identity. When all eyes finally trained on me, I took a deep breath and mustered a smile.
“I’m Clover,” I said, willing my face not to ignite to crimson. “And my grandmother passed away recently.”
The circle rippled with mutterings of condolence and I squirmed at my fib. But as always, it was a sufficient explanation for my presence, and the group’s attention shifted to the woman on my left.
Allegra began the conversation with an article she’d found about a mushroom burial suit that would eventually turn your body into compost. A passionate debate about burial versus cremation followed, also weighing the merits of being buried at sea or donating your body to science.
“I love the idea of becoming one with the earth as compost,” the atheist theater major said. “It’s like the earth nourishes us while we’re living and then we nourish it when we die.”
The Dutch tourist nodded emphatically. “Yes, and much more eco-friendly than cremation—all those emissions.”
“So, if I want a sea burial, can my family just take me out on their fishing boat and dump me in the Atlantic?” The woman next to me had a strong pragmatic streak.
“Nah,” turtleneck-sweater guy responded. “I looked into it for my great uncle who wanted to be buried at sea. You need all kinds of permits and stuff. But there’s a company up in New England that does it—takes you out on a chartered yacht for a full-day cruise with a picnic lunch before they slide the body into the sea.”
This back-and-forth was always entertaining—most New Yorkers weren’t shy about sharing their opinions. I preferred to respond in my head so that I didn’t have to endure the room’s collective scrutiny. Plus, I was mostly intrigued by other people’s thoughts on death as an abstract concept.