Death: the great taboo

When I read the news on 4 June, I had a strange sense of déjà vu.

Now I know these things happen sometimes, but this sense wasn’t a mere figment of the imagination with all its irrational peculiarities and vagaries. “Will you die in the next 5 years?” The headlines challenged.
If one wanted to know the answer (I don’t), a test is available from the Office of National Statistics (ONS) which will give you an indication of how likely you are to imminently kick the bucket.

I had déjà vu because, only a couple of weeks before, yet another test had been issued, this one factoring in your socio-economic position in determining your prospects for living another 5 years.

There have been a string of such tests in recent months, all of which I have avoided taking myself.

Of course, there is an obvious advantage to the ONS in having scientifically calculated models to make long term projections about the life expectancy of the population: our NHS is under greater strain than ever because we are living longer, as is the pensions system, created to give people a bit of dignity at the end of their lives, now supporting an increasingly large number of people through a third of their lives.

Regional differences in life expectancy give us clues about the continued glaring inequalities in our society.

What I don’t understand, however, is why this data is so often being turned in to tests that we can use at an individual level to determine our own chances of dying in the short term. It’s morbid and sinister.

It is the most benign manifestation of our society’s denial of the reality of death: a denial which is all-pervasive. IT plays in to the first myth: we can control death.
When we are not busy denying the inevitability of death, we go to war with it. Parliament consistently rejects assisted dying, yet attempt after attempt continues to be made to force it upon us. It looks like the first Private Members Bill will be yet another attempt to get it legalised in this country.

This is, as Charles Moor put it, the worst manifestation of “self-control freakery.” It isn’t motivated by compassion, but our desire to control and dictate the second of nature’s only guarantees to us: an end.

It is falsely portrayed as a merciful release for the dying, yet recent cases of Brits going to Dignitas, such as that of Geffrey Spector, who was not terminally ill but feared a destabilisation of his condition, clearly show that it is not merely those already in the final weeks of their life that choose this option.

Mr Spector claimed that he didn’t want to be “a burden” to his family. I’m sure that was immensely comforting to them. Indeed, assisted suicide advocates fail to acknowledge that proper palliative care has beaten them to it: when we know the person is going to die, relieving pain and making them comfortable become the priorities, despite the fact that the drugs used hasten death.

When we get it right, we achieve a common sense balance between keeping some-one alive for the sake of it, and easing the dying process. But that’s not enough for those who now want to control the time, circumstances, and everything else; when we can’t defeat death, we will only embrace it on our own terms.

It is little wonder that report after report continues to shine a light on the poor state of palliative care in this country.

If you think I’m wrong about our delusional war with the idea of inevitable death, perhaps you should look at the language we use. I wonder when dying of an illness became ‘losing a battle?’ We always hear that this person lost ‘their battle’ with cancer, or ‘fought a long battle with dementia.’ Did they? Didn’t their bodies just age and go wrong? Would they perhaps have survived if they’d only been a bit stronger and more positive? Of course not.

Listen, we’re all going to die, but the portrayal of those who do die as failures, or victims of a battle fought and lost, shows how ill at ease we are about the inevitability of something totally beyond our control.

It is our society’s absolute fear of death which, I believe, makes it taboo and is the final manifestation of our denial. Yet again, we have created nonsensical linguistic constructs that allow us to talk about death in a way that ducks out of confronting its finality. Instead of saying some-one is dead or deceased, we say they are ‘no longer with us,’ or that they have ‘passed away.’ Sorry, they’ve died. Say it like it is.

Then, of course, we have the changing face of the funeral: increasingly less a religious affair, and more a life-affirming celebration. People are increasingly choosing their favourite music to ‘go out to.’

I can tell you exactly what I want at my own funeral: I know the hymns and the readings. Inconveniently, because I’m not that interested in knowing all the details of my demise and haven’t taken the tests, I can’t give you notice of when it might be expedient to get your suit dry cleaned.

It will be Catholic. The Catholic church very strongly discourages eulogies and I don’t want whoever will mourn me to have to endure the uncomfortable experience of saying something profound, bearing their soul for all to hear. In fact, the less that is said about me, the better, for it shouldn’t be about me. It is an opportunity to thank God for a life, to praise he who gives life and claims it back at the appointed time, and for all, religious or not, to take stock of their lives and encounter the reality of their own mortality and fragility as we do, when death touches our lives.

Yet the prevalence of celebrations, in which we have to pretend that it could be a happy occasion as we keep the memory of the deceased alive, is increasing. An ever-increasing range of clichés serve to stop us facing the fact that the person is gone, from the somewhat academic insistence that they’d ‘love to see you all here today,’ to the popularity of readings such as the poem of Henry Holland Scott, Death is Nothing At All.

The poet’s encouragement of us to remember the person for who they were is a refreshing departure from the near-canonisation that seems to occur when a person dies.

“Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.”
But it is the central claim of the poem, as illustrated in the title, that is so far from the truth. “Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away to the next room.”
For Christians, there may be some comfort in the poem’s message that, ultimately, we will all be reunited in eternity with Christ. But even if this is true, why do we have to diminish the meaning of death in this world?

Whether there is life after death or not, there is a finality about death. It is a fundamental separation, and in a very real sense the person is gone from our lives, and gone forever. The funeral is the opportunity to acknowledge that, express our sadness and grief as we need to, and let go of any expectation that the person will come back.

One of my dear relatives, an irreverently and gloriously frank exception to the trend of making a taboo of death we see all around us, said of the poem once, “You’re not in the next room, you’re in a box.”

They were right. Yet, so high is our own sense of importance as mankind now that we balk at the notion that we are ultimately to end up in a box or as a paltry pot of dust.

I don’t know why. I certainly don’t want to live forever. One day I’ll have had enough. If we can accept that, maybe we’d find it easier to forgive. Maybe we’d find it easier to walk away and tread a new path when we need to change things in our lives. Maybe we’d find it easier to not leave to tomorrow, that which could be done and said today.

Death will come to us all. Life and death are not separate, they go hand in hand with each other. Yet as we increasingly struggle to accept the fundamental reality of our mortality, I believe we will be more frightened, more unhappy, more angry, less able to care properly for the dying and remember the dead, and more determined than ever to ignore the futility of denying the inevitability of death.