Mortem Obire

 

Photo by Ahmed Adly on Unsplash

Among the dozens of books on my shelf, a solitary human skull gathers dust. You might assume there’s an intriguing story behind it—but in truth, I don’t even know who it once belonged to. A medical student friend of mine passed it on after using it during their studies. As a psychology student with a deep fascination for the brain, they thought the skull would be better suited in my care. Seven years on, it still rests on my shelf. Sometimes I wonder if keeping a human skull in my flat is a bit too morbid, but curiosity—and a quiet reverence for the afterlife—always win out.

I've always been drawn to the deeper mysteries of life, but in my thirties, these reflections seem to take on greater weight. While age may be just a number, it brings with it experiences that demystify once-distant ideas, grounding them in personal reality. Death is one such idea. We rarely talk about it at family gatherings, and it's certainly not a staple of school education—strange, considering how inevitable it is. I’ll admit: I’ve long avoided the topic out of fear. The fear of losing those I love. The fear of facing it myself. But fear, I’ve learned, can be softened through understanding. So I decided to educate myself—to confront death not as an abstract terror but as a part of life. And I dove in headfirst.

The Dead, the Bad and the Ugly

Reading Unnatural Causes by Dr. Richard Shepherd, a Sunday Times bestseller, was my first deep dive. A top British forensic pathologist, Shepherd recounts the physical realities of death and shares insights from a career spent uncovering truths from the deceased. His descriptions are graphic, often unsettling, but always honest—offering glimpses into what happens to the body after death and how pathologists determine time and cause. He also reflects on the emotional toll of his work, especially in large-scale disasters and personal tragedies. One of the most heart-wrenching moments for me was his description of examining an infant. Despite the clinical nature of the task, the atmosphere changes. A tiny life lost before it had the chance to understand what life is. In the end, it’s just a body—but somehow, it always feels like more than that.

Later, while browsing YouTube, I stumbled across Caitlin Doughty, a mortician and author who quickly became one of my favourite voices in the space. Her memoir Smoke Gets in Your Eyes is a thoughtful, often humorous look at her time working in a crematorium in San Francisco. Through her storytelling, I learned how the funeral industry operates and discovered that even death has cultural trends—varying burial practices, industry quirks, and societal taboos. Unlike Shepherd’s clinical narrative, Caitlin offers a more philosophical view. She humanises the process of death and challenges us to confront it without fear. Her message is clear: the mystery surrounding death often deepens our fear, but understanding the process helps bring peace. While I can’t say I’m no longer afraid of dying, I now feel better equipped to face it.

Fear No More

Caitlin’s second book, From Here to Eternity, felt like a fitting conclusion to my reading journey. It explores death rituals around the world and offers a more hopeful, sometimes whimsical take on our final chapter. In Indonesia, some families preserve and dress the dead, continuing to live alongside them as if they were still here. In Japan, robotic dogs receive funerals after years of loyal service. And in North Carolina, there’s a facility where researchers study natural decomposition, offering eco-friendly burials that return us to the earth. There’s something beautifully poetic in that—in becoming part of nature once again.

You might ask me where I’d want my own body to go after death. The truth is, I don’t know. Once I’m gone, my body becomes an object, and I hope it can be of use to the living. Donation to science seems like the most logical path. As I look at the skull on my shelf, I realise I don’t mind what happens to my remains. I won’t be here to make that choice.