Yva McKerlich, spiritual care adviser

MY mum’s funeral was everything we imagined it would be. We had a cardboard coffin which we drew and painted on; we made mum an Egyptian death mask with peacock feathers and gold leaf; we planted wild flowers and set off fireworks.

When I realised my mum was not going to survive the cancer she had battled in one form or another for a decade, it struck me how difficult it was to start that conversation. Where do you begin? How do you say – so, when you die, what do you want me to do?

There we were, my mum and I, two capable, outspoken communicators, and we were still having tremendous difficulty. In the end, that was more or less what I had to say to her – don’t you bloody die and leave me not knowing what you want...

It made me think that maybe I could train and be a person who is around to help with those conversations and I gave up my job as an English teacher and became a funeral celebrant.

Through my connections with the Marie Curie Hospice in Glasgow, where my mum Sandra had been treated for the last three months of her life, I was asked to join the chaplaincy team. Becoming a spiritual care adviser means I help people who know they are facing their last days, weeks or months, to plan their funeral.

The first person I spoke to just wanted to take the burden off her family. We had a blether. Most people are fairly business-like about the discussion – they are not looking for me to help with their acceptance of what is happening to them, that comes separately.

What they want is someone to discuss the practical stuff with – what they will wear, what music they want played, whether they want a steak pie dinner or a sandwich platter buffet afterwards.

People think it’s a terribly sad job but it’s not – our conversations are mainly upbeat. Once I have spoken to the person, who will tell me the stories they want told, I spend time with the families, which is lovely. It’s not just about getting the person’s perspective – people often don’t tell you the funny little anecdotes.

Sometimes, afterwards, families will come up and say you know, I didn’t know that about Mum, or Dad, and it’s lovely to have played a part in sharing that.

The hardest moments are when I see parallels with my mum, or my own experience. My mum was diagnosed with cancer 12 years ago after finding a lump on her breast.

It knocked the feet from under us. She was fit, healthy, young – just turned 50 – so we didn’t expect to hear the c-word. She had surgery, treatment, then a long period of nothing. But it spread, eventually, and she was diagnosed with stage four bone cancer and a dissolving spine when she was 60. Seven months after the diagnosis she died, in October 2014.

I feel it’s a real privilege to do this. It’s sad, of course – but I have a different kind of connection with the people I meet; they are not my family or close friends – there has to be a degree of separation.

And then getting positive feedback from families is wonderful. It’s a reminder that while the connection you have is fleeting, it’s important and you are doing something invaluable.

If you have questions about terminal illness, need support or just want to talk, call the Marie Curie Support Line on 0800 090 2309. It’s for anyone affected by terminal illness, including family and friends. If you would like to donate to Marie Curie, visit www.mariecurie.org.uk or call 0800 304 7025.

ANN FOTHERINGHAM