Kate Stewart: Death's costly but some make a real killing

CONVERSATIONS, they can be wonderful things.

We can learn so much from them, contribute to them and even create healthy debate, but recently, and although inevitable, I've to had to have some conversations that I didn't really want to have, not ever.

You see, for the past few months I'm been living my life in the knowledge that the withered old crone is dying. Sadly, she is now in the end stages of a terminal disease that is relentlessly trying to snatch her from me, so certain conversations could no longer be ignored.

Now I know my sense of humour doesn't appeal to all but for me and, thankfully the crone, as well, it is that same humour that has enabled us to have those unwanted conversations of death and even laugh about it.

The withered one has always been clear about her position on quality of life and, for years, we have seemingly joked about me smothering her when the time comes. And again, although seemingly in jest, I know she means it when it she says: "Kate, if I ever get like that, just shoot me."

Panic not though, I don't have a gun and it wouldn't be my preferred method of killing. Too messy. I've got enough on my plate without the added pressure of laundering bloodied linens and wiping brain tissue off the walls.

I suppose I could go all Dexter on her and drape the walls and floors in plastic to catch any cast-off and blood spatter, but really, why would you make it so labour intensive when it simply doesn't have to be. There has to be an easier way.

The crone is a common senser, like me, and also very practical. The thought of spending obscene amounts of money post death on funerals and the like just doesn't make sense to her.

We discussed something in a "minimalist" style. I was thinking a chic black rubbish (body) bag, with top of the line drawstrings, of course, a wheelie bin coffin and a rubbish truck hearse. But with pick-up being Thursday, I was concerned that if she croaked it on a Friday, things might get a bit whiffy, plus it might be a bit dodgy from a legal standpoint.

I'm toying with the idea of enlisting the life forms to help me knock up a casket out of plywood, give it the once over with some blackboard paint and let mourners fashion their own messages and artwork.

It's got a great interactive vibe to it plus the life forms and I can really mean it when we say we put a nail in her coffin.

Then there is the service itself. So much to think about. The music, the hymns, the eulogy and the catering. How does one marry Leonard Cohen's, If It Be Your Will with the Munchkin's singing Ding Dong the Witch is Dead and truly make it work.

Then there's my elder brother, the first-born son, he who can do no wrong and despite the protests that she never played favourites, the crone's preferred child ... yeah, where's Mr Perfect Pants now?

I'll tell you where. Safe and sound in a corporate New York high rise, that's where.

Barely sparing a thought for me as I handle her finances, cook, shop, run errands and make that weekly trip to the library, spending hours to find the last remaining books in the building that the withered one hasn't already read.

Seriously though, these writings are real, they are a brief example of some of our conversations and despite how it comes across, we are incredibly close and while we make it a point to lighten the mood with our humour, we have also managed to make the serious and necessary decisions that I shall do my best to honour, hopefully without breaking any laws.

Turns out I could have an ally in my corner. Clone the younger's cat, Rebo, is proving himself to be a bit of an attempted assassin.

Two or three times now he has gone to jump out the crone's bedroom window and just happened to stand on the OFF button of her oxygen machine, a contraption she now needs at least 18 hours a day.

I'm assuming it's not deliberate, I have asked him and while he hasn't asked for a lawyer just yet, he's been very careful not to incriminate himself either.

I know that the blind old bat will be straining to read this so I'd like to take this opportunity to tell her that she is the strongest and bravest woman I have ever known.

She more than means the world to me, she is my world and though there will never be a right time to lose her there will be a certain peace in the knowledge that she will no longer be suffering.

PS, don't forget to make sure I inherit all your jewellery, you crusty old trout.

Kate Stewart is a politically incorrect columnist who does not suffer fools gladly but does suffer from the occasional bout of hayfever - your feedback is welcome:investik8@gmail.com