Morbid? Me?

A friend who lives miles away emails often, expecting replies promptly, the way people used to write letters every day when the post was a primary means of communication. I understand that she's lonely, but hope that one a week might suffice. I've tried phoning, but she never answers. Anyway, in a recent email she wrote, "Yes, I do think it's a morbid interest of yours, your interest in death. Rather depressing too, to say the least!". I could imagine her holding her nose. She'd asked what I'd been reading, and I'd answered that I don't often read fiction and had bought Caitlin Doughty's book, 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, and other lessons from the crematorium', which I looked forward to reading. I replied to her comment:

My interest in death and dying relates to the work I did for over twenty years conducting funerals and meeting hundreds of interesting people that I interviewed about their relatives. I heard some very interesting life stories and a lot of social history. The youngest person I did a funeral for was a stillborn baby - that was sad - and the oldest was over a hundred. I met some lovely people in the funeral trade who are kind, caring and sometimes very funny. When you're doing a job like that you need to be able to laugh sometimes. So no, it's not morbid and it's not depressing, though sometimes sad. I wouldn't have done it if it depressed me. I'm also interested in the social history of death, and in poetry and other writing about bereavement.

I think my interest in death was first piqued by a book that's now out of print about the Hunter Brothers, who were pioneering surgeons in 18th century London. One of them did some extraordinary dissections, which I saw on a visit to the Royal College of Surgeons Museum when I was an art student. We were taken there by our anatomy teacher, a retired surgeon. I believe the collection is now in The Wellcome Collection.

Don't suppose that'll change her mind about my morbid interest.