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When I read that Nicole Kidman has decided to become a death doula, I immediately hit the family WhatsApp group to let them know that under no circumstances were they to employ her when I’m flickering from this life to the next.
My children are well-used to funeral instructions from me, namely: no ladies in burgundy hats and gloves and also if a word of the hymn Here I am Lord is uttered, I will climb out of the coffin and strangle the organist. Also, in the obituary, they are not to mention that, even though I’m in my 60s, my favourite drink is Coca-Cola and that the reason I decline any Saturday morning invitations is that I’m watching Rage.
A reply came back to my message – from the one child that responds – asking: if not Nicole, then who? Which thespian would I choose to be my death doula? I replied that as a starter, I’d like someone who has more than one facial expression. I then spent the rest of the day compiling a list of death doula qualities and matching them to celebrities to see who came out as my preferred choice.
To start, they would need to have their full focus on me. I have two gorgeous daughters in their 20s who would be bedside, so this rules out Leonardo DiCaprio. The last thing I want to hear as I’m drifting off is Leo flirting. I imagine years of zero effort have reduced his flirting skills to clumsy at best. How horrible would it be to take your last breath to the sound of Leo asking my daughters, “What did you say your names were again?” Equally, I have a handsome son who would also be there, so let’s rule out JLo as well.
The person would also need to be not too dramatic. I don’t want them announcing my death prematurely when I’m only at the stage where I’m taking a long time between breaths. This rules out Lindsay Lohan, Jim Carrey, Tom Hanks and, dare I say it, Nicole again.
They’d need to have a good sense of humour, but also know when to rein it in. Big cross here to Rowan Atkinson. I appreciate a bit of light relief is an important part of sad occasions, but I don’t want someone in the room who accidentally explodes the bedside table or rips their trousers on the doorknob and has to do the farewell in his underwear.
So what do I want? I want someone who will arrive without fanfare. Someone who can provide a bit of light relief and perhaps tell a funny story complete with authentic accents. Someone who is comfortable with silence and doesn’t feel the need to fill it with a synopsis of their coming blockbuster. Someone who has been meticulous in their preparation for the role. They already know that I drink Coke and watch Rage, but also know not to mention this.
Someone with a strong work ethic so that they won’t hurry off once I’ve gone. Rather, they will take a drink order and laugh uproariously when the children tell them the story about the time as a teenager I followed my mother’s request to answer the door to the blind man. After linking arms with him and helping him through the door and onto a chair, he turned and said, “I’m from Luxaflex.”
As I compile the list of stars’ death doula qualities, my big black texta slices through more and more names on the Hollywood Walk of Fame until by the end of the afternoon, I’m left with just one. Interesting, smart, kind, empathetic, funny, serious, able to frown, doesn’t take themselves too seriously, would be happy with a baked bean sandwich for lunch, lots of stories to tell, but not overbearing in their need to tell them, respectful of privacy, probably gives a good hug and knows when to leave.
Hopefully, I have a few years of Saturday mornings left in me, but when the time comes to rage on up into the sky, I won’t be contacting Nicole. I’ll be calling Meryl.
Annemarie Fleming is a freelance writer and published author.
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