Death cafes: confronting mortality over cake and coffee

On a hot, humid Saturday I'm sitting in the basement of the hip Black Toast cafe in Sydney's Annandale with half a dozen strangers. We're not here to talk business, or books, or babies – or any of the usual stuff.

We only have one topic on our minds and already it's hanging heavily in the air: death.

For many of today's group - me included - it's their first visit to a "death cafe", a growing trend that brings people together over coffee and cake to talk about all things death and dying. The actual location can vary – the important thing is it's in a spot where people feel comfortable to open up.

The non-profit movement was started three years ago by Londoner Jon Underwood and his psychotherapist mother Sue Barsky Reid, based on the Swiss "cafe mortel" movement. Now more than 1300 have been held around the world, with the aim of normalising death in Western culture and bringing it back into daily conversation.

Today's host, April Lewis, is a psychotherapist and former school teacher who started a series of "death cafes" earlier this year after visiting one in Perth.

"The main reason I got involved was I see the need for somewhere to be able to talk about death and dying without being judged," she says.

For me, it's taken months to gather the courage to actually come along and I find myself getting more apprehensive as the day approaches.

Apart from the trepidation of confronting death in such a direct way, I'm feeling increasingly uneasy about talking about such a heavy topic in a busy cafe. Will the gathering seem ghoulish? Will it veer into group therapy? Will the whole thing seem contrived or hokey?

It seems I'm not alone in my fears: as Lewis gently starts stoking the discussion, she mentions that a handful of people usually drop out before each session, often due to nerves.

As for those who have come along, they seem – well, normal. My fellow "deathies", as I discover people who frequent death cafes are known, are a mixed bunch of ages and nationalities, and include a palliative care nurse, a marketing professional, a funeral photographer, an aspiring writer and a finance specialist.

None seem morbid or melancholic. In fact the opposite – they're friendly and open-minded. While some work directly with death, others are recently bereaved or, like myself, have experienced loss but are far removed from the realities of mortality.

Most are women but as the conversation begins it becomes clear that whatever the gender, we all share a similar reason for coming: we want to discuss death in a way that seems ordinary and non-threatening.

The basement affords us some privacy and with a couple of quick ice-breakers out of the way, formal introductions quickly morph into a lively exchange of ideas.

Stories and ideas fly across the coffee table – and any feelings of awkwardness quickly dissipate as we ease into our armchairs, though conversation is often difficult to follow over the clatter of the espresso machine and other diners.

"All the memories that come flooding back are still a hard thing to deal with," one man says, talking about his parents.

Coffees and treats arrive mid-sentence, and there's a strange dissonance that comes with scoffing fresh, delicious muffins while trying to listen and empathise with others. I find my mind making mental leaps – thinking "Wow, that's a tough story" one moment, then "Mmm, muffin" the next.

The tacky ghost necklace I've donned for the occasion (it's Mexico's Day of the Dead and we're encouraged to dress up in Halloween garb) also feels increasingly ridiculous as the hours progress.

But perhaps that's the point. That we should be allowed to talk about dying in a natural way outside of hospitals and funerals, even if it's over a scrumptious muffin while wearing silly trinkets.

Even so, it's increasingly difficult to ignore a problem creeping into the conversation – virtually all of us struggle to find the words to talk about death. Whether it's because death now largely happens behind hospital walls or due to a bigger cultural taboo, none of us seems to have the adequate vocabulary.

Even those schooled in the everyday realities of death lack the words to respond to people's stories. But hearteningly, no one resorts to platitudes and everyone listens respectfully.

One woman voices her frustration at her friends' tendency to indulge in prurient gossip - "but mention death and their eyes glaze over".

Another says it's important to actually mention the D word and to avoid euphemisms such as "passed on" or "passed away". "There's quite a beauty in that power," she says.

After all, says a third, "What's the big deal – it's a five-letter word that starts with D and ends with H!"

Now and then, Lewis steers the conversation away from too-earnest territory but she never shies from the deeper issues, encouraging people to bring up anything they're comfortable talking about – and backing off when things become too personal.

One surprise is that in the wake of recent public debates about dying with dignity, I'm expecting someone to mention euthanasia and other cultural hot topics.

Mostly, however, people seem more interested in others' immediate experiences: saying goodbye, what it's like to lose a husband or wife - or the difficulty of facing death after a serious diagnosis.

"People get a glimpse of death but they can't go there or else they wouldn't be able to enjoy life," someone says.

We move on to practical matters: wills, advanced care directives and how to care for people who are unwell.

"There's a big difference between 'being' and 'doing' with people who are dying," one man says, eliciting nods all around.

Then we delve into coping after someone dies: the importance of rituals, funerals and giving the recently bereaved the space and time to talk about their loved ones. Questions crop up – should children go to funerals (everyone nods) and is it OK to take photos of the dead (well, probably, but it depends, seems the answer).

And, while we're at it, why are we so afraid to talk about dying?

"They say the people most scared of dying are most scared of living," Lewis suggests.

While listening to one moving account, I'm surprised to find tears welling in my eyes and realise just how much we've shared in a single afternoon.

When everyone's had their say, the conversation slows and the mood in the room lifts. We chat about movies (mental note, add Still Life to my must-watch list) and funny things children tend to say about death.

I look at my watch. The clatter from upstairs suddenly seems much louder. Time's up.

Lewis looks around the group and asks what we have gained from the experience. We all nod and murmur general praise.

Finally, an older woman who has stayed largely quiet for the past two hours speaks up.

"I don't know how I'd answer that question - but I'm glad I came," she says.

Death Cafes are held across Australia, see deathcafe.com. Or for Sydney locations visit: facebook.com/deathcafesydney