Last year they moved from Takapuna into a retirement village in Birkenhead; Madeleine's dementia was getting worse, and Kevin's own health was frail. They would die within 30 hours of each other.

Earlier this year, 93-year-old Kevin got a chest infection that morphed into the flu before becoming pneumonia.

Family members rushed home from around the world, to be by his side for what were expected to be his final moments.

But on July 30 they got a call to say it was their mother and grandmother, Madeleine, 88, who had died.

The couple's son Paul Feeney — assistant coach of the Stormers Super rugby team in South Africa — broke the news to his father.

Kevin was in a non-responsive state, but Paul reckons he understood: 45 minutes later he passed away himself.

"It was quite romantic," said Paul. "I told him he didn't have to worry about mum any more, that she was waiting for him in heaven."

Feeney described his parents as quiet, family oriented people who lead by example and were "good Catholics". They had three children and nine grandchildren.

While Madeleine had been unable to recognise family for about four months, it was "still a massive shock" when she died, said Paul.

"But in the end you couldn't have scripted it better," he said. "They adored each other and were a great team, so for us it was just meant to be."

Source

• Stuff.co.nz
• Image: Stuff

She died Sunday morning, at 95, after a long and full life. It was a good death, to use an unfortunately old-fashioned phrase, but death is still death.

One effect, as many of you will understand, is to make me think more about death and those I loved who have died, like my father. (One blessing of writing is that you can pay tribute. Here's my reflection on his death.)

The death of a loved one is one of those extreme moments that put human disagreements in context, even the deep differences between now divided Christians. My parents started going to church and settled in conservative Protestant churches.

I started going to church and moved in the other direction, first to Episcopalianism and then into the Church. Now that I'm older, I see that there's less difference in the places we finished than either of us thought, looking at the other's choice with the zeal of converts. But not no difference.

Their last church was the classic New England Congregationalist church: white clapboard, tall clear windows, and steeple, and inside a pulpit on a raised platform with a table (a kind of vestigial altar) on the floor in front of it.

Besides the flowers always set on the table, the church had no decoration on its white walls. There was not even a cross to be seen.

For my father's funeral, the pastor had put a picture of him on the table, and with his face surrounded by the professional photographer's light blue background, it looked like an icon.

Emmanuel had also put flowers either side of the picture. They had been close friends. Continue reading

• David Mills, former executive editor of First Things, is a senior editor of The Stream, editorial director for Ethika Politika, and columnist for several Catholic publications. His latest book is Discovering Mary.

As a girl, I would often zone out on my bed, or at my desk in school, imagining that I was on the verge of death, and trying on a range of possible reactions: terror, confusion, grief.

What I really hoped for in those moments of morbid fantasy was a kind of peaceful, alert confidence.

I would be brave and mature enough when I died. I would let go and master whatever might be waiting on the other side. But, mostly, all I could authentically muster was a shiver of panic.

As I moved into adulthood, I began to collect glimpses into the deaths of family members and friends.

There were hints at how to be at peace, but some of these deaths were sad and torturous.

An elderly friend with pneumonia who expired tethered to ICU machines against her wishes, another who succumbed to cancer, leaving two young daughters behind, and another who died of AIDS, shunned by his family, delirious and heartbroken.

Living in a society that offers few lessons on how life should end, and where the moribund are mostly hidden from view, it's hard to find tangible examples of dying well.

A few years ago, I signed up to volunteer with a New York City hospice.

I was inspired by a dying friend who described how lonely she was being terminally ill in a death-phobic culture.

Maybe I could be of comfort to someone like her.

But also, I simply wanted to be near dying people - to get an education in death, to glean some coordinates for the roadmap to my own end. Continue reading

Sources

• Aeon
• Image: The Telegraph UK