In a small private room at Mexico In Alaska Restaurant, 13 people gathered around a table with mugs of Mexican hot chocolate, bowls of bean soup and plates of chips and salsa. Name tags and Sharpies were passed around as warm introductory chatter filled the room. An Aztec warrior brandishing a spear glared down from a mural on the wall, and multicolored plastic flags hung from the ceiling. A stranger wandering in would've had trouble guessing what was going on. An A.A. meeting, perhaps? A birthday party? A singles group?
One woman got up and shut the door; the conversation faded. "Welcome," she said, "to Death Cafe."
The name suggests some kind of macabre theatrical event, but the Anchorage Death Cafe is anything but morbid. It's the latest chapter of the global Death Cafe movement, in which ordinary people organize free, informal meetings to "eat cake, drink tea, and discuss death." Each group operates independently, and conversations are not steered toward any particular philosophy or course of action. It's simply a chance to discuss a universal subject that is often ignored and stigmatized.
Death Cafe is the brainchild of Swiss sociologist Bernard Crettaz, who observed that our deep aversion to thinking about death often makes the inevitable experience of dying more difficult -- both for ourselves and our loved ones. Seeking to integrate calm discourse on death into a healthy and active life, Crettaz began organizing "cafe mortals" in Switzerland in 2004.
Since the idea was imported to the U.S. in July 2012, the grass-roots movement has rapidly gained momentum. Over 300 meetings have taken place around the world, from Australia to Norway to Italy - and now, right here in Anchorage.
The event on Wednesday evening was the second meeting of the Anchorage Death Cafe, which was initiated by Kris Green and Donna Stephens, both volunteers at Hospice of Anchorage. Stephens says she experienced many deaths as a child and took a special interest in end-of-life issues in her career as a nurse. For Green, though, the topic of death manifested itself more abruptly when her husband Michael was electrocuted, along with three other Alaska Boy Scout leaders, in an accident at a Scouting convention in Virginia in 2005. He was 49 years old.
After hearing about Death Cafe, Green and Stephens decided to start one in Anchorage as a way to bring clarity to an increasingly perplexing topic. "Dying has changed in America," Stephens said. Partly because of medical technology that blurs the boundary between life and death, "Nobody knows how to die anymore. We don't have the cultural mores that our parents and grandparents did."
Life-extending medical treatment was one of many topics covered at the Wednesday event, which took place at Mexico In Alaska -- a fitting location, given that the Mexican holiday of Dia de Muertos, which celebrates the lives of those who have died, had fallen just days earlier. The attendees, ranging in age from 22 to 87, included several health care workers, a few people who were dealing with the recent or impending death of a loved one, and a former mayor of Anchorage.
After introductions, various musings and questions emerged. One woman wondered whether she would be able to die gracefully; another said she often considers how she wants to die. A cancer survivor worried that her idealized expectations of a "good death" might be ruined if she died suddenly. An elderly man expressed concerns about losing control of his body, as well as his desire to "go out with some class." And a witty middle-aged man, whose name tag read, "Lucifer," revealed that he had shared a small apartment with his father in the last few months of his life, when they both had cancer.
In between sips of spicy hot chocolate, the group discussed the recent case of an Indiana man who decided to take himself off life support after being seriously injured in a hunting accident. This led to a broader discussion of how to determine when to stop costly (and often painful) life-extending treatment and let death take its course. "Lucifer" recalled reaching that point after his mother, a passionate Red Sox fan, was no longer able to watch her beloved team play. An older attendee said that although he understood the benefits of a controlled death, he couldn't help feeling an urge to fight on. Even if his doctor told him he had a 1 percent chance of living, he said, his instinct would be to take that chance. A younger man in the group recalled grappling with that decision himself during a near-death experience he had while swimming. After being swept toward the open ocean by a powerful riptide, he eventually made peace with the idea that he was about to die, and stopped fighting the current. That's when he spotted a lifeguard swimming toward him.
"I changed my mind instantly," he said, "and gave it all I had."
The conversation then turned to the various practical approaches one can take to prepare for death. The hospice workers in attendance brought up the "Five Wishes" document, which clarifies a person's wishes on several end-of-life topics -- health care proxy, living will, preferences for treatment and pain medication, funeral instructions -- and consolidates them into one concise document. The form is legally recognized in 42 states, including Alaska.
Kris officially concluded the meeting with a short poem, but most of the participants lingered, splitting off into intimate conversations, enjoying cupcakes and swapping recommendations for books and films. Beneath two hanging sombreros, I spoke to Kris about how her husband's death motivated her to break the silence.
"We have to start talking about death," she said. "We have to. Both for the people going through it and for the survivors."
Reach Egan Millard at emillard@adn.com or 257-4453.
By EGAN MILLARD