I’ve come a long way from my first memory/experience of death. Being told to go and see my dad who was upstairs in my grandparents’ bedroom – as he was ‘sad’. I went in and sat with him. I must have been around 11. As my eyes wandered the room I spotted feet sticking out of a sheet lying on the floor beside his bed. My dead grandfather. No warning. No preparation. I hated bare feet for quite a time after. In adulthood I’ve been able to be present at a death. Phew.