My daughter wore a taco costume to her father’s funeral

When Emma Amoscato’s husband Carl died after a seven-year battle with cancer, she didn’t want to rush into planning a funeral.

Instead of a religious service or a somber gathering, she decided that Carl should be remembered with a lively, laughter-filled celebration of life — complete with sequins, popcorn and even a taco costume.

“Carl always believed that everything you did after someone died was for the living and not for the person who was no longer there,” says Emma, ​​43, who lives in Bedfordshire. Carl, a TV editor, had only two requests: to be cremated and to have his ashes scattered.

With two children aged nine and twelve, and still reeling from the shock of Carl’s final weeks in September 2024 (despite his long illness, he died suddenly and unexpectedly from a perforated pancreas), Emma questioned the need for a traditional funeral.

“It didn’t seem like the right thing to do to put myself and the children through that and have to take on the grief of others at a time when we really hadn’t had any chance to process it,” she explains.

Instead, Emma, ​​who runs a mental health app, called Smilegave herself six months to plan a more joyful affair. ‘Carl wasn’t religious and I’ve only been to a cremation once – my grandmother’s – and the crematorium just seemed like a very depressing place that didn’t suit us. The atmosphere just wasn’t right.’

Instead, a party emerged, held at a local community-run theater with 85 guests. Emma collaborated with friends to create a film tribute to Carl and with popcorn at hand and without introduction, the audience was ushered into the theater to watch the film.

“Carl was very funny and I wanted his sense of humor to really come across in the clips,” she explains. “It would never be a solemn tribute.”

A completely different dress code

There was no eulogy, nor a solemn procession – just chatting, drinking and time to connect. Guests laughed, cried and exchanged stories and painted messages on the rocks for a water feature Carl had once wanted to build in their garden.

Emma wore a rainbow sequin dress and cowboy boots, their daughter Amalia wore a taco costume and son James wore sweatpants and a t-shirt. ‘Carl was not a formal person at all. The dress code was: wear what makes you happy,” she says.

By waiting for a memorial service, Emma believes she and her children have had time to grieve and process. ‘We had already done the condolences. I didn’t feel sad or angry that day; it was a very positive experience and I was surrounded by laughter and joy. Carl would have loved it. It was all him.’

Changing the story

Attitudes to the inevitable are evolving across the country and death cafes are springing up all over Britain, where people gather to talk about dying and grief over coffee and cake.

A Sunday morning meeting in Colchester was founded by bookshop manager Jo Coldwell and Laura Beesley, a nurse and professional organiser, and their monthly Death club meets on the last Sunday of the month in the light and airy back room of Red Lion Books.

“It is not a mourning club, although there is sadness involved,” says Jo, 55 Subway. “It’s about making death normal again, something we can talk about without discomfort or fear.”

The pair bonded over loss. Laura, 36, had discovered she was pregnant while her father was battling pancreatic cancer. She suffered a miscarriage and lost her father just weeks later.

“It was such a tangle of loss; grieving for a parent and at the same time losing the future I thought I was growing,” she explains.

Laura struggled to find a place where she could express her feelings and ended up in the bookstore with Jo, who had lost her own father, Dave.

Jo explains that when her father passed away in 2017 after being suddenly diagnosed with lung cancer, she thought death was “something that happened to other people.”

“I didn’t see it coming,” she admits. ‘Losing my father so quickly is something I can only describe as a Wizard of Oz moment – ​​when the curtain was lifted and I was shown what it was like to be an adult.’

Embracing the inevitable

After chatting, the pair decided to create Death Club, which offers comfort over a cup of coffee as it encourages people to share their rawest feelings. There is sadness and vulnerability, but also levity.

For example, Jo has now put together a list of people her family should notify if she dies. ‘I love the person who gives me my coffee every morning. He knows all the gossip in town,” she explains. ‘If I didn’t show up, he’d think I’d lost his coffee and he’d be really angry. I would hate that.’

Laura, meanwhile, admitted she had become fixated on the coroner’s reports online after learning of a colleague’s death. ‘I was ashamed to admit that. But talking to people in Death Club made me realize it was nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not always hard,” Laura adds. “Sometimes it’s hilarious.” In recognition of its impact, the group has been awarded Compassionate Community Champion status by Saint Helena Hospice.

Living funerals

When Chris Dobson was told in 2016 that his acute myeloid leukemia had returned after remission the year before, he was devastated. At 66, he had enjoyed an adventurous retirement, organizing turtle tours in Zante while caring for his seriously ill wife Linda.

His daughter, Catherine Dobson, a celebrant from Lancashire, vividly remembers her father’s reaction to the news.

He had pleaded for more time in the hospital, she says. “He said, ‘If you can give me another six months so I can sort Linda out.’ And they said, “You don’t have six weeks.” It was a huge blow.’

‘Afterwards I went for a drink with him in the pub. And he said, “How am I supposed to see everyone?”

Catherine had an idea; a alive awakening. First, she arranged a helicopter flight over the fields and towns where he grew up so he could fly the helicopter. A few days later, they held a get-together at a local pub, complete with a professional photographer, to capture candid moments together.

Not everyone supported the idea. ‘A few people didn’t come because they thought it was morbid. But everyone else embraced it. It felt like a fun family celebration,” she remembers.

After spending three hours at his own wake, where people shared memories and bought him drinks, Chris had grown weak and the party was over. ‘He didn’t say anything, but I could see on his face that he enjoyed it. I was so happy that I could organize it for him,” says Catherine.

Two weeks later Chris died.

‘Without the party he would never have been able to reach everyone. It was nice that everyone could let Dad know what he meant to them. He was surprised by how many people cared enough to come see him,” said Catherine, who runs Time to say Celebrant services.

“He was too tired to say much afterwards, but I could see in his face that it meant a lot to him.”

And as a celebrant, Catherine points out that the ability to wake up alive can also help people keep rising funeral costs in check. “If I find out I’m dying, I’ll throw a big party,” she laughs. “I’d like to climax!”

A version of this story was first published on September 19, 2025.

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