After Death Home Care – What Happens When We Stay?

Liminal space: that in-between place where a person is transitioning from life into death. It’s long past the point of encouragement that things will get better.

Now it’s time for brave words: “This is what dying feels like. It’s OK. Your body knows what to do. Relax and let go.”

Just like labouring to birth a child, we labour to leave our bodies.

The After Death Home Care Experience: What to Expect

I was called to the home of Barbara, a woman who, in her seventy years, had built a life rich with adventure. She owned a business importing beautiful fabrics, jewelry, and art from distant countries. She was an avid traveler, a lover of exotic foods and fine wines.

By the time I arrived, Barbara had drifted into that liminal space. She wasn’t conscious anymore. Eyes partially open, not fully asleep but not awake either. Her loving family had been keeping vigil for days, tending to her needs, managing her pain medication, and gently moving her to keep her comfortable.

They were tired. Committed. Vigilant. Teetering between praying for her release but knowing that will only come with death.

We spoke about what happens next. Could they have time with her body after she dies? Could they remove the medical equipment themselves? Bathe her? Dress her? Could they call me in the middle of the night if needed?

The answer to all of it was yes.

But first: pause. There is no rush.

If she dies in the night, get some rest. She’ll be fine where she is until morning.

When someone dies expectedly at home, we are gifted time. There’s no need to phone the funeral home immediately. Put the kettle on. Have a cup of tea. Exhale. The battle is over.

Barbara died the day after my visit. I returned to help guide her family through the next steps. We washed her gently with rose water and dressed her in her favourite silk pyjamas. A dear friend blessed each part of her body, finishing with Barbara’s feet — naming aloud all the countries those feet had carried her to.

We decided to move Barbara from the bedroom she died in to the large living room with a beautiful view of the sea. Her nephew and brother-in-law lovingly carried her (all 90 pounds) down the hall.

As a funeral director, I’m used to choreographing these moments, moving the body, often out of sight, to take the “burden” off the family. But giving the family something to do in their grief gives power back when everything else feels powerless.

These men carried Barbara from the bed to a wicker casket, in which I had laid an old and well-loved quilt selected by Barbara herself. It had belonged to her grandmother, wrapping her now like a final embrace.

Candles were lit. Her favourite music played. And then her niece casually asked, “Anyone want a cup of tea?”

We sat together, visiting, even giggling, while Barbara lay nearby. There was no fear. Only love. Presence.

Spending time with a loved one’s body brings a primal acceptance. The body teaches the heart: they are truly gone.

Here on the West Coast, it’s common for bodies to be cremated quickly, often without family viewing. I won’t judge that choice.

But what I know is this: when families slow down and engage with their dead, something shifts. Even children understand, in the simple, curious way they approach a dead bird or fallen flowers. Death is part of life.

What I witnessed that day was a family caring for their own. Sacred. Practical.

I was honoured to be there. Proud to empower, guide, and support them with after death home care. But also saddened that scenes like this have become so rare.

Just as we’ve revived midwifery, slow food, and local craftsmanship, I believe we are beginning to remember this, too: the ancient, necessary ritual of caring for our dead.

A timeless ritual that reminds us that while we are powerless against death itself, we are never powerless in how we love through it.