The First 48 Hours: The Power We Handed Over to the System: Oleg Vojtíšek, Olga Nešporová, Magdalena Ondrová, Barbora Steinlauf
At a funeral, we can write messages on the coffin.
Dad has died. And now, quickly: call a doctor, search the internet for the nearest funeral service, and have them pick him up as soon as possible. First thing in the morning, go arrange the funeral at a branch office, ideally before work. Order wreaths, put together a death notice, choose a coffin from a catalog. That is what the most classic 48 hours after a death look like.
Olga Nešporová, an ethnologist from the Czech Academy of Sciences, notes: "People have stopped being used to caring for the dying. We don't know what to do with the deceased, and we are afraid of their physicality and potential changes."
A dead human body is not biological waste, however. As our Oleg nicely puts it: "A dead person no longer breathes, coughs, or sneezes. Bacteria may be there, but they love our living 36 degrees. If you weren't afraid to touch them in life, there is no reason to pull away now." The first few hours after death belong to you and them, not to funeral attendants.
Magdalena Ondrová from the hospice adds practical examples: in hospices, it is normal for nurses to help the family wash, dress, and generally prepare the body. Sometimes the family wants to style the hair, other times give them something to take along on their journey. And sometimes someone just needs a phone consultation on how to do it.
All three experts across fields agree on the same thing: we are afraid of death and we are afraid of the dead body. Yet caring for it can help us immensely. The deceased is already calm, nothing hurts them, and you have them fully in your hands. That peace transfers to you when you give yourself the chance. To say goodbye, do them a final service, and care for them one last time. And only then let them go.
If you want to learn more about the first 48 hours after a death—what your rights are and what no one is allowed to forbid you—read Klára Nesitová's interview with our Oleg, as well as Olga Nešporová, Magdalena Ondrová, and healthcare attorney Barbora Steinlauf.
Klára Brázdová and Oleg: Is grief chaos? Or is it wandering through a forest? And is a funeral a dialogue?
Klára Brázdová and Oleg Vojtíšek recording a podcast on a green roof above Prague
The deafening silence after someone passes away.
And we don't mean suddenly finding yourself home alone. We mean the silence that creeps in gradually: when, after the death of a loved one, you receive countless messages, so much attention, questions, and love... and then it suddenly fades away.
Suddenly, those around you decide it is time to move on. But you are not there yet.
As a psychotherapist, Klára Brázdová frequently works with the bereaved, and both our work and hers have a lot in common!
As a funeral service, we often weigh how much we should do for our clients: as a service provider, we want to deliver as much as possible. However, grief is a very specific matter. People need to be guided so they can step into their grief themselves - such as by helping prepare the funeral. Therapy works in a very similar way.
Klára says she appreciates that we maintain a dialogue with the bereaved. A dialogue about what they want and how they want it. What is actually possible. A dialogue about the deceased, what they would have wished for, and what the family desires. People are often afraid to talk to them about this. Grieving people are fully competent, and we should not treat them like children.
Why is it not a good idea to follow "expert" stages of grief?
How are grief and wandering through a forest similar?
And why is it nice to take a trip to Nepal after a funeral?
In our podcast, Oleg discussed grief with psychotherapist Klára Brázdová, and if this relates to you, you will definitely want to listen!
Barbora Steinlauf: Do you have the right to a peaceful death?
"I don't want to live anymore, just let me die…" Has a dying person ever said this to you? Do they have the right to die in peace? Can you answer that?
Barbora Steinlauf and Oleg Vojtíšek recording a podcast at dusk over Prague
Probably not. And most doctors probably wouldn't either.
The healthcare legal system is lagging far behind when it comes to dying: for a long time, it was built primarily to protect doctors and support them in case of unlawful actions. However, Barbora Steinlauf, as a healthcare lawyer, is going in the opposite direction—she protects the rights of the dying and strives to raise awareness about what a person is entitled to during the dying process.
If you cannot answer these questions, you should definitely listen to the podcast recorded by our Oleg with Barbora Steinlauf:
What should you do if someone is dying in the hospital and you feel they are not being treated well? And what if you suspect they died due to a hospital mistake?
Is a signed piece of paper really enough for informed consent?
When you refuse medical care, do you also lose access to palliative care?
And overall... where does euthanasia (assisted dying) stand in the context of Czech law?
And we're still not done: Barbora has also newly launched the End of Life project. Let your family know how you wish to die when you can no longer make decisions for yourself. Or take a look there to see how to even approach having a conversation about this with someone who is dying.
What to say and not to say to parents after the death of a child
Do you know someone who has lost a baby or an older child? Would you like to comfort them somehow, but don't know how? Prepare yourself for the fact that you simply cannot take away the pain of parents who have lost a son or daughter; it is beyond human capability. On the other hand, words can be powerful, and you can either bring comfort to a grieving parent's soul or deeply wound them.
Adriana Kábová on the banks of the Vltava River, on Střelecký Island
When my own baby died, I was surprised by many of the reactions from people around me. Some were kind, others unpleasant. What shocked me the most was how many people pulled away and pretended nothing had happened. I realized they probably didn't know how to react. But avoiding me, or at least avoiding the topic of the child's death, is what hurt me the most.
After a child's death, parents often find themselves in a strange vacuum and feel very lonely. This happens simply because those around them don't know what to say or do, so they prefer to pull back and avoid reacting to such a difficult life situation. Fears of bringing up the deceased child are misplaced; for the first few months, parents can barely think about anything else.
Alongside ignorance, a common type of reaction is a desperate effort to come up with something positive—something to cheer up parents with empty arms. But that simply cannot work. The parents can sense the effort to comfort them, but it completely misses the mark.
Sometimes I was amazed by what people said to me. I understand they probably felt the need to comfort or cheer me up. But more than once, it ended up making me feel sorry for *them*, struggling as they were and not knowing how to act around me.
I recommend focusing instead on sentences that acknowledge the death of the child and the weight of the parents' grief. A simple “I'm sorry”, “I am so sorry” is sometimes completely enough. “My deepest condolences” might be seen by some as a stiff phrase, but it actually holds deep meaning and certainly belongs among the most welcome expressions of sympathy.
Words that can support grieving parents:
I am so sorry.
I am deeply sorry.
My sincere condolences.
If you know each other very well, offering a hug can be a source of support for parents after the death of a child. It is always best to ask first if it is okay and if the parents would be comfortable with it at that moment. Respect their answer without judgment if they decline your offer; not everyone is a "hugger."
I am here for you and will listen whenever you need.
Don't hesitate to write to me anytime; you will never be a bother.
It is very important to know how to listen to parents after the loss of their child. Often, they need help sharing their burden, but very few people want to hear about dying. Hold back on sharing stories about what happened to people you know and what helped them. Instead, focus on the story or insight that the grieving person might want to share with you, but often find no space to do so. Let the parents know that you are ready to listen. You can say something like "I am here for you and will listen whenever you need" or "don't hesitate to write to me anytime; you will never be a bother."
Would you like to tell me something about (child's name)?
And when you are figuring out whether parents are in the mood to share their grief with you, it is good not to be afraid to mention the name of the deceased child. Many people tend to stop saying the child's name, as if it suddenly became forbidden. Yet, for the parents, they are still their beloved son or daughter, even though they are no longer here. And when no one wants to talk about them or even say their name anymore, it feels as though those around them suddenly refuse to acknowledge that they ever existed.
I was always touched when someone among my acquaintances was not afraid to speak my son's name. It warmed my heart that at least someone remembered him, even though he was here for such a short time.
Words that usually rub salt in the wound:
Be glad you still have another child.
You are still young, you will have more.
You just have to think positively.
Worse things happen to people.
I know how you feel because...
Nature wanted it this way. It was meant to be.
Your child is in a better place now.
At least they weren't older.
Are you thinking about having another one?
Sentences starting with "at least."
Aside from the group of people who worry about hurting the parents with their words and prefer to stay silent, there is another group that doesn't think before speaking at all and simply blurts something out, believing it will lessen the parents' sorrow. If the parents have other children, someone will always make sure to mention it. "Be glad you still have another child." Yes, parents are certainly glad to have another child, but that does not lessen their grief in any way. Similarly ineffective are virtually all sentences that begin with "at least…" At least you are okay, at least it didn't turn out even worse, at least everything else is going well for you, at least you can still have more children, and so on.
And then there are those who feel they know exactly what parents go through after the death of a child. Because someone they know went through something similar, they know what helped them and what the parents should or shouldn't do, and what they need. Never say the sentence "I know how you feel because…" because you simply do not know. Every grief is deeply personal, and no one can give parents a precise guide on how to navigate it.
"When our Oliver died, I wasn't able to speak to anyone except my husband. After returning from the hospital, we stayed at his parents' house for a few days. Everyone acted as if nothing had happened. On the third day, my mother-in-law sat down next to me in the living room and said she knew exactly what I was going through. She apparently had a miscarriage once. She started giving me advice on what I should and shouldn't do now. I just stared at her. And I told her she had absolutely no idea what I was going through. I walked away in tears, and we didn't speak to each other again until we left."
An experience from our client Eva B.
Well-meaning judgments like “nature wanted it this way”, “it was meant to be”, or don't help either
“your child is in a better place now”. If these statements are meant truly seriously, they contain a reference to spirituality that the parent may not share with the speaker.
And because grief shown in public is generally not very common in our society, people around parents sometimes do not know how to handle it. That is how remarks like “don't cry, it won't bring him/her back anyway” or “above all, you have to think positively” come about. Similarly, the remark “other people have it even worse” is not supportive at all. The pressure to smile and encouragement to suppress grief deny the parents' experienced emotions and their need to mourn.
A sentence that can hurt parents of babies who died stillborn or were born very prematurely goes: “at least it wasn't older”. Watch out, direct comparison does not apply here. The parent simply lost a child. Period.
When it comes to babies, spare yourself the frequently heard sentence “you are still young, you'll have another one”. Parents are experiencing indescribable pain, grieving precisely for that unique baby they have just lost. This sentence feels like a slap in the face. Furthermore, you may not know the exact reasons for the baby's death, and sometimes procedures occur after which another pregnancy is no longer possible. And if you haven't stood by the parents' side throughout their grief and aren't among their absolute closest, completely avoid asking such questions when you bump into them so that you don't end up having to talk about: “And are you already thinking about another one?”
So we recommend definitely not ignoring a child's death or passing over it in silence. It's just that in such a case, less is sometimes more, and “I'm sorry” and " I am so sorry" as a first reaction are completely enough. And then you can ask the parents what practical things you can help them with, or perhaps suggest some directly. What is valued most is being able to listen to the parents and everything they want to share, perhaps even repeatedly.
The author, Adriana Kábová, is a grief counselor and funeral guide who lost her first baby.
How nature helps us in times of loss
When we lose someone close to us, the world as we knew it suddenly changes. Time seems to stand still. What once felt solid falls apart. What used to make sense suddenly makes none at all. The pain can feel heavier than we are able to bear. An emptiness forms. A silence that cannot be bypassed.
It is precisely in such moments that nature can become our support and sanctuary. It offers what we so deeply need in times of grief – silence, peace, a healing sound, a sight, and a touch. A space to rest. Closeness without words, without advice, without pressure. It helps us gently stay connected – with ourselves, with what was, and with what remains.
We, Funeral Guides, have now begun establishing natural burial grounds. That is why we dedicate much more attention to the connection between nature and mourning in our articles as well.
Nature accepts and heals
In moments of grief, nature can be the most patient guide. The forest, mountains, river, and open sky do not force advice or quick solutions upon us. They do not promise that "things will be fine again" nor do they provide instant guides on "how to feel good quickly." They do not judge, rush, or pressure time – they are simply there in quiet presence. They accept our sadness as naturally as morning mist or fallen leaves. And by doing so, they give us the space to simply be. To meet our grief, stay with it for a moment in the present, and pay attention to it.
During the grieving process, it can be difficult to stay in the present. Presence itself often hurts – we tend to reminisce, dwell in the past, feel regret, withdraw, numb ourselves, or avoid what we feel. Yet it is precisely then that nature offers one of its gifts. It helps us gently stay here and now – with what we feel and what surrounds us. It becomes a sanctuary even for the heaviest of emotions.
The peace, rhythm, and quiet strength of nature gradually guide us back to ourselves, into our bodies, and to our feelings. In the infinity of the sky, we can find calm and feel that it can hold even our grief. When we lean against a tree, we sense a quiet strength supporting us. In the solidity of stone, we find stability amidst an emotional storm. A leaf carried by a current of water can symbolically wash away a piece of our pain. And just as the earth accepts the rain, it also accepts our tears.
Nature seems to naturally attune to our pain without dismissing it or considering it too great. We can turn to it as a silent witness to our sorrow. And even though outwardly nothing seems to change, its presence usually fills us with greater lightness and peace. Perhaps it is in this quiet resting that a gentle wave of acceptance begins to awaken within us – as if we suddenly perceive everything with greater perspective and open up to accepting what is.
The body feels loss too
Grief does not reside only in the heart – it leaves traces in the body as well. In times of loss, people often describe chest pain, constricted breathing, insomnia, an upset stomach, anxiety, anger, or the onset of autoimmune issues. The nervous system, overwhelmed by intense emotional pain, shifts into a state of constant alert – as if the body cannot find peace, safety, or rest. And when the body is tense, it is difficult not only to function, but also to process grief.
And it is precisely in such situations that nature can help us significantly. Scientific studies confirm that spending time in nature harmonizes the nervous system: it calms breathing, lowers blood pressure and stress hormone levels, and boosts immunity and emotional resilience. It helps improve mood and eases anxiety – symptoms that often accompany grief. From Japanese tradition comes the term shinrin-yoku, literally "forest bathing." It refers to forest therapy, which originated in the 1980s as a response to the growing stress of modern life. It is not about performance or hiking – it is an invitation to slow down and be present with all your senses among the trees, light, scents, and sounds of the forest.
Nature quietly works on our physiology: it is enough to walk through the forest and feel the softness of the moss. To smell the pine needles. To stop by a tree and let patches of light filtering through the canopy fall on your face. To notice small insects making their way among the leaves. To feel the roughness of the bark with your palm and listen to the silence in which our breath slowly calms down.
In this silence, a deeper perception begins to awaken within us – we are not just thinking beings situated in nature; we are nature. Our bodies, like the trees, wind, and soil, are closely connected with the natural world. And it is precisely in this connection that our senses open up, our sensitivity to ourselves and our surroundings grows, our mood gradually shifts, and our body can breathe more freely again.
A conscious memory anchored in nature
Nature can also support us in anchoring a conscious memory of a loved one who has passed away. When someone dies, not only does their physical body disappear, but their place in our life changes too. They are no longer on the other end of the phone, at the table, visiting… and yet they remain. In memories, gestures, words, in what we took away from them – in our hearts. It is this inner presence that can be healing if we give it space.
Giving memory space means accepting that a relationship does not end with death, but rather changes its form. In the silence of nature, we can ask ourselves: What of what we lived together do I want to preserve? What do I want to carry forward as a memory, a gift, an expression of gratitude?
Nature offers gentle, concrete stimuli for this. A feather that we stick into the moss. A word whispered into a tree hollow. A leaf that we let float away down a stream as a silent message. A stone that catches our eye with its shape and into which we press the love we continue to carry in our hearts. A conscious memory can thus take on shape, voice, and expression.
The legacy of ancestors in the rhythms of nature
Our ancestors lived in close connection with nature and its cycles. Death was not a taboo for them, but a natural part of life. People said goodbye by a fire, with singing, in a circle of family and community. The body of the deceased was laid into the earth – in the forest, on a sacred hill, under a stone – in a place that was part of their life. Mourning had its time, space, and rituals that helped with the return to life.
Today, we can consciously return to this wisdom and build upon it. We can let ourselves be inspired by the acceptance of life in all its forms. We can seek kind and natural ways of saying goodbye. And we can lean on the rhythm of nature, which was here long before us and will remain long after us – on sunrises, changing seasons, the cycle of birth and departure. A rhythm that knows death as a part of life. A rhythm in which nature offers quiet support and a space where we are allowed to grieve at our own pace – without haste, with respect for what was, and with the hope that life will slowly find a new balance.
In times of loss, nature offers us quiet yet powerful support. It can carry everything that hurts us – tears, silence, and memories. We find support in it to honor the memory of our loved ones, to pause, listen, and rest. It can also help us reflect on our own mortality and find comfort in the knowledge that even though we are navigating the complex terrain of grief, we are not alone in it. We thus build upon the approach of our ancestors – with respect and humility toward life, in reconciliation with death, and by finding support in the rhythm of nature.
In the peace of nature and the repeating changes of its cycles, we find inspiration on how to navigate sadness, how to allow ourselves to experience pain while also being guided toward reconciliation – toward coming to terms with our loss. It gently leads us back – to ourselves, to life, to a new beginning. In its quiet rhythm, a gentle movement toward balance, renewed resilience, and wholeness can quietly be born. And that is precisely where its deep wisdom and comfort lie.