Nick Cave, Sumo Suits and Questionable Life Choices: Talking About Death (and Life)
- Kara Chanter
- Jul 31
- 7 min read
I am currently re-reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson. My coffee table books seem to be a mirror into the chaos that is my brain at the moment —Fear and Loathing, Kinky History, I Catch Killers… and Oryx and Crake. However, I do love a good read—and that usually involves being educated (or perhaps it is because chaos in print makes you feel a little less chaotic in real life).
Now, Hunter S. Thompson....the man was unhinged. I am not trying to glorify him—let us not talk about his diet schedule (Google it if you feel like it - the man was wild). But all that aside, you cannot say the man did not live. One of his quotes? I absolutely adore it (you have probably seen it—splashed across Pinterest boards and even possibly tattooed on people:
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, ‘Wow! What a ride!’”
And look—I know. I understand. It is dramatic. It is messy. It is probably not what your mother would recommend. But also? I get it. And I ADORE it.
Because as someone who spends a lot of time around death—talking about it, supporting people through it, looking after people that have died after it, celebrating it, helping families plan for it—I can tell you this from experience:
Nobody leaves this world thinking, “Goodness, I am glad I kept everything safe and respectable.”
People die with memories. With love. With secrets. With stories that never got told because they were scared someone might raise an eyebrow.
So yes. I believe in a life where you live by your choices… and make it a journey (corniness aside).
I believe in loving hard. Laughing inappropriately. Being too much (hello, green Kermit-Liberace jacket and pink glasses). Crying when you need to, even if it is in the Woolworths car park. Taking YOURSELF out on dates to fancy restaurants instead of waiting for someone to take you.
I believe in forgiving yourself for questionable life choices.
(Speaking of—there may or may not be photographic evidence of me in a blow-up sumo suit after too many drinks one evening. And no, I will not be taking questions at this point in time.) But I also believe in grief. And death. And loving people...and how those three things are stitched together, always. You cannot love without risking loss. And you cannot lose someone without remembering what it meant to love.
Really —that is the crux of my work. That is why I sit in rooms where death is close and remind people that they do not have to be afraid of saying the real thing.
Tell people you love them.
Take the chance.
Have those bedside conversations.
Ask for forgiveness.
Tell the crazy stories.
It is also—oddly, and beautifully—one of the reasons I am still (slowly, stubbornly, with mild procrastination) pottering away on my Certificate IV in Wedding Celebrancy.
Because love and death are not opposites. They are siblings. And I love celebrating and supporting people through both of them.
They both ask us to show up. To observe. To celebrate. To mourn. They both change us—for the better or the worse.
The idea that I can stand beside someone at the beginning of something sacred, as well as at the end? That means something to me - and something I always, always respect and understand the privilege in why I do what I do.
Death. And life. And Nick bloody Cave.
If you know me personally —and if you have followed me for more than five minutes—you probably already know I love him. Not in a “marry me, Nick” kind of way (although if he is asking… I would consider it). But because of what he does with loss and grief. Heartbreak I cannot even fathom, understand and process.
When he lost his sons—first Arthur in 2015, then Jethro in 2022 —he could have gone quiet. He did not. He kept writing. Kept answering questions in The Red Hand Files (https://www.theredhandfiles.com/) . Kept letting us in.
There is a reason I am writing this (and not just to gush about one of my favourite singer-songwriters). It is because… sometimes, it is easier for people to talk about death and grief when someone famous does it first.
We have seen this in others, too.
Andrew Garfield, holding back tears and calling grief “all the unexpressed love.”
He said it in an interview while promoting a film - and you could see it in his face—he was still grieving the death of his mother. The way he spoke was raw, and so, so honest. He said:
“I love talking about her. So if I cry, it is only a beautiful thing. Grief is all the unexpressed love we did not get to show.”
Just a person - missing his mum. It made grief feel less clinical. Less taboo. Just… human.
Keanu Reeves, compassionately reminding us that “the people who love us will miss us.”
He was on The Late Show, and Stephen Colbert asked him what happens when we die. And Keanu, without blinking, paused for a while and just said:
“I know that the people who love us will miss us.”
No philosophy. No arrogance. Just truth. Just presence. That kind of answer only comes from someone who has been through it numerous times —and he has.
Johnny Cash, singing a cover of Nine Inch Nails’ Hurt, and making us all collectively cry (when I first heard it I know I sobbed).
He recorded it near the end of his life after his wife June Carter Cash dying and going through financial troubles, among other things. His voice was cracked. Tired. His hands shook.
“Everyone I know goes away in the end.”
It was not just a song—it was a farewell. One of his last recordings (he knew this, too) - a grief offering. It was him singing, “This was my life. It was not perfect. But it was mine.”
These are the moments that let us feel something that is otherwise so easy to ignore. They filter into our homes. Our phones. Our conversations.
And when we see people we admire crack open and talk about death, loss and grief —even just a little—it gives us permission and encouragement to do the same.
You do not have to be famous to speak about loss. You do not need a book deal to say you are scared of dying. You need someone who will not flinch when you do. That is what grief work is. That is what death work is. That is what life is, too.
So - go ahead—live the way that makes sense to you. Talk about the people you have lost, even if your voice shakes and you cry (and if anyone tells you to stop crying - send them my way). Tell someone you are planning your funeral playlist and want to include ABBA and Slayer and have people dress up.
Because let us be honest: some of us are going to slide into death looking like we have just been spat out of a three-day music festival. And I love that for us.
Life is not supposed to be pristine. It is supposed to be lived and weird. So go ahead. Be weird. Make questionable life choices. Wear the sumo suit. Tell the people you love that you love them. Talk about who you miss. Say the real thing—even if it makes people uncomfortable.
Because one day, when the ride is over, I hope someone says: They lived. Properly. Fully. Fiercely. On their terms.
We do not talk about death enough. And when we do, we wrap it in euphemisms. We say “passed away.” We say “lost.” We say “gone to a better place.” But sometimes people die and it is brutal. Sometimes people die and it is beautiful. Sometimes.....it is both.
Sometimes we just need someone to say, “I do not know what the hell I am feeling, but I need someone to sit in it with me.” That is why grief needs a seat at the table. That is why I do the work I do—death doula, celebrant, loss and grief helper.... person who cries at songs (I did all of five minutes ago) and still laughs at funerals when the funny slideshow photos are shown.
And me? I believe in being big and loud, even in my tiny 4’11" frame. (What I lack in height, I make up for in statement jackets.) I believe in standing beside someone as they start something beautiful, and holding space as someone says goodbye to what they have loved. There is grief at both ends. And beauty. And mess. And meaning.
We need to talk about death more. And not just in the sad bits. We need to talk about it while laughing. While planning. While slightly tipsy and wondering what our final song will be. We need to talk about it in everyday conversations, not just when someone dies.
Because the truth is—whether you are 35, 55, or 95—we are all brushing up against grief every single day. Relationships. Friendships. Versions of ourselves. Pets. Parents. Dreams that did not happen. The lives we thought we would live.
Grief is part of loving. And loving is the risk we take when we choose to actually live.
So yes—I have made questionable life choices. There is photographic evidence of me in a blow-up sumo suit somewhere. I have stayed too long in places I should not have. Left too soon instead of having a conversation and sitting on it for a few days. Sent the wrong text. Said “yes” when I meant “absolutely not.” But I have felt things deeply. I have loved hard. I have shown up. And I will keep showing up.
Because I do not want to arrive at the end of this life looking like I never lived in it.
With love, this little duck
Kara x
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