My daughter wore a taco costume to her dad’s funeral and I wore sequins

When Emma Amoscato’s husband Carl died in September after a seven year battle with cancer, she didn’t want to be rushed into planning a funeral.

Instead of a religious service or somber gathering, she decided instead that Carl should be remembered with a vibrant, laughter-filled celebration of life – complete with sequins, popcorn and even a taco costume.

‘Carl always believed that anything you did after someone died was for the living rather than the person that was gone,’ says Emma, 43, who lives in Bedfordshire. Carl, a TV editor, had only two requests: to be cremated and to have his ashes scattered.

With two children aged nine and 12, and still reeling from the shock of Carl’s final weeks – despite his long illness he died suddenly and unexpectedly from a perforated pancreas – Emma, who runs a mental health app called Smile, questioned the need for a traditional funeral.

‘Putting myself and the kids through that and having to take on everybody else’s grief at a time when we hadn’t actually had any chance to process it didn’t seem like the right thing for us,’ she explains.

Instead, Emma gave herself six months to plan a more joyous affair. ‘Carl wasn’t religious and I’ve only ever been to one cremation – my grandma’s – and the crematorium just seemed like a really depressing place that didn’t feel like us. The vibe was just not right.’

Instead, what emerged was a celebration held in a local community-run theatre in their hometown of Bedford with 85 guests. Emma worked with friends to create a film tribute to Carl and with popcorn on hand and no preamble, the audience was ushered into the theatre to watch the movie.

‘Carl was very funny and I wanted his sense of humour to really come across in the clips. It was never going to be a solemn tribute.’

A very different dress code

There was no eulogy, nor solemn procession – just chatting, drinks, and time to connect. Guests laughed, cried and swapped stories and painted messages on rocks for a water feature Carl had once planned to build in their garden.

Emma wore a rainbow-sequined dress and cowboy boots, their daughter Amalia wore a taco costume and son James wore jogging bottoms and a t-shirt. ‘Carl was very much not a formal person. The dress code was wear what makes you happy,’ she says.

By leaving time before the memorial, Emma believes she and her children had to grieve and process. ‘We’d already done the condolences. I didn’t feel sad or upset on the day; it was a really positive experience and I was surrounded by laughter and joy. Carl would have loved it. It was very him.’

Changing the narrative

Across the nation, attitudes to the inevitable are evolving and death cafes are springing up across the UK, where people meet to to natter about dying and grief over coffee and cake.

One Sunday morning meet up in Colchester, was founded by bookshop manager Jo Coldwell and Laura Beesley, a nurse and professional organiser, and each month their Death Club meets in the light and airy back room of Red Lion Books.

‘It’s not a grief club, though grief comes into it,’Jo, 55, tells Metro. ‘It’s about making death normal again – something we can talk about without awkwardness or fear.’

The pair bonded through grief. Laura, 36, lost her father, Frank, to pancreatic cancer in 2020 while newly pregnant. Days before his death, she learned she’d had a miscarriage. ‘It was such a tangle of loss; grieving a parent while also losing the future I thought I was growing,’ she explains.

Struggling to find a place where she could voice her feelings, Laura ended up chatting at the book shop till to Jo, who had lost her own dad. Soon, the pair realised they needed to do something to pierce the cultural silence around death.

Until Jo’s father, Dave, died in 2017 after suddenly falling ill with lung cancer, she thought death was ‘something that happened to other people’.

‘I did not see it coming,’ she admits. ‘I had parents above me, a grandparent still alive, lots of friends and healthy kids. Losing Dad so quickly, I can only describe as the Wizard of Oz moment – when the curtain was pulled back and I was shown what it was to be a grown-up,’ Jo, whose shop Red Lion will be taking part in this year’s Bookshop Day on Saturday October 11th.

Embracing the inevitable

Since then, Jo’s once-healthy mum, who had ‘never even had a cold’, has been diagnosed with dementia and she has watched her slow and sad decline with deep sorrow.

Death Club offers Jo solace over coffee, as people are encouraged to share their rawest feelings. There is grief and vulnerability, but also levity.

For instance, Jo has now compiled a list of people her family should notify when she dies. ‘I love the person I get my coffee from every morning. He knows all the gossip in town,’ she explains. ‘If I didn’t turn up, he’d think I’d gone off his coffee and be really upset. I’d hate that.’

Laura, meanwhile, admitted she’d become fixated with coroner’s reports online after learning of a colleague’s death. ‘I was embarrassed to admit that. But talking to people in Death Club helped me realise it was nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘It’s not always heavy,’ Laura adds. ‘Sometimes it’s hilarious.’ In recognition of its impact, the group has been awarded Compassionate Community Champion status by St Helena Hospice.

Living funerals

When Chris Dobson was told his acute myeloid leukaemia had returned in 2016 after remission the previous year, he was devastated. Aged 66, he had been living an adventurous retirement, running turtle tours in Zante while caring for his seriously ill wife Linda.

His daughter, Catherine Dobson, a celebrant from Lancashire, remembers vividly how her father reacted to the news.

At the hospital, he had pleaded for more time, she says. ‘He said, “If you can just give me another six months so I can sort Linda out.” And they replied: “You’ve not got six weeks.” It was a massive blow.’

‘Afterwards, I went for a drink with him in the pub. And he said: “How am I going to get around to see everybody?”

Catherine had an idea; a living wake. First, she arranged a helicopter flight  over the fields and towns where he grew up and so he could fly the chopper, then a few days later they held a gathering at a local pub, complete with a professional photographer to capture candid moments together.

Not everyone supported the idea. ‘A couple of people didn’t come because they thought it was morbid. But everybody else embraced it. It felt like a lovely family gathering,’ she remembers.

‘Everyone was buying him drinks – more than he could manage. People were just sitting around chatting with him, sharing stories. It was just a nice, relaxed get together.’

As a celebrant, Catherine points out that the living wake option can also help people manage the ever-increasing funeral costs. ‘If I find out I’m dying, I’m having a massive party,’ she laughs. ‘I would want to go out on a high!’

After spending three hours at his own wake, Chris had grown weak and the party was over. ‘He didn’t say anything, but I could see on his face that he’d enjoyed it. I felt so pleased to have been able to organise it for him,’ says Catherine.

Two weeks later, Chris died.

‘Without the party, he would never have got around to everyone. It was nice to enable everyone to let Dad know what he meant to them. He was taken aback by how many people cared enough to come and see him,’ adds Catherine.

‘He was too tired to say much afterwards, but I could see on his face that it meant a lot to him.’

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