I was at work. My boss came down and said to me: “The police are coming to see you.” I was like, what have I done? Half an hour later, I was serving a customer when the police came up to me and said: “We need to speak to you. It’s very serious – you need to sit down.” They said: “We’re not here to arrest you. It’s to do with Rahim.”

“What has he done now?” I asked.

“He hasn’t done anything – he’s passed away.” When they said that – my God. It just didn’t sink in at first. “You can wake him up.” I said. “You can! Just wake him up, OK?” Then I started to bash things, punching one of the officers. I was destroyed. He held me, in a kind of restraining way, and said: “I am so sorry.”

Most of the funeral homes had have no sympathy when it came down to burials and money

I felt I was alone in the world. Even though I had friends and family around me, I felt as if nobody cared. How can you just lose your son like that?

The funeral was the last thing in my head. I was just a lost mum who didn’t have a clue how to arrange a funeral – where to start, who to contact.

My friend Cass came over, and she rang about 20 or 30 different funeral homes to find out what we had to do and how much it would cost. In our family in Grenada, we are Catholics, we don’t cremate – which would be cheaper. We bury our loved ones so we can visit the grave and put pictures on the tombstone.

But the price was going up and up, and where were we going to find the money? Who would have £5,000 in their account, just sitting there? £9,000, £10,000? If you don’t have it, you have to go to the council. And if the council gives you the funeral, it is a pauper’s funeral, and other people can be buried on top. Who wants to be called a pauper? You can’t put flowers there, you can’t leave a mark. I carried my son for nine months, he was born, grew up to be 21, then he passes away – and if I can’t afford to bury him I have to put him in a hole with other people. I have to condemn him to that. When I go back to visit him, talk to him, I’m talking to other people. How do you work that out?

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When you’re looking for help with funerals, it’s so difficult. When you do get through to somebody, you’re told you’re not eligible for this or that, or that they need to see the death certificate. In a short space of time you have to have all these things, and if you can’t provide them, you’re left with nothing. I just didn’t know where to turn, what to do.

We eventually found a sympathetic funeral director, Martin, who tried his best to help us get the price down. Most of the funeral homes have no sympathy when it comes to burials and money. But Martin explained that the funeral would still cost £4,000. Not just for him – for digging the grave, the plot itself. We started calling up people to find the money. And we kept being told: “You have to be eligible, you have to have the death certificate. Call this number, call that number.” We weren’t getting anywhere, partly because we don’t yet know the cause of death and so couldn’t get the certificate, and because I could hardly take any of it in.

After trying without any luck to get help from the council, we were put in touch with a charity, Down to Earth. The first time we spoke to them, it basically took our stress away. Claire, at the charity, wasn’t able to tell us we were going to get the money – she herself didn’t know how it might work out – but by speaking to us with kindness and in a genuine way, she gave us the strength to not worry. I thought finally: we are getting some doors opened here, and things were slowly coming together.

Rahim celebrates his birthday with Amanda

I don’t know how many people are going through the same thing as me, but I know it is unusual to get access to the funding as smoothly as we did, and to get a burial at the cost we did. But we are all human beings. We should be treated in death as we expect to be treated in life, with respect and dignity. The whole funeral process should be much more straightforward – perhaps two phone calls, not three, four, five, six. There should be a public office that you can go into and somebody you can speak directly to. If I had been completely alone, what would I have done?

I know the government is dealing with a lot of big things at the moment, but it’s not dealing with the effects of death. It should put something in place to support low-income families who have to arrange a funeral, something solid, direct. Something should also be done to keep a check on funeral homes and the fees they charge. Why do they charge so much – £10,000 in some cases? How do we know the money is going where it’s supposed to go?

This battle I had to go through to get a decent funeral for my son has had a huge impact on my life, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Rahim is buried now, but it was so painful and the worst thing was not having time to grieve. I feel like the world is a different place at the moment. I don’t want to go out. I don’t see myself out there, doing the things I want to do. Most people wouldn’t speak publicly about bad things that have happened to them, they have too much pride. But I don’t care, I don’t want to see anyone else go through what I did with this funeral. People helped me, so I want to help other people.

I miss my son every day, and losing him has changed my life. But it has made me stronger than I thought I would ever be.

• Amanda Johnson’s son Rahim died at the age of 21