There is nothing quite like facing the loss of a loved one to bring how we die to the front of your mind. By this, I mean the circumstances, environment, behaviour of people around you, and the general atmosphere surrounding this inevitable conclusion of our lives.
Unexpected deaths, such as a car accident or an unusual sickness in youth, are quite different from dying while old. Emotionally this makes sense, especially for a person passing away in their prime. The baby who has yet to develop a consciousness, the child who has so much wonder and excitement ahead, the middle-aged who is at the peak of their contribution to society, whether that is seeing children off to college or handing over the reins of a small business — all of these are cases in which passing away would and should be seen as a tragedy. That is not to say that dying at eighty is an emotionless event or that one ought not to be sad. I argue that it should be less of a tragedy.
I started to observe a problem when dying from old age is increasingly being treated as a tragedy, and this is reflected even in how we treat the dying.
Why am I writing about this?
I lie somewhere between young adult and middle age, and my exposure to this topic is not from the perspective of my mortality. Rather, I'm sensitive to this topic while preparing to say goodbye to my last grandparent and having said goodbye to the other three in the last couple of years under various circumstances. I’ve also had my share of tragic deaths, from motorcycle accidents of fellow learners at school and brutal murders of people close to me later in life.
Let me tell you about my grandparents.
The first of my grandparents to pass away, my grandpa on my mother’s side, was, in a way, the most unsettling experience so far. My grandpa was considered old, having had a good, healthy, and successful life. He passed away technically from cancer, wracking his lungs and brain. Before senility took over, he told my mother at one stage that the only thing he asked for “is to die with dignity.” I have often thought about this. I would argue that he died undignifiedly alone one night in a cold and clinical room at the hospice, where he once complained that there wasn’t even a small shelf for a few books. Before his death, he had undergone various operations and the usual barrage of chemo. He didn’t know where he was and did not recognise us when we visited.
It might sound harsh to say, and of course, it’s easier in retrospect, but I believe they should have stopped with treatment about a year before his death. Remember that undergoing surgery at that age and receiving chemotherapy is not like taking a tablet for a headache. It’s hard, it’s suffering, and it’s painful and emotionally draining for the patient.
Enter my grandmother, this time on my father’s side. I was recently entangled in an argument about who gets to decide who can visit her and when. News broke that she would be moved from ICU to a regular ward in a day or two, which meant that the restrictions on family visits, at least by the hospital's rules, were less severe. My cousin excitedly announced that he could finally visit Granny with her great-granddaughter in tow.
The cold world of Medicine
As is common these days, when grandma was hospitalised, a group was established on WhatsApp to share news and arrangements among the family. On this platform, however, my family members who work in medicine had much to say about taking children — the carriers of all the nasty bugs — to the hospital, where they might ultimately cause Grandma’s demise.
Now, I get it: from the factual and cold point of view of medicine, having kids who mingle with lots of other kids in the sandpit during the day visit people with compromised immune systems is potentially a risky endeavour. But that is my point; it’s a cold and unfeeling perspective, lacking a bit of humanity. In an equally cold way, I would argue that with the necessary precautions, the tiny risk of spreading a bug to grandma, which might expedite the inevitable, is worth taking if she can see her great-grandchild one more time.
I greatly respect the work that people in medicine do, including my family here. I also understand that they must develop an emotional shield to be optimal at work. I don’t resent them their opinion on this matter. Instead, I feel like it reflects what has become of how we treat the old and dying.
Geriatric psychology is super important.
Psychology's impact on your well-being and recovery from illness is well understood. Having positive influences, such as seeing your great-grandchild, or feeling the love of those close to you daily, is, if not at least, a benefit to the healing process, at least a dignified end-of-life experience. I think it should be encouraged. Of course, you should take the necessary precautions to sanitise the child, wearing a mask and eschewing physical contact.
Geriatric psychology deals with the treatment and care of people in the later stages of their life. Some psychologists specialise in this kind of care, as the treatment of elderly patients needs to consider the natural decline of things like memory, reasoning, and ability to heal. Of course, outside of psychology, you also have specialists in geriatric medicine.
Geriatric psychologists must often deal with depression and loneliness in their patients. This kind of care requires just as much, if not more, focus and attention in treating older people.
In closing
I have focussed here on one example, fresh on my mind, but there are other ways in which dying with dignity is being subverted. The treatment of aggressive cancers in those over eighty, for example. The removal of people from their own homes and familiar surroundings before they become a danger to themselves. The dreary, sterile, and small rooms which often come with hospices. That is not to say we shouldn’t care for older people; quite the opposite. I believe our focus should shift towards quality of life rather than prolonging it at all costs.
There are many remarkable advances in modern medicine, and I’m a staunch supporter of pushing medical research. One of the side effects, though, is an obsession to force people to live longer lives at the cost of their psychological well-being. I'm sure it stems partially from an "if we can, we should" attitude.
When a loved one dies, in our grief, we are quick to point fingers at the "what if" scenarios, and I believe the medical caregivers, with the pressure and liabilities placed on them, make this particularly egregious. It is, therefore, the duty of all of us to foster a world in which everyone can die with dignity.