Why I . . . set up a death cafe

Every few weeks Susan Bewley meets with people, often strangers, to drink tea, eat cake, and discuss death. She hosts a death cafe—a group directed discussion of death with no agenda, objectives, or themes.1

For Bewley, musing on death has added more pleasure to her life. “I’ve been enjoying things more exquisitely—the smaller things in life—whether it’s literally smelling the roses or being more present, in nature and in relationships,” she says. The death cafe has also “added more detail, texture, and nuance to what I believe about death,” she adds.

Death cafes were started by Jon Underwood, based on the work of Swiss sociologist Bernard Crettaz. An international social franchise—there are more than 18 500 death cafes in 90 countries—the objective is “to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives.”

Bewley is an emeritus professor in obstetrics and women’s health at King’s College London, a retired obstetrician, and retired forensic sexual offences examiner. She finds the death cafe to be “a safe space to explore death, get over the taboos, and use conversations about death to reflect on living well in the little time we’ve got.”

“Being in a room of strangers means that in some ways you’re freer to say anything—or nothing—with no expectations to weigh upon you,” she says.

At the age of 60 Bewley decided to spend a year doing 60 new things, which included thinking about death. “I wanted to ‘prepare’ and address unfinished business,” she says.

She discovered death cafes on the internet. “I thought I’d like to go to a death cafe and find a neutral space to talk about preparing for death. But all the cafes were far away. I had a lightbulb moment and decided I’d better set one up.”

While out dog walking, she discussed the idea with a friend, and, along with two other local people, they started a death cafe in a community centre in London two years ago, using guidance from the website.

Death cafes are non–commercial and not-for-profit but attendees can make donations. Many are run monthly. They are self-organised, grass roots initiatives that differ in the way they are run, with their own characteristics, and can be large, small, or even online.

At the death cafe Bewley helps run, after introductions are made, two or three topics are chosen, which could relate to current news or one of the rituals around death. People take part in informal discussions over tea and cake, and the four founders facilitate in turn.

The death cafe is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session. “In a way they are more powerful for being ‘ordinary,’ and not having anyone who is an expert,” she says. “As a facilitator I have to be careful not to be a doctor and avoid taking charge. I have to restrain myself from thinking I know better. When facilitating I try to make people welcome and comfortable, and make sure people do not interrupt each other and that those who haven’t spoken get the opportunity to do so,” Bewley says.

Discussions are thought provoking and inspiring. “People share stories and advice on the practical aspects of death. They might talk about suicide or the last holding of a demented parent’s hands. It makes it terribly real for everyone to hear each other’s experiences. People are often close to tears, but there’s also laughter, recognition, and deep listening,” she says.

The death cafe is an extraordinary, ordinary setting in which Bewley says she has learnt a lot. “Every time I come home from the death cafe my life has been enriched by that hour and a half I’ve spent with other people. It makes me think, see, and feel things differently, and is so rewarding.”

Bewley’s working life revolved around “that other great ritual: birth. And there are connections between birth and death,” she says. For Bewley, the death cafe is a space to reflect on her professional relationship with death. “For me, it’s a bit about letting go of the career as well,” she adds.

She recommends setting up or visiting a death cafe as something doctors might enjoy and benefit from. “You see the best in people,” she says. “It’s beyond the curative and professional attention. It’s about the unpaid, meaningful, caring connections you can make. It’s constantly intriguing. It’s raw and straightforward. There’s no agenda, targets, resolution, or problem solving. It’s talking and listening—that simple.”

Bewley hopes clinicians will look at the death cafe website and if they’re curious, dip their toe in. “There’s a need for tea, cake, and conversations about death,” she says.