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Many of us are born with a doula, or non-medical companion, by mom’s side or a birthing coach helping expecting parents breathe it all in in Lamaze classes.
But, at life’s end, death coaches or doulas are also standing by, holding our hands as we rehearse to join the choir invisible.
Talking about death is not exactly watercooler stuff, nor a great accompaniment for a beer and a braai, but for death doula or coach Sean O’Connor it’s become a way of life.
For the past six years, he’s been a bedside comfort to many people at the point of shedding their mortal coil, also often working with them to prepare for the very moment that the grim reaper arrives.
He also produces a podcast called How To Die.
Death, head-on, is not everyone’s cup of tea, but the empathy and care with which he speaks of the process and of the deep emotive aspects of death, our fear and readiness to depart at times makes O’Connor a hero to many.
O’Connor’s work, he said, is all about creating a safe space for those facing death head-on.
The tools of his trade are empathic listening and a non-judgmental approach.
This, he said, helps clients unburden themselves, process their emotions and find peace in their final days or moments.
“Often, people tell me things they wouldn’t even share with their family members,” he said.
“There’s something about speaking to someone outside of your immediate circle, especially as the curtain draws on your own life, that allows for more honesty.”
Being a death doula, he said, demands emotional resilience and the ability to confront deep-seated human fears without succumbing to them.
“Some people give themselves permission to go, but others don’t,” O’Connor said.
“It can be a psychic splinter, something unresolved that holds them back. My job is to help them find that resolution, if possible.”
At times, it’s a confessional or a platform to talk for people facing regrets.
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O’Connor doesn’t claim to offer solutions or answers for these, but instead he said that it’s about creating a safe space for his clients, encouraging them to reflect on their lives and the relationships they will leave behind.
“I don’t provide comforting delusions,” he said. Fear plays quite a role in our final days.
“When someone asks me what will happen to them after they die, I simply ask, ‘What do you think will happen?’ or ‘What do you wish would happen?’ It’s about guiding them to their own truths,” he said.
To get to a better place mentally, O’Connor uses mind-exercises like guiding clients through visualisations of walking down a corridor filled with loved ones or imagining the moment they step through a door into the unknown.
“It’s about helping them cultivate what Buddhists call a ‘don’t-know’ mind,” he said.
“We don’t know much, except that we have this moment right now. Talking about death is good for life,” he said.
“It helps you appreciate the here and now, knowing that one day it will end.”
That’s why he also finds his work very rewarding. “It’s an honour to be part of someone’s final journey,” he said.
“You see moments of incredible clarity and humanity. It reminds you of what really matters: love, connection and the present moment.”
READ MORE: ‘Let me die in peace’: Assisted suicide goes to court
Becoming a death doula was not a conscious choice for O’Connor.
“My dad had heart disease and I found him at home experiencing heart attacks more than once when I was a child,” he said.
“That shaped my view of life and death in a very fatalistic way,” he said.
It carried through to adulthood where, living in Joburg, he came across death frequently in traffic accidents, violent incidents and even his first encounter with a corpse.
It was a woman who had died in her car just down the road from his house. This eventually led him to explore death. The notion, the concept and the act thereof.
It was when he discovered the concept of a “Death Café” that O’Connor’s interest was piqued even more.
These cafés comprise a gathering at someone’s home or a venue where people discuss death openly.
“I then started hosting these events, calling them Mortal Mondays,” he said.
“People would come and we’d spend two hours talking about what they wanted for their endof-life experiences.”
Then a priest invited him to assist with clients needing end-of-life support and soon he found himself working with individuals facing terminal illnesses.
“I was scared at first,” he admitted.
“I thought I needed to have answers. But I realised that the client is the expert on their own life. My role is simply to be there, to listen and support them.”
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