How a Soviet pilot saved my life from beyond the grave

Reading about death can help us celebrate and appreciate life. Christine Manby found that writing obituaries gave her a much-needed new perspective

Illustration by Tom Ford

A Soviet Air Force colonel saved my life from beyond the grave. OK, maybe “saved my life” is a bit of a stretch but it’s no exaggeration to say that the obituary I wrote for Marina Popovich at the end of 2017 marked a much-needed change in direction for me after a period when things had seemed very bleak indeed. As 2017 came to a close, I was mourning my father and struggling to keep afloat financially as my career as chick-lit novelist continued its decline from “found in all good bookshops” to “heavily discounted in some garden centres”. When I was asked if I’d like to try writing an obituary, it seemed a horribly apt metaphor for my life.

If you’ve never heard of Marina Popovich then you should look her up at once. Popovich set her sights on becoming a pilot when she was still a child. At 14, she tried to join the air force but was told she was too short. Undeterred, Popovich went home and constructed a rack on to which she nailed a pair of boots from whence she hung upside down every day for a year. When she next applied for flying school, she’d squeaked past the height limit by millimetres.

I wrote Popovich’s obituary one damp December evening and felt inspired and uplifted by her story, which convinced me that with perseverance most problems can be overcome. Over Christmas, the obits editor sent three more commissions my way. When Christmas turned into a nightmare – everyone had flu and then mum’s brother, our dear Uncle Roger died – the obituaries gave me a focus. So, this week’s wellness suggestion from me is: why not read the obituaries? There’s much to be gleaned from these short celebrations of life. Here’s what I’ve learned over the past two years.

Firstly, life is short. One week, I wrote obituaries for three creative, wonderful women who had all died in their thirties. You never know when your time will be up so don’t waste a minute. Don’t wait until you’re 50 to start learning Italian. Don’t stay a moment too long in the relationship you know is no good for you. But on the other hand: life might be long. In some cases, very long. Most of the obituaries I’ve written have been for people who died in their eighties and nineties. There have been several centenarians. In December 2018, I wrote the obituary of Karre Mastanamma, a widowed mother of five from Andhra Pradesh in India, who was born into grinding poverty at the height of the Raj.

Mastanamma became an internet sensation in her nineties, after one of her grandchildren put a video of her cooking at her outdoor fire on YouTube. She was still making videos at 106.

I was struggling to keep afloat financially as my career as chick-lit novelist continued its decline from ‘found in all good bookshops’ to ‘heavily discounted in some garden centres’

Mastanamma reminds us that it’s never too late to follow your dreams. Even dreams of sporting excellence. Such as Sharon Laws did. Laws had a successful career as an environmental consultant before she tried adventure cycling for the first time on a mini-break to celebrate a friend’s birthday. She was in her late twenties at the time. Long past the age at which many professional athletes have peaked in their careers. She went on to become an Olympic cyclist at the age of 34, cycling with Team GB at Beijing 2008.

Other obituaries offer a chuckle and a reminder of life’s lighter side. Such as that of playboy Maurizio Zanfanti, a nightclub promoter, who slept with thousands of women looking for a holiday fling in Rimini. Evidently Zanfanti was such a fabulous lover, that far from being offended that he had a roaming eye, his girlfriends formed a fan club and arranged annual pilgrimages to see him. Zanfanti, who was nicknamed Zanza (short for mosquito), naturally died in flagrante. If there was ever a good way to go...

Latin lover Zanfanti died in flagrante (Rex) (Rex Features)

The obituaries are a great illustration of Malvolio’s famous speech in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. “Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.” Often those who were “born great”, such as members of royal families and other dynasties, are much less interesting than those who had “greatness thrust upon ‘em”. Like Heather Heyer, the paralegal who was killed by a white supremacist at a civil rights march in Charlottesville in August 2017.

So many of the civil rights activists I’ve been honoured to profile were accidental heroes, thrown into the path of history by events beyond their control. Like Erica Garner, who became an activist after her father Eric Garner died while being detained by police in Staten Island.

It’s traditional for obituaries to end with a sentence or two about the deceased’s ‘survivors’. The loved ones they leave behind. Partners, parents, children. It’s a reminder to spend time with the people you love while you can

Or Recy Taylor, born to a family of Alabama sharecroppers in 1919, whose brave decision to report her rape at the hands of seven white men in 1944, changed the course of the civil rights movement in the United States. The men’s acquittal catalysed the 1955 bus protests led by Rosa Parks. These women prove that you’re never too small, young, old or ordinary to stand up for what you believe in. We can all make a difference.

It’s traditional for obituaries to end with a sentence or two about the deceased’s “survivors”. The loved ones they leave behind: partners, parents, children. It’s a reminder to spend time with the people you love while you can. Obituaries also might encourage us to seek out the people you want to know. I often find myself saying, “I wish I’d known about this person before they died.”

As 2019 drew to a close, I was commissioned to write the obituary of a woman I hadn’t previously heard about but whose life story blew me away. Barbara Hillary grew up in Depression-era Harlem. She worked as a nursing teacher and survived two bouts of cancer before deciding in retirement that she would like to go to the North Pole. She crowd-funded the £25,000 cost of the expedition and, on 23 April 2007, she made the 30-mile trip from a Norwegian polar base camp to the Pole on skis. She made it, becoming the first African-American woman to do so. She was 75 at the time. Less than five years later, just shy of her 80th birthday, she repeated her feat at the South Pole.

If you feel in need of a kick up the arse as you ease yourself into 2020, let the achievements of the recently obituarised inspire you and help you realise that life ain’t over until it’s been written up in The Independent. In the meantime, to quote Barbara Hillary, in a commencement address she gave at her alma mater, The New School in NYC: “At every phase in your life, look at your options. Please, do not select the boring ones.