Marriage, Birth, Death. Everyone does the last two. Most of us probably do the first. In my job as a Marriage Registrar I’ve had the honour to conduct so many marriages I’ve lost count. In my life, I’ve also had the honour to be present at a birth or two. And sadly a death or two. But perhaps the biggest honour of my life was when I conducted a marriage which was, in the end, also a death.
When I applied to become a registrar I was asked whether I would be prepared to conduct deathbed marriages. The interviewer commented that many, in fact most registrars are a little uncomfortable with the idea. I had to consider my response for a moment or two before I answered that I would.
I’d been marrying people for about a year or so, when I was informed that there was a patient on a terminal cancer ward who wanted to be married to his long-term partner. I was asked again if I was comfortable with conducting the ceremony. This time I didn’t hesitate; I just knew that this was something I wanted to do, even though this day was a significant one for me in that it was also my birthday.
Marriage registrars always work in pairs. The deputy superintendent conducts the ceremony and the other, the deputy registrar takes care of the paperwork and the signing. The day was darkening towards evening when my colleague and I climbed sombrely into the waiting taxicab that had arrived to take us to the hospital. The streets were slicked with a recent rain and silvery puddles reflected the lights which had come on in office buildings which lined our way. I gunned down the car window and drank in the stormy air.
As we pushed our way round the revolving doors into the main entrance of the hospital, I realised I would have to leave everything that was significant in my life at the door. All my own joys and sorrows, my life’s trials and exaltations to concentrate everything I had into the job at hand. I had to forget it was my birthday. I had to forget any feelings I had about anything at all. I had to be be completely and utterly present for the couple I was about to marry.
We were greeted by the ward sister, who looked at us gravely and said that the patient and groom, let us call him David, was very frail and had not been strong enough to utter more than a couple of words that day. They were having to do some procedures to make him stable and ensure that he was in a fit enough state to speak his vows.
This was the problem, you see. Marriage is a verbal contract. It isn’t about what you sign, it is about what you say. David had to be able to say the actual words, ‘I take [let us call her Sandra] be my lawfully wedded wife’.
We have all sorts of scripts we can adhere to when we marry people, from the very elaborate to the relatively simple. A deathbed script is the very shortest and the very simplest. These words, ‘I take you to be my husband/wife’, are two sides of the marriage contract. They have to be said by both parties otherwise the marriage isn’t legally binding.
David was relatively young to be at the end of his time, about fifty or so. He lay in his bed, swamped by crisp white sheets. His eyes were closed but flitted open as we entered. He had clearly been a handsome man, and even though his skin was now papery thin on his gaunt face. Sandra stood to the side of his bed, gently holding his hand. Their witnesses were there, too – a little red and blotchy from crying. One of them quietly explained to me that David and Sandra had been childhood sweethearts, devoted to each other all their lives, they had children, a house, a business. They hadn’t thought they needed to confirm their love for each other with marriage: not until his illness had deteriorated into a terminal condition.
I approached the bed and explained the ceremony to David. He fixed me with his soft blue eyes, and when I asked him to give me his full legal name to begin the marriage, his voice rang out strong and true. Sandra suppressed a sob and stroked the side of his face.
“Marriage in this country means the union of two people voluntarily entered into for life to the exclusion of all others.’ I said, words which legally have to be said by the conducting registrar. David nodded. “Repeat these words after me…”, I said, “I, David, take you Sandra to be my lawfully wedded wife.” Once again his voice rang out strong and true.
Sandra repeated her own vow in turn, and I declared them officially married. Sandra lent and gently kissed David on the side of his face. “You saved yourself up didn’t you darling, saved up your words so you could marry me.” He nodded, and a single tear slipped down his cheek. The subsequent signing of the schedule exhausted them both, and so my colleague and I prepared to leave the couple to what time they had left.
“Sam?: David called out to me. “Yes?” I answered. “Thank you”, he whispered. His eyes fluttered shut and he fell into a sleep that would be his last. Sandra followed us out of the room. She hugged me, then my colleague and gave us thanks of her own.
Later that evening I was at my delayed birthday supper with my loved one, when my phone rang. It was my colleague confirming that David had died shortly after we left the hospital.
It was then that I allowed myself to cry my own tears for David and Sandra, and as I wiped them away, I realised that they had given me so much more than I had given them. It remains the most beautiful ceremony I have ever conducted, and probably one of the biggest honours of my life, to be able to do this for them, on David’s very last day. It reminded me how fortunate I was, how grateful I was for my life and for the love of all the people within it. In that moment I was filled with joy and happiness, for them and for myself.
It was the best birthday present I have ever had.
Sam Faith is writer, director & deputy superintendent marriage registrar
Find her on Instagram @IamSamFaith
