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I suppose we learn how to handle death, in practical terms, only when someone close to us—someone we are responsible for—dies. Then, we learn what to do to manage this unavoidable situation that each and every one of us will sooner or later experience, whether in first person or as observers.
Death is a topic on which I have reflected countless times. Like everyone on this planet, I have lost relatives and friends. But most of all, growing up in a small town in the north of Italy with a very old population, I witnessed on a weekly basis some aspects of the death of people I was acquainted with. We would hear the dramatic sound of the church bell’s gongs announcing someone’s death and then try to figure out who had passed away.
“Davide died, you know? The grandfather of Giulia, the girl your cousin doesn’t get along with,” someone would say, for example.
Then a few days would pass until the funeral procession, during which the relatives of the deceased would walk the silenced streets of the town with the funeral bier on their shoulders, followed by friends, until they reached the cemetery. But I was always clueless about the details of how to practically handle someone else’s departure from this world—and, honestly, it didn’t interest me at all.
I started to indulge in this morbid subject after reading the novel Of Fathers and Fugitives by J.S. Naudé.
In this book, the protagonist, Daniel, a queer South African writer living in London, goes through a series of experiences in which, at each stage, someone dies—and Daniel ends up being responsible for arranging their funeral.
There are three main scenarios of “regular” death that can occur: death in your country of residence, death abroad, and the death of a baby or a child. Daniel goes through all three major cases, for which, as far as I understand, proceedings vary.
For the sake of length, I will just try to imagine a “normal” death circumstance and outline what the main steps might be, assuming this would be the simplest and least emotionally involved scenario possible.
Let’s assume we recently moved into a shared apartment. One day, we come back home and find our flatmate lying on the floor; a glass of red wine spilled, leaving a stain on the carpet a few centimeters from their hand.
“Mike?” we say, expecting Mike to wake up from a random, early hangover. But Mike doesn’t move. As we get closer to the body, we notice that his eyes are open, his pupils in absolute stillness, his skin pale in an unnatural way.
After a moment of terror, we try to understand what to do next. We’ve seen enough crime series to know we shouldn’t touch either the body or the glass of wine—our fingerprints could incriminate us if, following an autopsy, it turns out Mike was the victim of a crime.
So we reach for our phone to contact the authorities. What’s the ambulance number? Or should we call the police? Big doubt… OK, let’s go with the police. But again—what’s the number? 112, 113, 118, or 911?
It can’t be 911—that’s from American movies. Let’s go with 112.
The person on the line introduces themselves, but we’re still in a state of shock and don’t really know who’s speaking. As the conversation with the doctor, nurse, or whoever continues, they ask a few questions to which we reply with a simple “I don’t know.”
They ask if the person shows any signs of life. “No, they are definitely dead—their eyes have been wide open since I came back, they haven’t moved, they’re pale like white paper.”
Then they start giving us practical instructions, and we become more receptive.
We’re told to wait for someone from the authorities to show up. It will take up to half an hour. They also stress that we should avoid touching anything at all, as it could interfere with a potential investigation.
After a moment of cooling down, the authorities arrive. For some reason, we feel agitated again. They behave in a strange way—they’re neither comforting nor accusative. They’re just very pragmatic, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.
They ask a lot of questions: which room is Mike’s, his contact details, where we were before coming home, and so on. They suggest we take a few days off and contact someone who can support us.
They spend quite some time taking pictures and notes, and after an hour or so, they leave—with Mike wrapped in a white bag.
We stay in a weirdly empty apartment. And now?
Now, Mike’s closest family members are contacted and notified of his death. The first thing they have to do is obtain a death certificate, usually issued by a doctor or coroner.
The death certificate is essential for all the proceedings that follow, up until the execution of the will—if there is one. Even if you die young or unexpectedly, or if you have no belongings or wealth other than a few thousand euros, a death certificate is still required. It’s one of those things you don’t realize you need—until you do, even if you’re no longer alive to care!
While researching this, one thing that surprised me was that upon freezing the bank accounts, no money can be withdrawn—unless it’s a joint account or the deceased specified that the account should be payable to someone. Otherwise: bye-bye money—it all goes directly into the state’s pockets. One last tax payment!
Of course, upon notification, the employer stops the salary. Some employers claim to help family members resettle afterward, though I would take those promises with a grain of salt. In the end, it all comes down to contracts, signatures, and what was agreed upon when the employment contract was sealed.
The apartment. Mike didn’t own it, so his family just needs to notify the landlord.
Let’s assume he hadn’t paid rent for a few months, which might partly explain his early, random hangover: debts are also settled by the state—so that’s other people’s taxes covering this, I guess?!
Survivors are not liable… unless they co-signed a loan or had a joint account. So, think twice before doing either of those things with your partner. The relationship has to be built on solid grounds of honesty.
I’m sure I haven’t included many things here. But again, I’ve never been through such a situation. The truth is though, that the systems we rely on reduce life to paperwork, processes, and final payments. And yet, understanding these systems—even hypothetically—can give us a strange sense of preparedness, and maybe, even a little control in the uncontrollable.
One thing I am sure is incredibly important to keep in mind—during, and even years after—is the need for emotional and mental support, whether through our community or professionals. Some people’s lives are so intertwined with another’s that they’ve completely forgotten what it means to live alone—emotionally, financially, or otherwise.
