“You Can’t Catch Death”: Reflections from the Chaplaincy of Sarah Crane

In 2014, a young Sarah Crane walked through the doors of Milton Keynes University Hospital (MKUH) for the first time as its Chaplain. Completely new to healthcare, she was stepping into a world that few people encounter so directly: the sharp edge of life and death. It was, she admits, “a big shock to the system.” She was young. She had never seen anyone die before—let alone been present with someone during their final moments.

Over a decade later, what surprises her most isn’t the emotional toll or the volume of loss. It’s the silence. “People often just don’t talk,” she reflects. “Culturally, we avoid conversations about death—and it shows, especially in hospital rooms where it matters the most.”

This cultural silence, Sarah explains, can lead to heartbreaking situations where a person knows they are dying, but those around them pretend otherwise. Sometimes families don’t want their loved one to know the truth. Other times, it’s the individual who senses the truth but is met with denial or avoidance. “It creates a strained environment,” she says, “for everyone—especially the person who’s dying.”

As a Chaplain, Sarah sees the end of life not only as a physical journey, but an emotional and spiritual one as well. “People always have questions,” she says. “Sometimes about faith, sometimes about their children, sometimes just about what’s happening. They need help making sense of it.”

For many, their faith or belief system is a guiding light. Whether it’s the Christian hope of resurrection and reunion in Heaven, or the Buddhist understanding of death as a transition in the cycle of life, Sarah says these beliefs provide comfort, meaning, and often—peace. “Whatever someone believes, the role of chaplaincy is to make sure they have the opportunity to make meaning of their life, make connections, and experience the death that they want.”

Over the years, Sarah has been shaped as much by the families she’s supported as by her own Christiantheology. She’s learned that suffering at the end of life is deeply personal—some people are relieved to be medicated and pain-free, others believe that pain is a part of the spiritual ritual of dying. “There’s no one way,” she explains. “It’s all about understanding what a person wants.”

That understanding often requires permission—permission to be oneself, even in death. “You’re never going to get a family to start talking if they’ve never communicated before,” she laughs. “But we can at least give them the space to try.” Honest conversations, she says, can ease tensions and grief. “The more you can do in advance, the better.”

That brings us to funerals—something Sarah feels strongly about. “I’m a big fan of funerals,” she admits. While acknowledging that some may choose simple cremations for economic or personal reasons, Sarah believes that ritual matters. “A funeral helps us acknowledge death. It helps us process that someone is really gone.”

She shares how a family member’s lack of a funeral left her disoriented—looking for someone she logically knew was gone. “We might avoid funerals because we’re afraid of being sad,” she says. “But sadness is important. The best funerals I’ve led were full of both tears and laughter, gratitude and release.”

Her role, she says, is to help people “put a weight down.” That moment of release—of tying up loose ends—is cathartic. Healing.

Sarah’s work isn’t only with the bereaved. She spends much of her time supporting those who are dying. Tools like the “River of Life” help people explore what hope looks like for them, even as life draws to a close. “Comfort can come in many forms,” she says, recalling a patient who found peace through the scent of lavender—her mother’s favourite. “We put lavender oil on her pillows and blankets. It helped her feel safe, held.”

These small sensory rituals matter, especially in the sterile, often overwhelming environment of a hospital. “Hospital can be an assault on the senses,” Sarah says. “So bringing in the familiar—smells, sounds, songs—can help people feel at home, even at the end.”

This, she believes, is where end-of-life care must evolve. “It’s not just about pain relief. It’s about holistic care—understanding the whole person, their story, their beliefs, their hopes. That’s how we improve care at the most important time in a person’s life.”

Still, the biggest hurdle remains: people don’t want to talk about death. Sarah recalls hosting a “Death Café”—a space for people to talk about dying over a cup of tea. No one came. Or of a stall for Dying Matters Week, “People gave me the funniest looks. As if talking about death would make it happen,” she laughs. “You can’t catch death!”

But she insists that we’re missing a trick. Talking about death—about wishes, fears, funerals—makes it easier for everyone. “End-of-life conversations are often emotionally charged,” she says. “We may show the worst version of ourselves when we’re tired and grieving. So if a person is clear about what they want, it lifts the pressure off their family.”

Being with people at the end of life, Sarah says, is a privilege. A sacred honour. “You see life clearly when you’re at its edge. It makes you more grateful for your own.”

And when asked if she’s thought about her own funeral, Sarah smiles knowingly. Of course she has. “I have a folder on my desktop,” she admits. “It’s called ‘Funeral Plan.’ I rewrite it every year and cry every time. It’s hard—trying to put into one service how much I love my family. But I do it. Because I’m a control freak,” she laughs, “and because I know it’ll help them when the time comes.”

Talking about death is hard. But for Sarah Crane, it’s also the key to helping people live well—right up to the end.

Sarah Crane is part of the chaplaincy team which services Milton Keynes University Hospital and Willen Hospice.