How to sit with someone who’s dying

Don’t feel you have to hold back your emotions during this time.

By Carol Rääbus and Roisin McCann

When his grandfather died in the emergency department of a Hobart hospital, Andreas was by his side.

“I was really frightened.”

It was Andreas’s first experience of being with a dying person and it made him anxious.

“As his breathing slowed down and he was taking less and less breaths, I was worried about how I was going to feel when he didn’t take any more,” he says.

“And then he had one final really deep inhale and exhale, and it was fine.

“I wasn’t panicked at all. I thought ‘Oh, it’s not weird’.

“Death isn’t weird at all, really. It’s quite normal and kind of OK.”

The idea of sitting with someone who’s dying, particularly when they’re someone you care about, is something many of us find overwhelming.

What’s going to happen? Should you talk about the football? Ask them what they want at their funeral? How you can make granddad feel more comfortable?

We asked a range of people, who regularly spend time with those who are at the end of their lives, to share what they’ve learnt about being with someone who’s dying.

When should I visit someone in hospital or hospice?

Hospice volunteer Debra Reeves says her first bit of advice is to find out when you’re allowed to visit a hospital ward or facility.

Hospital wards often have compulsory quiet hours when no-one is allowed to visit, and those hours are often different from ward to ward in the same hospital.

Check in with a nurse, or someone who’s been there a while, to find out if the person you want to see is up for visitors. The same goes for visiting someone in their own home — always check if it’s a good time for you to be there.

Should I bring food, photos or mementos?

Again, check first. Ask what the rules are at the facility beforehand, or ask the person whose home it is.

Smells can be strongly linked to memories, so if you know your grandma, for example, always loved the smell of roses, take them in.

End of Life Doula Leigh Connell recommends not wearing strong perfumes as they can be overwhelming.

Bringing food is often one of the first things we think of as a way of comforting someone. Depending on the situation, the person might not be able to eat something you bring, but the gesture can still be appreciated.

“If you know they like the smell of mandarins, take mandarins, even if they don’t get to eat them,” Leigh says.

Meaningful photos and items can be comforting for the person, but don’t take in too many things and make clutter.

What should I say?

Spending time with a dying loved one can be scary, but worth it for them and you.

Not knowing what to say is one thing many people in this situation worry about.

Those who spend a lot of time with the dying all tend to say the same thing — you don’t need to say anything.

“Don’t say a lot. Let them talk,” Maria Pate from Hospice Volunteers says.

“Or let the silence be there.”

Launceston priest Father Mark Freeman says often simply being in the room can be enough comfort for the person.

“Often that presence is a reassurance to them that things are all OK,” he says.

If being silent and still is difficult, you could take something with you to keep yourself busy.

Leigh’s suggestion is to try something you know the person liked doing — playing cards or knitting. Even if you’re not good at the activity, it can make a connection.

Andreas’s advice is to be open and admit you’re scared.

“If you’re not comfortable talking to someone who has a terminal diagnosis, maybe just say, ‘I’m having trouble with this’,” he says.

Should I hug them if they look frail?

Giving a loved one a hug is often the quickest way to let them know you care.

But if you’ve never hugged your uncle before, don’t feel you have to.

Though it can be intimidating when someone is particularly frail, a gentle touch of the hand can bring a lot of peace.

Gentle touch, like holding a hand, can be enough to let someone know you’re there and you care.

Maria recommends a very gentle hand massage as a way of making connection and comforting someone.

Father Mark agrees.

“This lady was fairly well out of it, I went to talk to her, [took her hand] and she opened her eyes and looked at me — and had never met me before — and said, ‘Oh Father, thanks for coming’,” he says.

Again, it’s a good idea to ask for permission before touching someone. They might not be in the mood, or might be experiencing pain and not want any touch.

I think they’re dying now. What do I do?

Until you’ve gone through it, none us really know how we will react if we’re there at the time someone’s life ends.

Father Mark’s advice to families he visits is to “embrace the reality” of what’s happening and allow themselves to feel.

“They don’t have to panic [about the fact] that they just want to cry, or they’re so frustrated and they’re sad and hurt, and angry even,” he says.

“All those things can be a part of it.”

Father Mark says he encourages families to stay in the room if possible and be a part of what’s happening. Often what’s happening is not much at all.

Debra was with a family in an aged care facility when their loved one was dying.

“They went straight into storytelling,” she says.

“He was already unconscious. His fingers were already turning black.

“They held vigil, they talked around the bed. They used his name a lot and they talked to him.

“They gave him the most beautiful farewell. It was lovely.”

No-one is dying yet. But can I be prepared when it comes?

Sometimes we don’t get any opportunities to sit with someone before they die — death can sometimes come when no-one is expecting it or ready for it.

Spending time with strangers who are dying has given our interviewees a sense of wanting to make sure they and their families are as ready as possible for that moment.

Their advice is to think ahead now.

“I’m going to make that advanced care directive, I’m going to write that will,” Debra says.

“And I’m going to resolve those relationships so that when I am on my deathbed, I’m at peace. And my family can be at peace as well.”

Complete Article HERE!

How to Die

As a psychotherapist, Irvin Yalom has helped others grapple with their mortality. Now he is preparing for his own end.

By

One morning in May, the existential psychotherapist Irvin Yalom was recuperating in a sunny room on the first floor of a Palo Alto convalescent hospital. He was dressed in white pants and a green sweater, not a hospital gown, and was quick to point out that he is not normally confined to a medical facility. “I don’t want [this article] to scare my patients,” he said, laughing. Until a knee surgery the previous month, he had been seeing two or three patients a day, some at his office in San Francisco and others in Palo Alto, where he lives. Following the procedure, however, he felt dizzy and had difficulty concentrating. “They think it’s a brain issue, but they don’t know exactly what it is,” he told me in a soft, gravelly voice. He was nonetheless hopeful that he would soon head home; he would be turning 86 in June and was looking forward to the release of his memoir, Becoming Myself, in October.

Issues of The Times Literary Supplement and The New York Times Book Review sat on the bed, alongside an iPad. Yalom had been spending his stay watching Woody Allen movies and reading novels by the Canadian writer Robertson Davies. For someone who helped introduce to American psychological circles the idea that a person’s conflicts can result from unresolvable dilemmas of human existence, among them the dread of dying, he spoke easily about his own mortality.

“I haven’t been overwhelmed by fear,” he said of his unfolding health scare. Another of Yalom’s signature ideas, expressed in books such as Staring at the Sun and Creatures of a Day, is that we can lessen our fear of dying by living a regret-free life, meditating on our effect on subsequent generations, and confiding in loved ones about our death anxiety. When I asked whether his lifelong preoccupation with death eases the prospect that he might pass away soon, he replied, “I think it probably makes things easier.”

The hope that our existential fears can be diminished inspires people around the world to email Yalom daily. In a Gmail folder labeled “Fans,” he had saved 4,197 messages from admirers in places ranging from Iran to Croatia to South Korea, which he invited me to look at. Some were simply thank-you notes, expressions of gratitude for the insights delivered by his books. In addition to textbooks and other works of nonfiction, he has written several novels and story collections. Some, such as Love’s Executioner & Other Tales of Psychotherapy and When Nietzsche Wept, have been best sellers.

As I scrolled through the emails, Yalom used his cane to tap a button that alerted the nurses’ station. A voice came through the intercom, and he explained that he needed some ice for his knee. It was the third time he’d called; he told me his pain was making it difficult to concentrate on anything else, though he was trying. Throughout his stay, his wife of more than 60 years, Marilyn, had been stopping by regularly to refresh his reading material. The day before, he’d had a visit from Georgia May, the widow of the existential psychotherapist Rollo May, who was a colleague and friend of Yalom’s. When he runs out of other things to do, he plays on his iPad or his computer, using them with the dexterity of someone half his age.

Many of Yalom’s fan letters are searing meditations on death. Some correspondents hope he will offer relief from deep-seated problems. Most of the time he suggests that they find a local therapist, but if one isn’t available and the issue seems solvable in a swift period—at this point in his career, he won’t work with patients for longer than a year—he may take someone on remotely. He is currently working with people in Turkey, South Africa, and Australia via the internet. Obvious cultural distinctions aside, he says his foreign patients are not that different from the patients he treats in person. “If we live a life full of regret, full of things we haven’t done, if we’ve lived an unfulfilled life,” he says, “when death comes along, it’s a lot worse. I think it’s true for all of us.”

Becoming Myself is clearly the memoir of a psychiatrist. “I awake from my dream at 3 a.m., weeping into my pillow,” reads the opening line. Yalom’s nightmare involves a childhood incident in which he insulted a girl. Much of the book is about the influence that his youth—particularly his relationship with his mother—has had on his life. He writes, quoting Charles Dickens, “For, as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning.”

Yalom first gained fame among psychotherapists for The Theory and Practice of Group Psychotherapy. The book, published in 1970, argues that the dynamic in group therapy is a microcosm of everyday life, and that addressing relationships within a therapy group could have profound therapeutic benefits outside of it. “I’ll do the sixth revision next year,” he told me, as nurses came in and out of the room. He was sitting in a chair by the window, fidgeting. Without his signature panama hat, his sideburns, which skate away from his ears, looked especially long.

Although he gave up teaching years ago, Yalom says that until he is no longer capable, he’ll continue seeing patients in the cottage in his backyard. It is a shrink’s version of a man cave, lined with books by Friedrich Nietzsche and the Stoic philosophers. The garden outside features Japanese bonsai trees; deer, rabbits, and foxes make occasional appearances nearby. “When I feel restless, I step outside and putter over the bonsai, pruning, watering, and admiring their graceful shapes,” he writes in Becoming Myself.

Yalom sees each problem encountered in therapy as something of a puzzle, one he and his patient must work together to solve. He described this dynamic in Love’s Executioner, which consists of 10 stories of patients undergoing therapy—true tales from Yalom’s work, with names changed but few other details altered. The stories concentrate not only on Yalom’s suffering patients but also on his own feelings and thoughts as a therapist. “I wanted to rehumanize therapy, to show the therapist as a real person,” he told me.

That might not sound like the stuff of potboilers, but the book, which came out in 1989, was a commercial hit, and continues to sell briskly today. In 2003, the critic Laura Miller credited it with inaugurating a new genre. Love’s Executioner, she wrote in The New York Times, had shown “that the psychological case study could give readers what the short fiction of the time increasingly refused to deliver: the pursuit of secrets, intrigue, big emotions, plot.”

Today, the people around the world who email Yalom know him mostly from his writing, which has been translated into dozens of languages. Like David Hasselhoff, he may well be more of a star outside the United States than at home. This likely reflects American readers’ religiosity and insistence on happy endings. Mondays with Yalom are not Tuesdays With Morrie. Yalom can be morbid, and he doesn’t believe in an afterlife; he says his anxiety about death is soothed somewhat by the belief that what follows life will be the same as what preceded it. Not surprisingly, he told me, highly religious readers don’t tend to gravitate toward his books.

Yalom is candid, both in his memoir and in person, about the difficulties of aging. When two of his close friends died recently, he realized that his cherished memory of their friendship is all that remains. “It dawned on me that that reality doesn’t exist anymore,” he said sadly. “When I die, it will be gone.” The thought of leaving Marilyn behind is agonizing. But he also dreads further physical deterioration. He now uses a walker with tennis balls on the bottoms of the legs, and he has recently lost weight. He coughed frequently during our meeting; when I emailed him a month later, he was feeling better, but said of his health scare, “I consider those few weeks as among the very worst of my life.” He can no longer play tennis or go scuba diving, and he fears he might have to stop bicycling. “Getting old,” he writes in ​Becoming Myself, “is giving up one damn thing after another.”

In his books, Yalom emphasizes that love can reduce death anxiety, both by providing a space for people to share their fears and by contributing to a well-lived life. Marilyn, an accomplished feminist literary scholar with whom he has a close intellectual partnership, inspires him to keep living every bit as much as she makes the idea of dying excruciating. “My wife matches me book for book,” he told me at one point. But although Yalom’s email account has a folder titled “Ideas for Writing,” he said he may finally be out of book ideas. Meanwhile, Marilyn told me that she had recently helped a friend, a Stanford professor’s wife, write an obituary for her own husband.* “This is the reality of where we are in life,” she said.

Early in Yalom’s existential-psychotherapy practice, he was struck by how much comfort people derived from exploring their existential fears. “Dying,” he wrote in Staring at the Sun, “is lonely, the loneliest event of life.” Yet empathy and connectedness can go a long way toward reducing our anxieties about mortality. When, in the 1970s, Yalom began working with patients diagnosed with untreatable cancer, he found they were sometimes heartened by the idea that, by dying with dignity, they could be an example to others.

Death terror can occur in anyone at any time, and can have life-changing effects, both negative and positive. “Even for those with a deeply ingrained block against openness—those who have always avoided deep friendships—the idea of death may be an awakening experience, catalyzing an enormous shift in their desire for intimacy,” Yalom has written. Those who haven’t yet lived the life they wanted to can still shift their priorities late in life. “The same thing was true with Ebenezer Scrooge,” he told me, as a nurse brought him three pills.

For all the morbidity of existential psychotherapy, it is deeply life-affirming. Change is always possible. Intimacy can be freeing. Existence is precious. “I hate the idea of leaving this world, this wonderful life,” Yalom said, praising a metaphor devised by the scientist Richard Dawkins to illustrate the fleeting nature of existence. Imagine that the present moment is a spotlight moving its way across a ruler that shows the billions of years the universe has been around. Everything to the left of the area lit by the spotlight is over; to the right is the uncertain future. The chances of us being in the spotlight at this particular moment—of being alive—are minuscule. And yet here we are.

Yalom’s apprehension about death is allayed by his sense that he has lived well. “As I look back at my life, I have been an overachiever, and I have few regrets,” he said quietly. Still, he continued, people have “an inbuilt impulse to want to survive, to live.” He paused. “I hate to see life go.”

Complete Article HERE!

Everything You Need to Know about Thanatophobia- The Fear of Death

By Nancy Walker

[D]eath anxiety is not a distinct disorder but might be connected to problems of anxiety and depression such as:

  • Panic disorders
  • Panic attacks
  • Post-traumatic stress disorder PTSD
  • Hypochondriasis

Thanatophobia is quite different from necrophobia, which refers to a general fear of the dead or dying things, or anything that is linked with death.

In this article, we will discuss thanatophobia or death anxiety, explore the signs and symptom, reasons, and treatments for this problem.

What is Thanatophobia?

The word thanatophobia has been derived from two Greek words, Thanatos meaning death, and Phobos meaning fear. Hence, thanatophobia means the fear of death.

Being anxious about death is quite normal and a part of human behavior. However, in some cases, people may suffer from an intense form of fear or anxiety when they think about their own death or the process of dying in general.

A person may feel extreme fear and anxiety when they think that their death is inevitable. Other than this, they are also likely to experience the following symptoms:

  • Fear of separation
  • Worry about leaving the dear ones behind
  • Fear of suffering from a loss

When these fears and disruptive thoughts become so intense that they stop the sufferer from performing his daily activities, this condition is known as thanatophobia.

In the most severe forms, these feelings can hinder the patients from living their lives and performing daily activities. Their fears tend to center on things that may cause death such dangerous objects or contamination.

Diagnosing Thanatophobia

Doctors do not consider thanatophobia as a separate condition, however, it can be considered as a specific phobia.

As per the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a phobia refers to an anxiety disorder that relates to a specific situation or an object.

The fear of death may be considered as a phobia if it:

  • Arises every time the person wonders about dying
  • Continues to persist for a period of more than 6 months
  • Interferes with the life and relationships of the patients

Some of the key symptoms that a person is suffering from a phobia of dying include:

  • Immediate anxiety or fear when thinking about the process of dying
  • Panic attacks that may lead to hot flushes, dizziness, sweating, and increased heart rate
  • Avoiding situations where the concept of death or dying is discussed
  • Feeling pain in stomach or general sickness when thinking about dying
  • A general feeling of anxiety or depression

Phobias may lead to a person feeling extremely isolated and avoiding any contact with family and friends for long periods of time.

The symptoms may come and go throughout the entire life of an individual. Someone suffering from a mild form of death anxiety can feel their anxiety heightening when they think about their own death or the death of a loved one, particularly when he himself or any family member is seriously sick.

If the death anxiety is connected to another depressive condition, the patient is likely to suffer from the symptoms related to that particular disorder as well.

Types and Causes of Thanatophobia

While thanatophobia refers to the general fear of death, there are a lot of types of this disorder which depends on what the patient is focusing on.

Phobias are often experienced by a specific event occurred in the patient’s past, even though the person does not always remember it. Some particular triggers that lead to thanatophobia include a traumatic event related to the near death of self or a loved one.

A person who is suffering from a severe illness has a high risk of developing thanatophobia. This is because chronic patients are always anxious about dying, however, ill health is not necessary for someone to experience death anxiety.

Most of the time, thanatophobia is related to psychological illness.

The experience of thanatophobia may differ from person to person and mainly depends upon individual factors like:

  • Age: A study performed in 2017 suggested that older adults are more likely to experience the process of dying as compared to the younger ones who fear death itself.
  • Sex: As per a 2012 research, women are more likely to suffer from the fear of death, which may be their own or that of a loved one.

It is common for the medical professionals to connect anxiety near death to a range of different mental illnesses such as PTSD, depressive disorders, and anxiety.

How to Treat Thanatophobia

Social support networks can help protect a person from thanatophobia. Some people are likely to come to terms with their deaths with the help of their religious beliefs but this may perpetuate the anxiety related to death in others.

People enjoying a good health, high self-esteem, and a belief that they have spent a fulfilling life are less likely to fear their death as compared to others.

A doctor usually recommends a person suffering from thanatophobia to receive a treatment for phobia, anxiety, or any other problem that may be triggering this fear. The treatment involves a talking or behavioral therapy. These therapies teach the individuals to focus on their fears and work through them by expressing their concerns.

The treatment options for thanatophobia usually include:

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

Cognitive behavioral therapy or CBT includes working with the patient in order to alter his behavioral patterns in such a way that he adopts newer ways of thinking.

In this therapy, the doctor works in collaboration with the patient to come up with practical solutions in order to overcome the anxiety and depression. This eventually leads to the development of strategies that make the patient unafraid and relatively calm when he talks or thinks about death.

Exposure Therapy

Exposure therapy works by helping someone face their fears. Instead of suppressing the feelings of death in a person, this therapy encourages the patients to expose them and acknowledge them.

A therapist will work very carefully in order to expose a person to his fears but ensuring that he is in a safe environment. This is repeated until the response of a person towards the factor causing anxiety reduces.

The person is able to confront his own thoughts and feelings without any fear.

Medicines

If a patient has been diagnosed to have a certain mental disorder such as PTSD or generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), he may be prescribed to take anti-anxiety medications such as antidepressants or beta-blockers.

Using these medications together with other psychotherapies can be extremely effective.

Relaxation Therapies

Practicing self-care can boost the overall mental health of a person. It can also help a person to cope with his fears and anxieties. Avoiding caffeine and alcohol, sleeping well, and eating a healthy diet are some of the easiest ways to practice self-care.

When a person suffers from anxiety, specific relaxation techniques can reduce the stress on their minds and reduce the fears. They may include:

  • Performing deep breathing exercises
  • Focusing on certain objects in a room, like counting the tiles on the floor, or meditation

Outlook

While it is completely natural to express concerns about your future and the future of your loved ones, if the death anxiety persists in your behavior or more than 6 months, it indicates that you require medical help.

The fear of death can be overcome by different ways and your mental health professional can guide you through them in a better way.

Complete Article HERE!

Breaking the silence: are we getting better at talking about death?

As the media brings us constant news of strangers’ deaths, grief memoirs fill our shelves and dramatic meditations are performed to big crowds, we have reached a new understanding of mortality, says Edmund de Waal

A 2016 performance of An Occupation of Loss. Artist Taryn Simon gathered professional mourners from 15 countries to demonstrate how they perform grief.

[B]ereavement is ragged. The papers are full of a child’s last months, the protests outside hospitals, the press conferences, court cases, international entreaties, the noise of vituperation and outrage at the end of a life. A memorial after a violent death is put up on a suburban fence. It is torn down, then restored. This funeral in south London becomes spectacle: the cortege goes round and round the streets. The mourners throw eggs at the press. On the radio a grieving mother talks of the death of her young son, pleading for an end to violence. This is the death that will make a difference. She is speaking to her son, speaking for her son. Her words slip between the tenses.

Having spent the last nine months reading books submitted for the Wellcome book prize, celebrating writing on medicine, health and “what it is to be human”, it has become clear to me that we are living through an extraordinary moment where we are much possessed by death. Death is the most private and personal of our acts, our own solitariness is total at the moment of departure. But the ways in which we talk about death, the registers of our expressions of grief or our silences about the process of dying are part of a complex public space.

Some are explorations of the rituals of mourning, how an amplification of loss in the company of others – the connection to others’ grief – can allow a voicing of what you might not be able to voice yourself. The actor and writer Natasha Gordon’s play about her familial Jamaican extended wake, Nine Night, is coming to the end of a successful run at the National Theatre. The nine nights of the wake are a theatre of remembrance, a highly codified period of time shaped to allow the deceased to leave the family.

Theatre of remembrance … Hattie Ladbury and Franc Ashman in Nine Night, Natasha Gordon’s play about a Jamaican wake.

Julia Samuel records in Grief Works, her remarkable book of stories of bereavement, a woman who “asked friends and family to sit shiva [the Jewish mourning tradition] with me at a certain time and place”. And that there was anguish when these particular times were ignored: two friends came at times that were “convenient for them rather than when she was sitting shiva, thus ‘raising all the issues I was temporarily trying to keep contained’”.

As an academic writes in the accompanying notes to artist Taryn Simon’s performance An Occupation of Loss, recently staged in London, “communication between the living and the dead is possible only in mediated forms”. There are obligations we have to fulfil to those who have died. Simon gathered professional mourners from 15 countries (Ghana, Cambodia, Armenia and Ecuador, among others). The mourners wailed and sobbed and keened, the intensity of their expression, their sheer volume, a challenge to the idea that there has to be a silence that surrounds bereavement.

There are silences. Contemporary books on death often take as their premise that to be writing in the first place is a breaking of a taboo. “It’s time to talk about dying,” writes Kathryn Mannix in her book about her work in palliative care, With the End in Mind. “There are only two days with fewer than 24 hours in each lifetime, sitting like bookmarks astride our lives: one is celebrated every year, yet it is the other that makes us see living as precious.” These books record the silence that we in the west have created. By removing dying into a medical context, where expertise and knowledge lie so emphatically with others, we have made death unusual, a process clouded by incomprehension. And by novelty.

So one kind of language we need is that of clarity. A lucidity that allows for the involvement of family and friends alongside healthcare professionals. Clarity, writes Mannix, around the questions such as “when does a treatment that was begun to save a life become an interference that is simply prolonging death? People who are found to be dying despite the best efforts of a hospital admission can only express a choice if the hospital is clear about their outlook.” Conversations about palliative care need extraordinary skill and empathy. These are skills that can be learned.

But for someone writing about their own grief, there are no guidelines. You might have read Thomas Browne’s Urn Burial, or the poems of John Donne, the theories of John Bowlby or Donald Winnicott, Freud’s Mourning and Melancholia, but it simply doesn’t register. Being well read doesn’t help when someone who matters dies. Part of this attempt to start again, to find a form out of the formlessness of grief, is a reluctance to take on the generic language of sympathy, the homogeneous effect of cliche. Bereavement is bereavement, not a masterclass in being well read in the classics. “The death of a loved one is also the death of a private, whole, personal and unique culture, with its own special language and its own secret, and it will never be again, nor will there be another like it,” writes David Grossman in Falling Out of Time, his novel about the death of his son. A death needs a special language.

The language of loss and the framing of sympathy in everyday life is so impoverished, so mired in cliche and euphemism, that deep metaphors of “passing” become thinned to nothing, to sentimentality. The iterations of “losing the battle” and the valorising, endlessly, of “courage” is a way of making the bereaved feel they need to enact a particular role. And then there is the “being strong”. If you are told how wonderful you are for not showing emotion, or for continuing as before, where does that leave being scared? How about denial? Or anger, terror, desolation, loneliness? How about confusion? Why only endurance, resilience, strength? In this need to name, to find precision, accuracy is a measure of love. I think of Marion Coutts’ book The Iceberg, on her dying husband Tom Lubbock’s language, Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, charting everything, weighing her responses to her grief. This is different, they say, writing this is a work of mourning.

The greatest of these books find a language that encompasses the sheer confusion of bereavement. In her forthcoming book Everyday Madness: On Grief, Anger, Loss and Love, Lisa Appignanesi writes that “Death, like desire, tears you out of your recognisable self. It tears you apart. That you was all mixed up with the other. And both of you have disappeared. The I who speaks, like the I who tells this story, is no longer reliable.” This is the other loss, that of selfhood, of control, of a forward momentum, of certainty. Appignanesi’s grief at the untimeliness of her husband’s death makes time itself deranged. Her days and weeks and months go awry. Her sense of the past is also called into question. It is excoriating: “My lived past, which had been lived as a double act, had been ransacked, stolen.” Bereavement, she notes, has a deep etymology of plunder. It tears you apart. Where all these registers go wrong, you oscillate between kinds of behaviour that are disinhibited, a derangement of self. It can be physical, a falling, a losing your way. I think of the crow in Max Porter’s Grief Is the Thing with Feathers as the deranged, ransacking presence in a family where the mother has died.

A deranged, ransacking presence’ … Cillian Murphy in Grief Is the Thing with Feathers.

These are images that go deep into history. In the Book of Lamentations we read that God “has made me dwell in darkness … he has walled me in and I cannot break out … He has weighed me down with chains … He has made my path a maze … He has forced me off my way and mangled me.” The Hebrew word eikh (how) opens the Book of Lamentations and then reappears throughout the text. This how is not a question, more a bewildered exhortation. You are beyond questions. All you can do is repeat.

In Anne Carson’s poem Nox, a response to the death of her brother, she refused to accept any conventional form. So the poem comes like a box, a casket, of fragments, attempts at definitions, parts of memories. This seems appropriate. The shape of grief is different each time. That is why the shard – the pieces of broken pottery that are ubiquitous across all cultures – is often used as an expressive image of loss. Think of Job lamenting to God, sitting on a pile of broken shards. In my own practice as a potter, whenever I pick up pieces of a dropped vessel I notice that each shard has its own particularity. Each hurts.

In her study of the deaths of writers, The Violet Hour, Katie Roiphe writes that “moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project. I refuse to rush. The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix.” Bereavement takes a pathway that is different for each and every one of us. It takes different registers, different words. And that is what I take away from this very particular nine months of reading and reflecting on mortality. That there is change in the public space around death. This change is remarkable and wonderful when it comes to end-of-life care: the hospice movement and the training in palliative care are one of the greatest and most compassionate changes to occur in the last 30 years.

And, more slowly, it is happening outside the hospitals and clinics and hospices. People do want to read and talk about grief. For this we have to be grateful to those writers who are trying to find their own shard-like languages to express their own bereavements.

Complete Article HERE!

How to deal with death as part of life

Everyone must figure out their own way to handle the fear of death.

[S]ince he watched his mother drop dead, Richard Bridgman’s fear of death has left him emotionally paralyzed.

It was right around Thanksgiving — nearly 45 years ago — and Bridgman was sleeping overnight on his mom’s living room couch.

“In the middle of the night, she walked into the room and said, ‘Richard, I’m dying,’” recalls Bridgman, who tried to reassure his mom that she’d be okay. But his mother, who had a heart condition, was suffering a massive heart attack. “She looked at me and fell over on her head. I didn’t know what to do. She was dead.”

Death haunted much of Bridgman’s early years. His stepfather died when Bridgman was 15. His father, an alcoholic, died when Bridgman was 17. And Bridgman was 26 when his mom died before his eyes. Now, 72, and long retired from the bill collection business he once owned in the Springfield, Ill., area, he has spent most of his adult years trying to cope with — if not overcome — his immense fear of death.

“Death became an obsession,” he said. “No matter where I went or what I did, death was always in the back of my mind.”

Most people prefer not to think about death, much less plan for it. In a tech-crazed world, where time is commonly measured in 140 characters and 6-second sound bites, life would appear to be dissected into so many bite-sized morsels that discussion of death doesn’t even seem to fit into the equation.

“Everybody has a fear of death, no matter what culture, religion or country they come from,” said Kelvin Chin, author of “Overcoming the Fear of Death” and founder of the Overcoming the Fear of Death Foundation and the non-profit turningwithin.org. “Fear is simply an emotion caused by the anticipation of unhappiness.”

But wait. What if death isn’t actually unhappy? What if it simply — is? For Bridgman, whose fear of death was overwhelming, that simple question was a critical step in learning to emotionally deal with death. That question was posed to him by Chin, who he discovered via a Google search. Several supportive phone consultations with Chin — combined with a simple meditation process that Chin teaches — have helped to keep Bridgman’s fears under control.

“I spent so much money on psychiatrists and psychotherapists — none of them did any good,” says Bridgman. But Chin steered Bridgman towards meditation. “Meditation is better than medicine,” Bridgman said.

Everyone must figure out their own way to handle the fear of death. One expert, who overcame her own fear through years of attending to the dying, says death is rarely the terrible thing that most folks fret about.

“Death is usually a peaceful process,” explains Donna Authers, a professional caregiver, motivational speaker and author of the book “A Sacred Walk: Dispelling the Fear of Death and Caring for the Dying.”

“Very few people die screaming. They just go to sleep.”

But it took Authers years to learn the lesson that death need not be frightening. As a child, death haunted her. When she was two years old, her father was killed in World War II. Her mother, who had remarried, died on Authers’ fifth birthday. “Instead of a birthday party, I woke up to the worst day of my life,” she said. Her grandfather committed suicide when Authers was 15.

It was Authers’ grandmother — while dying from cancer — who taught Authers the most critical lesson in accepting death’s inevitability. Authers brought her grandmother home to tend to her during her final days. But her grandmother could sense her granddaughter’s terrible fear.

That’s when her grandmother took her by the hand and, unafraid, reminded Authers, “Death is part of life. You, too, will be where I am someday, and you can’t face death with fear,” she said. That changed everything. Seeing her grandmother bravely face death caused her own fears to dissolve. “I was no longer afraid of death and dying,” recalls Authers.

Authers ultimately left her job as an IBM marketing executive to become a caregiver. Through the years, she has found that faith is the most important quality among those who face death without fear. “People who have faith in something don’t grieve like those who have no hope,” said Authers.

Increasingly, however, Chin has found that Millennials — more than any other demographic — fear death the most.

“It’s the downside of social media,” said Chin. “The bombardment and speed of communication leads to an overload that can trigger a fear of death.”

Perhaps even the world of politics can play a role, suggests Sheldon Solomon, professor of psychology at Skidmore College and author of “The Worm at the Core: On the Role of Death in Life.”

In times of political upheaval— particularly when people are reminded of their mortality — the fear of death increases even as they tend to be attracted to political figures who promise them more security, said Solomon, who has conducted numerous experiments on this issue.

“When people are reminded of their own mortality, in an effort to bolster faith in their own view of reality, they become more hostile to anyone who is different.”

Even then, says Solomon, perhaps nothing alleviates a dying person’s fear of death more than love.

A terminally-ill grandmother he knew was distraught at the prospect of death. No doctor and no medicine could help her. Then, she received a short phone call from her granddaughter, begging her for her cupcake recipe. “No one can make them like you,” her granddaughter said.

“That call did more in five minutes than anything else could have,’” says Solomon. “It reminded the grandmother that she will live on in the memories of the people she loves. That was all she needed to know.”

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‘Death is not a failure’: Medical schools adapt end-of-life lessons

By Lindsay Kalter

[L]ocal medical schools are in the process of a curricula revamp that will train students to focus more on end-of-life care, making Massachusetts the first in the nation to reach a statewide commitment to quality of life.

“Massachusetts is really leading the way on this. It led the way on universal health care, on gay marriage, and it’s leading the way on this, too,” said Dr. Atul Gawande, a surgeon at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and author of the book “Being Mortal.” “I’ve learned the question is not do you fight or do you give up. The question really is, what are we fighting for? What’s the quality of life we can fight for?”

The Massachusetts Coalition for Serious Illness Care has orchestrated the effort among four local institutions: Harvard Medical School, Boston University School of Medicine, Tufts University School of Medicine and University of Massachusetts Medical School.

Gawande, co-founder of the coalition, said Massachusetts has the opportunity to create a national model for medical schools across the country.

It’s an important shift, he said, from the fix-it mentality that many doctors are taught to possess. He said the extent of his end-of-life training amounted to an hour of discussion in the first two years of medical school.

“You go in focusing on wanting to be a hero and fix things,” Gawande said. “Teaching people in med school what it means to be an effective clinician for giving people cutting-edge care for quality of life — as opposed to quantity of life — is a neglected skill.”

The medical schools are taking inventory of what skills they’re already teaching and will add various training methods including role play patient actors. UMass Medical School’s simulation lab is already starting to be used for skills that extend beyond sewing and suturing, said Dr. Jennifer Reidy, the school’s chief of palliative care.

Medical students will be required to have conversations with people about breaking difficult news, prognosis and end-of-life planning.

“We’re using it to teach complex communication procedures,” Reidy said. “We want to ensure our newest clinicians are well-situated to practice these skills.”

The changes will be implemented in full by the beginning of next academic year, Reidy said.

Tiffany Chen, a third-year medical student at UMass, said the topic of death is still taboo even in the medical field.

“It’s really hard to talk about death, and it’s hard to conceptualize,” Chen said. “But death is not a failure and there’s always something you can do for a patient. If we can infiltrate the medical field with that mindset, we could do a lot of good.”

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Your Body is a Teeming Battleground

It’s time to rethink the quest to control aging, death, and disease—and the fear of mortality that fuels it.

By Barbara Ehrenreich

[I] went to medical school, at least in part, to get to know death and perhaps to make my peace with it. So did many of my doctor friends, as I would find out. One day—usually when you’re young, though sometimes later—the thought hits you: You really are going to die. That moment is shocking, frightening, terrible. You try to pretend it hasn’t happened (it’s only a thought, after all), and you go about your business, worrying about this or that, until the day you put your hand to your neck—in the shower, say—and … What is that? Those hard lumps that you know, at first touch, should not be there? But there they are, and they mean death. Your death, and you can’t pretend anymore.

I never wanted to be surprised that way, and I thought that if I became a doctor and saw a lot of death, I might get used to it; it wouldn’t surprise me, and I could learn to live with it. My strategy worked pretty well. Over the decades, from all my patients, I learned that I would be well until I got sick and that although I could do some things to delay the inevitable a bit, whatever control I had was limited. I learned that I had to live as if I would die tomorrow and at the same time as if I would live forever. Meanwhile, I watched as what had been called “medical care”—that is, treating the sick—turned into “health care,” keeping people healthy, at an ever-rising cost.

In her new book, Barbara Ehrenreich ventures into the fast-growing literature on aging, disease, and death, tracing her own disaffection with a medical and social culture unable to face mortality. She argues that what “makes death such an intolerable prospect” is our belief in a reductionist science that promises something it cannot deliver—ultimate control over our bodies. The time has come to rethink our need for such mastery, she urges, and reconcile ourselves to the idea that it may not be possible.

Ehrenreich is well equipped for her mission; she has a doctorate in biology and years of social and political work behind her, as well as decades of writing. I first discovered her in medical school, when I read her early book Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers (1973). From it I learned that my small group of nine women in the otherwise male class of ’77 belonged to a long, if forgotten, tradition. I also learned that social progress is not always an upward-trending line. The author of more than a dozen books, Ehrenreich has a reputation for chronicling cultural shifts before others notice them. She delights in confronting entrenched assumptions, popular delusions, grandiose ambitions—and in teasing out their unexpected consequences.

Often she incorporates firsthand experience into her analysis. For her best-known book, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America (2001), she spent a year working at unskilled jobs. In Living With a Wild God (2014), she recounted her own spiritual epiphanies in adolescence and her struggle, as a determined atheist, to understand her “furious encounter with a living substance that was coming at me through all things at once.” Before all that, in 2000, she had been diagnosed with breast cancer and begun paying special attention to surprising new science about cancer, cells, and our immune system. Now 76, Ehrenreich explores that science in Natural Causes: An Epidemic of Wellness, the Certainty of Dying, and Killing Ourselves to Live Longer. Once again, she is swept up by big questions. Not least among them is “whether the natural world is dead or in some sense alive” and behaving in unpredicted and unpredictable ways that have much to tell us about our approach to mortality.

She starts by looking at the many preventive medical procedures we are encouraged, even badgered, to undergo—those regular physical exams, colonoscopies, blood tests, mammograms. She had always pretty much done what doctors advised (she underwent chemotherapy), figuring that it made sense to treat disease before illness overwhelmed the body. But after watching many fitness-obsessed people die early, and realizing that she herself is now “old enough to die,” she questions that premise. Where is the evidence that all the effort at prevention saves lives or delays death?

It’s hard to find, she discovers. In people who have a strong family history of heart disease, treating high cholesterol does decrease mortality, on average. But for those who don’t have that predisposition, it doesn’t. Colonoscopies have not been proved more effective at reducing deaths from colon cancer than other, cheaper, less-invasive tests. Sometimes procedures cause more trouble than they prevent. Mammograms, for instance, detect tumors that might never be fatal, and can lead to over-treatment, which carries its own risks. The insight is counterintuitive—although finding diseases early on should prolong lives, the screenings we undergo don’t seem to lower mortality rates overall—and Ehrenreich decides that she will no longer get most preventive care.

She is just as clear-eyed about other approaches to delaying our decay—exercise, diet, meditation. Though she became a “fitness devotee” herself in middle age, she finds symptoms of cultural malaise rather than health benefits in the fitness and diet obsessions of the past 40 years. Wellness programs do little to reduce companies’ immediate health-care costs, and the pursuit of fitness, Ehrenreich argues, is often simply one more “class cue.” Workouts easily become just that—work, another demand for self-discipline, competition, and control. Ironically, when she reached her 70s, her knees began giving her trouble not from age-appropriate arthritis but from overexertion.

[T]urning from her critique of preventive medicine and fitness culture as death-postponement strategies, Ehrenreich is even more unsettled by research indicating that our immune system is not the magical “protective cloak” she learned about in graduate school. What really gets her rethinking her scientific beliefs is the evolving story of the macrophage—the specialized white blood cell that she always thought of as her good shepherd “through the valley of the shadow of death.”

Macrophages have traditionally been understood as one of our crucial first-line defenses against disease. They are found throughout our body—in our bones, brain, lymph nodes, lungs, and breasts—and circulate in our blood. They look like the amoebas we learned about in high school, those slippery, one-celled, independent creatures that move by stretching out and contracting, and eat by wrapping themselves around their prey, invaginating and absorbing it. The usual story went like this: Whenever macrophages find threats to our well-being in our midst—bacteria, viruses, fungi, or cancer cells—they kill them and eat them by engulfing and absorbing them. Ehrenreich assumed that keeping her immune system—and valiant macrophages—strong through exercise, diet, and positive thoughts was the key to not getting sick, not getting cancer, not getting old.

But research around the turn of the millennium suggested a different view. Macrophages do not always kill our cancer cells; sometimes they even help them grow and spread. They escort certain cancer cells through the tight walls of our blood vessels, and protect them as they circulate in our bloodstream, looking for a congenial new home. When such a site is found—in a bone or breast, liver or lung—macrophages then support those cancer cells as they mature into the metastases that will go on to kill us.

Scientists are now discovering that the macrophage is as much wolf as shepherd in other diseases as well. It may play a role in auto-immune disorders, and even in the usual afflictions of aging—heart attacks, strokes, arthritis. We thought we knew the causes of those (cholesterol, cigarettes, inactivity) and therefore the recourse (diet, abstinence, exercise); but now it appears that inflammation, caused in large part by our macrophages, may be a trigger. Ehrenreich ponders the heretical question: Can it be that instead of working to keep our immune system healthy, we should all along have been doing the opposite?

[E]hrenreich is not, however, an apostle of unwellness, and Natural Causes is not a how-to book. Instead she focuses on the conceptual and “deep moral reverberations” of the discovery that our immune system can aid and abet a “cellular rebellion against the entire organism.” What if our convenient “holistic, utopian” view of the “mindbody” as a “well-ordered mechanism”—kept in harmony by positive thinking and solicitous tending—is wrong?

Ehrenreich proves a fascinating guide to the science suggesting that our cells, like the macrophages that sometimes destroy and sometimes defend, can act unpredictably and yet not randomly. It is almost as if our cells can choose when and how to behave—unregulated by any deterministic mechanism. But that would mean they have “agency, or the ability to initiate an action,” as she puts it. And what would that imply? If macrophages are actually deciding which cancer cells to destroy or to preserve, “maybe, crazy as it sounds, they are not following any kind of ‘instructions,’ but doing what they feel like doing.”Researchers are now finding this same agency everywhere, Ehrenreich reports—in fruit flies; in viruses; in atoms, electrons, and photons. Such discoveries must mean that agency, the capacity for making decisions—electrons jumping up a quantum level or not, photons passing through this hole in a screen rather than another—is not the rare, and human, prerogative we once thought.

Ehrenreich detects a paradigm shift in the making, away from holism and toward “a biology based on conflict within the body and carried on by the body’s own cells as they compete for space and food and oxygen.” This vision of the body as an embattled “confederation of parts”—the opposite of a coherent whole, subject to command and control—is “dystopian,” she writes. And yet it has liberating, humbling implications. “If there is a lesson here,” she proposes, it’s that “we are not the sole authors of our destinies or of anything else.” Of course, the struggle to win the battles within our body may be one we’ll never be able to resist. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll devise high-tech ways to induce, or persuade, our traitorous immune cells to cooperate with our health. But whatever technological miracles appear in our future, Ehrenreich hopes we can come to accept that the ultimate outcome will be, as it has always been, out of our control.

Researchers are now finding this same agency everywhere, Ehrenreich reports—in fruit flies; in viruses; in atoms, electrons, and photons. Such discoveries must mean that agency, the capacity for making decisions—electrons jumping up a quantum level or not, photons passing through this hole in a screen rather than another—is not the rare, and human, prerogative we once thought.

Ehrenreich detects a paradigm shift in the making, away from holism and toward “a biology based on conflict within the body and carried on by the body’s own cells as they compete for space and food and oxygen.” This vision of the body as an embattled “confederation of parts”—the opposite of a coherent whole, subject to command and control—is “dystopian,” she writes. And yet it has liberating, humbling implications. “If there is a lesson here,” she proposes, it’s that “we are not the sole authors of our destinies or of anything else.” Of course, the struggle to win the battles within our body may be one we’ll never be able to resist. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll devise high-tech ways to induce, or persuade, our traitorous immune cells to cooperate with our health. But whatever technological miracles appear in our future, Ehrenreich hopes we can come to accept that the ultimate outcome will be, as it has always been, out of our control.

No, because I’ve noticed, in my life as a doctor, that the truism is true: People die the way they’ve lived—even the demented and even, somehow, the brain-dead. The brave die bravely; the curious, with curiosity; the optimistic, optimistically. Those who are by nature accepters, accept; those who by nature fight for control die fighting for control, and Ehrenreich is a fighter.

Yes, because I’ve also noticed that everyone I’ve seen die does come to accept the inevitable loss of control at his or her finally unevadable death. Usually that happens over weeks or months, sometimes over years; occasionally it happens over days, hours, or even minutes. This acceptance is perhaps as developmentally determined as childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and old age. At the end, something magical appears to occur—something beautiful, something Other—that seems to heal the spirit, allay all fear, and settle, finally, the struggle for control.

Complete Article HERE!