Kris is the woman who once projected a message onto the Houses of Parliament as part of her successful campaign to put cancer on the school curriculum, so I knew to expect something big, but her FUNeral was life-changing. As I approached Truro Cathedral with my husband, Mark, we gasped at the incredible outfits: one man wore a flower pot on his head while Kris's close friend Kay wore a homemade coffin fascinator. I picked a bright green jumpsuit that accentuated my recent surgical scar, a statement that I'm proud of my body and everything it's been through.

We greeted friends and nervously acknowledged that we didn't know what to expect, before walking into a cathedral decorated with a giant disco ball, a photo booth and old-fashioned televisions playing footage from Kris's childhood. It was an awe-inspiring experience, somewhere between a funeral and a giant party.
 

It began with a gospel choir, followed by a spoof eulogy from Dawn French herself in full Vicar Of Dibley character, then Kris's own speech, in which she quoted Susan Sontag: "Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick." When she added that "it's a dual citizenship that I would not give back", I found myself nodding furiously - because while I would never describe my cancer as a 'gift', being diagnosed at such a young age has made me live so much better than I might have otherwise.
 

There were tears - and laughter - during a heart-shattering speech from Kris's twin sister, Maren, a eulogy from Kay and speeches from friends, including Fearne Cotton. Light relief followed in the form of an Abba singalong and a comedy rapper named Abandoman, during which all 160 of us were invited to sign Kris's cardboard casket - the one in which she will eventually be cremated. (If you've ever had writer's block over a birthday card, imagine the pressure of writing on someone's coffin.) With a Sharpie, I joked that only she could have such an extravagant funeral, but I also thanked her for teaching me how to live - since meeting her through CoppaFeel! a decade ago, I've really learned to embrace life in a wonderful way.

"It was the best day of my life," Kris wrote on her Instagram, later telling me she got so nervous during the build-up that she almost cancelled the event. "I've never felt love like it. I've never felt joy like it. I've never felt such kinship with mortality. I've never felt so alive:'

And that's the point. While regular funerals serve those who are left behind, living ones allow the person who is ill to feel how well-loved they are. It's a bit like when you quit your job and only realise how much your colleagues appreciated you after you've left - but much more profound than that.

"It benefits the dying person, as an opportunity to bask in the love of their dearest people, and it allows those beloveds to ensure they expressed their love so they aren't left with regrets in their bereavement later," says Dr Kathryn Mannix, a former palliative care consultant and author of With The End In Mind and Listen. It also allows people to say goodbye to their loved ones without the emotional and physical toll of doing so individually.

And it's the ultimate expression of self-love. "It's a brilliant statement of 'I am celebrating my life and I am worthy of a big, beautiful celebration,"' says Anna Lyons, an end-of-life doula and author of We All Know How This Ends. "If that's not one of the most empowering, life-affirming statements, I don't know what is."

Despite seeming like a good idea, living funerals aren't trending just yet. In fact, Kris's event is considered pioneering. "Kris is a trailblazer," says Lyons. "She is not only telling us, but she's showing us that even when facing a life-limiting prognosis, you can still be in control and make your own choices. She's showing us that if you want to throw a party to celebrate your incredible, miraculous, brilliant, quiet, spectacularly ordinary life, then that's absolutely definitely what you should do."
 

Rebecca Peach, CEO of The Farewell Guide, the funeral comparison and planning business that sponsored Kris's event, says it was the first living funeral she's come across - and that's because as a society we (generally) aren't very good at talking about death. My husband and I have both admitted to crying on our own about the idea of me dying prematurely, but we rarely do so in front of each other. We're uncomfortable with making each other sad and voicing out loud our shared greatest fear - even though we both know that particular fear is me dying and leaving him to grow old alone.

When Peach's aunt died in 2019, she had no idea what she wanted from her funeral, so she set up The Farewell Guide to give people a place to record their wishes for when they die and to help families to avoid funeral debt. "With my aunty, we were always pretending as if she wasn't dying, even in the final days," says Peach, adding that only 1% of those planning a funeral know what their loved one wanted.

Determined to change that, Kris uses her blog and social media presence to create an open conversation around death and planning for death, helping to break the taboo. In February, she even held a Zoom call to discuss 'deathmin' and end-of-life options.

Of course, living funerals aren't for everyone. If you're healthy, it's unlikely you've considered arranging a celebration of life other than your birthday. If you're elderly, you might not have the funds or physical health to do so, although my nurse recently told me of a patient in her late 60s who held one. But whether young or old, I suspect living funerals will be limited mostly to those who, like me, have a terminal diagnosis.

The day after Kris's FUNeral, we met on Fistral Beach to plunge into the sea together. Despite the June heat wave, the water was bitingly cold, but it was worth it to see the joy on Kris's face as she surrounded herself with all her loved ones. I ran towards the waves holding hands with Poppy, the daughter of Kris's friend Kay. In that moment, I felt so grateful for the wonderful people she has brought into my life and the way she's helped me to embrace truly living, despite everything cancer has taken from me.
 

When it was time to leave, I hugged her but I didn't say 'goodbye'. That's the surreal thing about living funerals - it's difficult to know what to say because the person hasn't died and there's a good chance you'll see them again. Although the average survival with secondary breast cancer is less than five years, Kris defied those odds long ago, and I very much hope she continues to defy them. But as she's pointed out many times, she will die (spoiler alert: we all will) and she wanted to celebrate while she's still strong enough to dance the night away.