As doctors, we are failing to put patients’ needs first, causing harm at the end of life

— Doctors including Zachary Tait and Rupal Shah, and recently bereaved readers Jo Fisher and Rebecca Howling, respond to Adrian Chiles’s column on how his father spent two of the last days of his life alone and distressed in A&E, for no good reason

‘As a junior doctor working in A&E, I loathed watching frail, mostly older people languish on trolleys in corridors.’

My condolences to Adrian Chiles on the death of his father. His column describing the futility of his father’s last “precautionary” trip to A&E (3 April) highlights a rising challenge of the ageing population. As health and social care services collapse, the harms and indignities of hospital admission increase, especially for those least able to advocate for themselves. As a junior doctor working in A&E, I loathed watching frail, mostly older people languish on trolleys in corridors, receiving substandard treatment that they didn’t want and were unlikely to benefit from. This is now the norm in every hospital I’ve been to.

A 2014 study showed that more than a quarter of hospital inpatients die within a year. The risk, perhaps unsurprisingly, increases with age. It is our responsibility as clinicians to have difficult and frank conversations with patients ahead of time; to be pragmatic, realistic and kind in our decision-making. Unfortunately, lots of this comes under “planning for the future”, which tends to slip down the to-do list during a crisis. It is the single most rewarding part of my work to have the time and opportunity to make care plans with patients, to know what matters most to them, and to stop the “shrugs” that Chiles faced at every turn. But medicine-by-protocol is quicker and cheaper than thought and pragmatism, so as resources are stretched ever further, it may continue to flourish. I am so sad for Peter Chiles’s distress, and so grateful that his son uses his voice to call attention to it.
Zachary Tait
Manchester

I have been a GP partner in Battersea, London, for 20 years. Unfortunately, Adrian Chiles’s opinion piece absolutely resonates. As clinicians, we are now taught to prioritise “safety” over all other considerations – despite the dangers inherent in doing so. Really, we are often protecting ourselves more than we are protecting our patients – an inadvertent side-effect of our unforgiving regulatory system.

We doctors are behaving as “artificial persons” who represent the healthcare system, and not as moral agents who have a duty to create meaning with our patients. We urgently need to move into a moral era of medicine – one that rejects both the protectionism of the past and the reductionism of the current context, which so often results in the cruelties and inefficiencies that Chiles describes.
Rupal Shah
Co-author, Fighting for the Soul of General Practice – The Algorithm Will See You Now

Adrian Chiles’s article stirred my thinking, as I have been on a similar journey. My husband died two weeks ago, having been advised that he had three months to live. This proved to be the case. With the Hospice at Home service, the NHS was truly wonderful. He died, however, with morphine slowly killing him. This could have been prevented if an assisted dying law was in place. One of the nurses said that what we were doing was cruel.

We were able to resist a possible hospital admission for chest pains by having what is called a ReSPECT document signed by our GP for “do not resuscitate”, and because we had an advance directive, dated 2022, that had been placed with the GP and was on his medical records. This made the whole process so much easier for us, but also for the various wonderful medics. Parliament needs to update our laws to align with so many in this country who wish for greater clarity and support Dignity in Dying.
Jo Fisher
Brampton, Cambridgeshire

In response to Adrian Chiles’s article, and having recently lost my own father, the best advice I can offer anyone is to make sure you have power of attorney in place for your parents. That is the way you can ensure that you have the power to override the decisions of medical staff who, while acting with the best intentions, will not know your parents as well as you do and may not make the decision that is best for them, or what they would have wanted. Having a power of attorney in place is more important than a will, in my view, because it enables you to help your living parent and ensure that their wishes are complied with. In my father’s final days, I was asked numerous times: “Do you have power of attorney?” I was very relieved to be able to answer: “Yes.”
Rebecca Howling
Toft, Cambridgeshire

As the daughter of an elderly parent, I very much understand the need for A&E avoidance, to cause least distress. No doubt waiting haplessly alone for many hours hastens demise. However, as a GP, I know that the huge increase in litigation over the last 20 years is a very real threat to doctors’ livelihoods. Even a simple complaint from a patient or their family can cause weeks, months, sometimes years, of stress to a health professional. Ruminating over every decision, every action or inaction, every justification, is enough to give us a heart attack – or worse, to make us follow in the footsteps of Paul Sinha and Adam Kay and quit the profession for a more peaceful existence.
Name and address supplied

Dear Adrian, I am so sorry that this happened to your dad. Sadly, it is a story repeated again and again. I am what is termed a “late career” doctor (over 55), and I recently transitioned from working as an emergency consultant to become a GP working in aged care. Over my 30-year career, mainly in emergency and other hospital specialities, although including a significant period in palliative care, I slowly came to appreciate that the way we have set up our emergency system doesn’t serve older people at all, and the frailest elderly are generally so poorly served that transferring them almost inevitably makes things worse.

My residents (200 across five aged care facilities) all have discussion and documentation of whether they should go to hospital and under what circumstances. The staff know to call me if there is any uncertainty, day or night. I do lots of family meetings so relatives can feel confident that the right decisions will be made. I love looking after old people and ensuring they get the best care that is right for their individual circumstances.

I firmly believe that aged care in particular is a GP subspecialty of its own. Too often care is fitted into lunch breaks and “on the way home” visits, and devolved to phone services out of hours. This is no way to treat our oldest and frailest, who deserve so much better. Again, I am so sorry.
Fiona Wallace
Sheffield, Tasmania, Australia

I read Adrian Chiles’s article about his father’s experience with empathy. My own father led a district health authority, with many hospitals under his care. He was intensely proud of the NHS, but in his 90s he was very clear that he didn’t wish to die in hospital or even to be admitted again unless absolutely essential. If he had an infection, he would be treated at home. Should it worsen and Dad die, it would be in his own bed. As a family, we listened. I was caring for him and know it took a huge weight off Dad’s mind to know that he need not dread the ambulance or the bewilderment of a strange place. Too many elderly people die in the back of ambulances and in A&E. Let those who are able to do so make informed choices about their end of life. It is a great comfort to them.
Dr Jane Lovell
Ashford, Kent

Adrian Chiles is correct that decisions about sending frail and elderly patients to hospital can be due to doctors being risk-averse. Doctors face a double jeopardy from the General Medical Council, who can take their livelihood, and the legal system if things go wrong.

Not all families can accept when beloved elderly relatives have reached the end of their life. Some people have unrealistic expectations about what healthcare can achieve in frail patients, and push for investigations and treatments even when it seems unlikely to affect the final outcome. If these are not performed, doctors can be accused of negligence or ageism. Most doctors would like less invasive healthcare at the end of life for themselves and their own families than they routinely offer to patients.

I would encourage everyone to write an advance directive or “living will” outlining how they would like to be treated in the event of their health deteriorating. I would also suggest giving a trusted person power of attorney for healthcare. These can be very helpful in reducing incidents like the one described in the article.
Dr Stephen Docherty
Consultant radiologist, Dundee

I would like to express my condolences to Adrian Chiles on the death of his father. I can empathise with him on many levels. I too lost my father recently in not dissimilar circumstances. I am a practising GP, a former medical director of an out-of-hours GP service, and now spend most of time as a management consultant trying to influence change in the NHS to stop incidents like this happening.

When I talk to clinicians and managers, I am always humbled by their devotion despite the pressures they work under. In my current assignment, over 32% of clinicians feel they are burnt out, and many more express intense frustration with the low-value clinical work they undertake. There is a limit to how much the system and the individuals who prop it up can give. The demand for care is rising every year.

I suspect that the GP who decided to send Adrian’s father to A&E without seeing him was under pressure to make a number of decisions that night. Given more choice, I’m sure they would have prioritised cases such as Adrian’s father over lower-priority, often unnecessary cases. What we do not discuss as a society with as much fervour as the system and those who provide care is how we consume care, so we can create time and space to support those who really need necessary attention.
Dr Riaz Jetha
London

Complete Article HERE!

Illness and death are facts of life

– Buddhism teaches us to be mindful but not fearful of it

‘It doesn’t take a deep understanding of Buddhism to acknowledge that sickness, old age, and death are inevitable facts of life.’

The art of developing a healthy relationship with our own mortality lies in neither avoiding the reality of suffering nor obsessing over it

By Nadine Levy

Over the last year, I have spent a lot of time eating pre-packaged sandwiches in hospital cafeterias. I often joke that those of us who are lucky enough to hit 35 will have at least one, if not multiple, serious health scares every year. At some point, however, we will face much more than a simple scare – serious illness can impact anyone, any time, with little notice.

As well as being a source of stress, pain and discomfort, unwanted health diagnoses have the radical potential to upend our lives and ignite burning questions relating to impermanence and human suffering which we may not have considered in the past. We may come face-to-face with our shared vulnerability for the first time – which was present all along – as well as the indisputable fact that we are all but one breath away from a health crisis or poor prognosis.

Working with our mortality in a meaningful way can be challenging. For one, we live in a death-averse culture in which comforting and life-affirming ways of thinking and talking about illness and death are rare. Further, the unprecedented nature of Covid-19, as well as an increase in self-diagnosis via the internet (“cyberchondria”), has been associated with an overall rise in health anxiety.

In the founding story of Buddhism, the historical Buddha, a sheltered 29-year-old prince, ventures out of his palace and for the first time encounters sickness, ageing, and death on the streets of what is now Nepal. These sights impact him in such a visceral and immediate way that he is compelled to relinquish his wealth and material comforts to enter a life of asceticism, contemplation, and reflection.

It doesn’t take a deep understanding of Buddhism to acknowledge that sickness, old age, and death are inevitable facts of life. Many of us know this intimately. However, we may not realise that the more we deny this truth and cling to a fantasy of perpetual health and youthfulness, the more we suffer.

This is not to dismiss our attempts at living a healthy lifestyle that prevents ill health. Indeed, moderation and cultivating physical and mental wellbeing are at the heart of Buddhist practice. Still, we face the cruel irony that even our best efforts to address risk factors through diet, exercise, and supplementation, often fall short. Mark Twain once said, “I take my only exercise acting as a pallbearer at the funerals of my friends who exercise regularly.”

On my first overseas trip as a child, I witnessed individuals with debilitating and treatable illnesses in plain sight. One afternoon, I went to a cafe for lunch and couldn’t swallow my sandwich. As hard as I tried, I could not force the muscles in my throat to perform their job. There was a lump in my throat that persisted. The sharp edges of the human condition had suddenly shifted from theory to reality.

I encountered Buddhism a few years later and I was relieved to find an approach that did not look away from what was true: the body deteriorates, decays, and changes. It is made up of the elements and is of the nature to sicken, age, and die. While death is certain, the time of death is uncertain. Do not turn away from your mortality.

Later, I downloaded an app that reminded me daily I was going to die, though I’m not sure I needed the reminder.

Was this a type of exposure therapy that would liberate me from my worst fears, or was it simply making my anxiety worse?

Years later, I confided in a Buddhist teacher about my ongoing health anxiety, and he said something that changed the way I now view the Buddhist practice of death contemplation: the art is not to be anxiously fixated on death but simply mindful of it. The invitation was to extend a gentle and curious gaze to our fear of death itself. This seems a subtle point, but one that has enormous significance.

First, it invites us to bring awareness to how we relate to and perceive our impermanence. What is it that scares us exactly? The psychotherapist, Irvin Yalom talks about death and health anxiety being a placeholder for a range of natural existential concerns – from fear of pain, loss, and separation from loved ones to terror of our ultimate annihilation. At times, it correlates with deep disappointment that our life has lacked meaning or purpose.

Once we become familiar with what “health” or “death” represent in our unique psyche, we can bring attention to when and how these fears present themselves. Do particular sensations, memories, or emotions trigger these fears? Are they felt predominantly in the body or in a mind that races and tries to fix and control? Do you find yourself reaching for your phone? Instead, can you remain in the here and now, with a racing heart, lump in your throat, images of a poor prognosis, or your final breath? Can you stay put and allow the fears to arise, change, and dissipate? The practice is to avoid the extremes of obsessing about the finitude of our life on the one hand and avoiding our mortality on the other. Acceptance and wisdom lie in the place in between.

You and I will die. Can we stay steady in our seat knowing this with certainty, while remaining open to a broader indescribable mystery which may well outperform our wildest expectations?

Complete Article HERE!

We’re all going to die someday.

— Toronto ‘death cafés’ offers a new way to get comfortable with that fact

Death-care practices vary according to culture and religion and many death doulas argue that in western cultures there’s still a lingering taboo around frank talk about death, something that makes it harder for many to deal with death, dying and grieving.

“We’ve heard the saying that it takes a village to raise a child. That village is equally important at the end of our life as it is in the beginning.”

BY Christine Sismondo

After more than a decade living side by side on a quiet street in Toronto’s east end, Fiona* and her partner Lorraine* had become close friends with their neighbour Tony.

“Lorraine and Tony talked all the time,” said Fiona. “When he started getting older and lived on his own, she helped him with errands and grocery runs. I mowed his lawn.”

When Tony was diagnosed with inoperable cancer in 2018, Fiona started cooking for him and filling in when support workers and nurses weren’t on duty.

When it came to preparing to die, though, the couple decided Tony needed more help than they could offer.

They enlisted the help of a death doula: someone who is trained to help with emotional and physical support as well as education about the end-of-life process.

In the last couple of days of Tony’s life, Fiona slept on the couch next to his bed. The doula and Lorraine sat with him until he died.

What struck Fiona as most remarkable, she said, was the “ceremony of it all.” Lorraine and the doula washed Tony’s body and sat with him for hours after he passed.

“I think, in a lot of western cultures, people don’t want to hang out with a person’s body after they’ve gone,” she said. “This felt like helping him to move on and there was a level of comfort in it that helped all of us.”

Death-care practices vary according to culture and religion, and many doulas argue that in western cultures there’s a lingering taboo around frank talk about death, something that makes it harder for many to deal with death, dying and grieving.

That started to change 20 years ago with the first “death café,” an initiative launched by a recently widowed Swiss sociologist named Bernard Crettaz. The concept — usually a scheduled group discussion about death among people from all walks of life (not to be mistaken for grief counselling) — has since spread and evolved.

“Now there are ‘death salons,’ ‘death dialogues’ and ‘death book clubs,’” said Kayla Moryoussef, who works with Toronto’s Home Hospice Association and has her own practice, the Good Death Doula. “There’s even a ‘death over drafts’ thing where people meet in bars to drink and talk about dying and death.”

Probably the biggest change to the death café model in Toronto has been that, pre-pandemic, the Home Hospice Association’s death cafés were held in bricks and mortar spaces. When the pandemic forced the cafés online and they no longer had to worry about venues and attendance, it allowed the association to offer more niche programming, such as cafés for parents, pet lovers caregivers and “spoonies” (people experiencing chronic pain).

“I came up with the idea for a spoonies death café because, as a person with chronic illness and disability, I know my relationship with dying and death is fundamentally different than my peers, — especially peers my age,” said Moryoussef, who is now in her late 30s.

The mission at the Home Hospice Association is to offer distinct programming for different communities in the name of accessibility and equitability.

“The reason we even got into this death doula training, development and mobilization was because we could see that our health-care system was not going to be able to keep up,” said Tracey Robertson, a doula and co-founder of Toronto’s Home Hospice Association.

Even if our health-care system could bounce back from its current state, most medical training is about finding cures, and many doctors receive little or no training when it comes to talking about death.

“We’ve all heard the saying that it takes a village to raise a child — we always say that village is equally important at the end of our life as it is in the beginning — some may even say more important,” said Robertson.

Death cafés are part of the foundation for that vision, she explained, because you can only build that village after death is normalized and communities are more comfortable talking about it.

“All it requires is for all of us to just get a little bit more comfortable with the fact that we all are going to be there one day,” said Robertson. “How can we help our neighbour who is faced with the reality of sitting in a doctor’s office and hearing words none of us ever want to hear?”

Complete Article HERE!

The Day Ram Dass Died

— He taught me to be more curious, present, and self-loving. His final lesson was more surprising.

By Christopher Fiorello

I woke up every thirty minutes the night before Ram Dass died. Stretching my perception through the big divider that separated his study—where I lay on a narrow couch—from his bedroom, I’d count the seconds between the short, ragged breaths churning through his sleep-apnea machine.

Four years later, I still have no idea why I was chosen to watch over him that night. I was at the bottom of the caregiver pecking order when it came to things directly related to Ram Dass’s body. I lacked the size and strength to transfer him from bed to wheelchair, or wheelchair to recliner, on my own; was too much of a novice to help organize his schedule or coördinate with his doctors; and was too unfamiliar to offer intellectual comfort in the rare moments that he wanted to talk. I’d met him ten months earlier, had his voice in my head for just three years. There were people in the house, on Maui, who had known him for more than three decades.

Before arriving, I had no formal medical training, but I had done three weeks of volunteering at a hospice facility in anticipation of coming to the island. Most of it involved moving Kleenex and changing the amount of light in empty rooms. Several times I sat with the dying. It was overwhelming to look at their closed eyes, feeling the heaviness in the room, the sense of something happening or about to happen. I scanned their faces for signs of pain, of fear or bliss, of transcendence. Through the palliative haze of opioids, they were impossible to read. No one was thrashing in pain; no one was smiling, either.

But it somehow buoyed me, being so close to death. The heaviness seemed critically important to my spiritual growth. I imagined myself giving peace to the dying through my presence, and in the process conquering my own fear of leaving life behind.

During my time with Ram Dass, I flitted constantly between self-righteousness and self-pity, one day indulging in grandiose fantasies that I was the heir to his legacy, charged with scattering his ashes, and the next imagining that everyone in the house hated me. The caregivers called it the classroom or the fire—a site of purifying work, a pathway to enlightenment.

My own work, purifying or otherwise, consisted mostly of handling various chores needed to keep a six-bedroom cliffside home with a pool, guesthouse, and two-acre yard going. For the bits that mattered—the scrubbing and the laundry and the cooking—there was a team of cleaners and a rotating cast of chefs. I ended up doing a lot of the rest: separating recycling, washing dishes, and replacing cat-scratched screens. There were three other caregivers in the house, and I was given a modest salary, plus my own room, meals, and shared access to a truck. I was an employee, but most days the house felt like a family, for better or worse.

Still, this was only the second time I’d been asked to spend the night in the study. It was generally perceived as an act of intense devotion: accepting a horrible night’s sleep, on a couch that reeked of cat pee, while facing the prospect of Ram Dass dying on your watch. I hated it, but I was there to care for the guy however it was decided that he needed care.

Most of the deciding was done by a woman affectionately dubbed Dassi Ma, a seventysomething lapsed-Catholic firecracker from Philadelphia. Dassi Ma was Ram Dass’s primary caretaker, and, though she no longer did the more strenuous physical tasks, she was still in command of what he got and when, often more so than Ram Dass himself. He was eighty-eight, and his health had been steadily deteriorating owing to a host of issues, including chronic infections. When I moved to Maui to be near him, in February, 2019, he had almost died the night I arrived. He bounced back, to everyone’s surprise but his own. “It wasn’t time,” I remember him saying in his stoic way, neither relieved nor disappointed. Now he had another spreading infection, and what appeared to be a cracked rib from being transferred to and from his wheelchair.

Ram Dass’s life is the subject of multiple documentaries, an autobiography, and a docuseries in development starring “High Maintenance” ’s Ben Sinclair. He was born Richard Alpert in 1931 to a wealthy Boston family. His pedigree was sterling: a Stanford psychology Ph.D., tenure track at Harvard, visiting professorship at Berkeley. In 1963, after five years at Harvard—much of it spent studying psychedelics with his fellow-psychologist Timothy Leary—he was fired for giving psilocybin mushrooms to an undergraduate.

He bopped around for a few years, often taking obscene amounts of mind-altering substances with Leary at the Hudson Valley estate of his friend Peggy Hitchcock. In 1967, like so many other Westerners of the time, he travelled to India in pursuit of exotic answers to life’s biggest questions. He’d grown disenchanted with the psychedelic world, which had come to seem rotely defined by highs and comedowns. In India, he met a Californian hippie named Kermit Riggs and followed him to a village called Kainchi, in the Himalayan foothills, to meet Riggs’s guru.

The guru was an old, squat man named Neem Karoli Baba. Before long, an enthralled Alpert was reborn as Ram Dass, or roughly “servant of God.” He returned to America later that year, arriving at the airport dressed in white robes and with a long, scraggly beard, and began his career as a spiritual teacher. Most of what he talked about, from 1967 to his death, were the experiences he had with Neem Karoli Baba, whom he called Maharaj-ji (“great king”), and the spiritual beliefs that emerged from those experiences.

One of his main ports of call became death and dying. In 1981, he co-founded the Dying Center, in Santa Fe, an organization that described itself as “the first place specifically created to support and guide its residents to a conscious death.” The center sought, in effect, dying people who wanted to use their death to become spiritually enlightened, and staff members who wanted to use other people’s deaths to achieve the same. Even before the Dying Center took shape, Ram Dass was lecturing on the spirituality of death, its place in the natural order, and the starkly contrasting way that he believed it was perceived in the East. His teachings were rooted in a specific vision of metaphysical reality, as informed by his guru and by the Bhagavad Gita, a sacred Hindu text. Roughly, he believed in nondualism, that there existed an unchanging and absolute entity—the Hindu Brahman, which Ram Dass more frequently called God, the divine, or oneness—from which all material reality came. Included in that reality were souls (something like the Hindu atman), which by their nature were caught in the illusion of their separateness from God, repeating a cycle of birth, suffering, death, and reincarnation until they remembered their true nature as part of the oneness—that is, until they became enlightened.

Death could be a crucial moment for remembering this nonduality, as it was when the “veil of separateness” was thinnest. In his 1971 book, “Be Here Now,” which has sold more than two million copies worldwide, Ram Dass summarizes his views: “You are eternal . . . There is no fear of death because / there is no death / it’s just a transformation / an illusion.”

He often spoke to crowds afraid of dying, repeating that he had “no fear of death.” He sat with people on their deathbeds and talked routinely about the power of “leaving the body,” his efforts to “quiet himself” so that the dying could see where they were in the reincarnation process and do what they could to escape it. His stories were sometimes graphic—people dying prematurely, or dying in tremendous pain—but always tinged with a lightness and humor.

Perhaps Ram Dass’s most memorable remarks about death came not from his own mind but from a woman named Pat Rodegast, who claimed she had channelled a spirit named Emmanuel from 1969 to her death, in 2012. Rodegast was working as a secretary, raising children, and practicing Transcendental Meditation when she began to see a light, which evolved into what she called telepathic auditory guidance. Some of that guidance was captured in three books published in the eighties and nineties, two of which came with forewords from Ram Dass. According to Ram Dass, when he asked Emmanuel what to tell people about death, Emmanuel replied that it was “absolutely safe,” “like taking off a tight shoe.”

I first encountered the voice of Ram Dass in 2016. I was twenty-seven and living in New York, in a Chinatown building that rattled every time an empty box truck drove down First Avenue. Each morning, I tumbled down five flights of sticky stairs and placed one of his talks deep into my ears, letting his distinct blend of scientific erudition and spiritual mysticism carry me across town.

He had a habit of segueing from psychological concepts, like attachment theory and childhood trauma, to cryptic ones, like Emmanuel’s messages and the astral plane, pausing briefly to ask listeners if they could really, truly “hear this.” He seemed to build on the insights of others who had revolutionized end-of-life care in America—thinkers such as the psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross—but also spoke in the New Age argot of Alan Watts. I gobbled it all up, feeling my spiritual life deepen exponentially by the day. His lectures made me more prosocial, more anti-capitalist, more curious, and decidedly more self-loving.

This was my second rodeo with spirituality; growing up, a rigid strain of Protestantism had been foisted on me like a chore. In Kansas City, Missouri, I was enveloped by an atmosphere of creationism, tent revivals, and anti-abortion screeds. I still recall standing on a busy street as a six-year-old and holding a sign that read “Before I Formed You in the Womb I Knew You—God.”

The teachings of Ram Dass were nothing like that. They were straight out of the hippie movement, and seemed to license a more liberal, self-directed search for meaning. As the grind and filth of Manhattan wore me down, Ram Dass’s voice became a salve, a way to “wake up to the illusion of our separateness.” I turned to his work again and again—to ease my loneliness when, walking down the street, droves of people moved around me like I was a light post, or to arrogantly tell my ex-girlfriend that we would always be “together,” even though I’d already dumped her.

After a couple of years, I learned that I could actually meet Ram Dass, for free, by signing up for one of his “Heart-to-Hearts”—a one-on-one, hour-long Skype call he offered as a sort of public service. When my time came, and the man appeared onscreen, I was stunned into silence. I had thought of him as a spry, ethereal figure who existed only in decades-old recordings. This Ram Dass was very old and lived with fairly advanced aphasia, a side effect of a major stroke he’d had in 1997. His speech was slow—in our full hour, he said roughly sixty words—but not at all ponderous. I thought it gave him a mystical quality.

There was no format to the session; Ram Dass just smiled his winning smile and listened. At one point, after I’d nervously overshared, he told me, “You take yourself pretty seriously.” That struck me as profound, at least at the time, but what endured was more feeling than words. It seemed he had arrived at a place from which he could find genuine love for strangers like me. It didn’t strike me as brand positioning, or as a form of ego; I didn’t think he loved me in the sense that he wanted to be close, or even that he cared whether we got to know each other. I just believed he saw me as another soul, and that, in his view, made me worthy of kindness.

By then, I was walking around New York, trying desperately to feel connected to anything. I wanted what Ram Dass had. So I left the city, intending, among other things, to get him to show me how to have it.

The friend I’d discovered Ram Dass with had already moved to Neem Karoli Baba’s temple, in Taos, New Mexico. I visited him for a fortnight of cooking group meals, wandering through the snowy high desert, and hobnobbing with Maharaj-ji zealots, including one white teen-ager who insisted that he was the reincarnation of Krishna, one of Hinduism’s most revered avatars. Like the young Krishna of lore, he would steal away to the temple pantry to eat pure butter until caught.

Some of this evoked my childhood church, where kids compared how quickly they could transition into speaking in tongues, or flexed the depth of their personal relationship with Jesus while leading a collective prayer. But this was my first encounter with Neem Karoli Baba devotees; I figured followers would be a bit more mellow the farther I got from his temple. Toward the end of my stay, I met a longtime friend of Ram Dass. He saw that I was eager to do volunteer work—known as seva, Sanskrit for “service”—so, when he learned of my intent to find Ram Dass on Maui, he offered to put in a good word to Dassi Ma.

That recommendation made the seemingly impossible possible. People of all ages came to the island to be near Ram Dass. Some found their way into the group texts for arranging kirtan—living-room chanting sessions at Ram Dass’s house—or beach excursions. A few found opportunities to be useful around the house, or made friends with one of the live-in caregivers, enabling them to drop by every week or so. But to be offered to help care for Ram Dass, for pay, as a virtual nobody, was exceptionally rare.

Upon arriving at the house, I found it shot through with the same quasi-religious fervor I had seen at the temple. I was quickly intercepted by another caregiver and taken to a lean-to, in a nearby pasture, so that I could silently meditate with prayer beads. It was incredibly humid, and I got annihilated by mosquitoes. I returned to the house to find a living room packed with people chanting—mostly the Hanuman Chalisa, a devotional hymn that features verses like “With the lustre of your vast sway, you are propitiated all over the universe.” A collective effervescence filled the room, and I joined along, staring at hundreds of statuettes of religious figures while fighting back the sense that I was in church.

After more than an hour of chanting, we milled about, greeting one another over chai and snacks. Attendees swapped stories of Maharaj-ji’s miracles, told me that my presence must be part of his plan, sat smiling at Ram Dass’s feet, their hands over their hearts. During my year on Maui, Ram Dass’s foundation led retreats at a local resort, where hundreds of people would gather for spiritual talks and chanting. Inevitably, someone at these events would look at me with confusion or pity when I told them my name was Christopher. “He hasn’t given you a name yet?” the person would ask. Ram Dass often bestowed a Hindu name on people: Lakshman, Govinda, Hari, Devi. I was fine with Christopher.

But there were other moments, informal and fleeting, when I witnessed the mixture of play and profundity that first drew me to Ram Dass. One autumn morning, two other caregivers and I were helping him get through his daily routine—brushing teeth and hair, putting on clothes and hearing aids, making the bed—when I turned on Doja Cat’s “Go to Town,” a song I later learned was about cunnilingus. I cranked the volume, and the four of us started dancing with illicit glee. One caregiver jumped on the bed, another swung from the divider between the bedroom and the study, and Ram Dass waved his one mobile hand with bright eyes and a rascally smile.

Another day, I was alone with Ram Dass, helping him pick out a shirt. Though I spent nearly all my time in the house, I could count the hours we had been alone together on two hands, and most of them had involved food and drink, or foot massages, ostensibly to relieve the pain that he felt from diabetic neuropathy. On this day, the house was recovering from Ram Dass having been denied psilocybin owing to his health. I felt sorrow for him; the drug was, after all, the beginning of his spiritual journey more than five decades prior. I asked him if the house ever felt like a prison. A full minute of silence passed, with me standing over him in his walk-in closet. Eventually, he tapped his temple and said, “This is the prison.”

When morning broke on December 22, 2019, and Ram Dass was still alive, I allowed myself a moment of relief. Dassi Ma came up, looking short on sleep, and took his vitals. They were horrible. We snapped into action, trying to comfort Ram Dass until one of his doctors arrived.

The infection had pooled fluid in his lungs, which made every breath a burden. Wet, rattling half-breaths were punctuated by coughs of bloody mucus. He looked wrecked, but still managed a weak smile when his Chinese-medicine doctor told a joke at his bedside.

At some point, Dassi Ma and the doctor began talking in the study; other caregivers were on an oxygen-tank-and-essentials supply run. I was on one side of Ram Dass’s bed; on the other was his longtime co-author Rameshwar Das, a friend since Kainchi. Then Ram Dass started choking.

It wasn’t that different from any of the other horrible breaths he’d taken that morning, except that he just couldn’t breathe it. When he realized this, he turned to me with a look that haunts me even now: light eyes wide as quarters, mouth open, lips a bit rounded. I immediately panicked, calling for Dassi Ma and trying to get his adjustable bed as upright as possible so that he could clear his throat. Then, when that didn’t seem upright enough, I frantically tried to lug his torso up so that his head could hang over his waist; perhaps he could vomit his throat clear.

Thirty seconds had passed since he first lost his breath. Somewhere from near his feet, the doctor snapped at me: “You have to calm down!” It jolted me into an awareness that Ram Dass was dying, right there. Perhaps it did the same for Dassi Ma, because she sprang for the study, returned with a large framed photo of Neem Karoli Baba, and commanded him to focus. “Ram Dass! Maharaj-ji! Maharaj-ji!” she said, placing the photo at the foot of the bed. She told him that she loved him, that he could go. I told him that I loved him. And then Ram Dass stopped trying to breathe.

I was the only person to leave the room. Stumbling into the study, I picked up my phone, hands quivering, and sent word to the other caregivers: “RD’s dying imminently. Like within the next couple of minutes.”

The wind was screaming outside. On Maui’s North Shore, it wasn’t unusual for it to reach thirty, forty knots, rattling the windows and throwing palm fronds across the lawn. That day, it had blown from early in the morning, under a tightly woven blanket of gray clouds. Sitting in the study, I watched it bend the trees, felt the violence of it, indiscriminate.

Ram Dass believed that fear kept us from recognizing our interconnection to all things. “Change generates fear; fear generates contraction; contraction generates prejudice, bigotry, and ultimately violence,” he said. In his teachings, he often placed fear and love on opposing sides of the human experience. Fear was the by-product of the ego; love was the by-product of the soul that remained pure, in the moment, especially at the time of death. “When we are fully present,” Ram Dass wrote, “there is no anticipatory fear or anxiety because we are just here and now, not in the future.”

And yet this binary is precisely what made watching him die so disorienting. I’ve no idea what Ram Dass felt in those final moments, what he could see or hear. I don’t even really know if that was fear I saw in his eyes, though it certainly looked like it. Perhaps it was surprise or another sensation entirely, the rush of emptiness before a huge plunge into something tremendous.

Whatever it was, its existence seemed largely absent from his teachings. There were times when he acknowledged the pain and coarse brutality of death. In his book “Still Here” (2000), he writes:

Dying is often not easy. the stoppage of circulation and starving of the heart muscle. the inadequate transport of oxygen to tissues, the failure of organs. Where can we hope to stand in our own consciousness during such traumatic conditions, in order to die with clarity and grace?

Yet the emphasis he placed, over decades of lectures, on the importance of grace during death made so little space for terror—for how fear could coexist with presence, and even with love. In the minutes after his passing, the chasm between how he died and how I thought he was supposed to die reminded me of the betrayal I’d felt when, at sixteen, I flouted my mother’s and pastor’s admonitions and stopped asking God for protection, only to discover that a similar slew of terrible and wonderful things still happened to me.

In the house, too, marching through three days of death rituals before Ram Dass’s body was removed, I felt my spirituality slip its moorings. Late on the second night, his body lay on ice in his study—a rite he’d specifically requested, hoping that it would help those around him transcend their fear. I sat on the floor and peered up at his face through candlelight, his skin whitish blue and gaunt, his mouth slightly agape. I waited for grace, for him to speak reassuringly from some other plane of reality. Instead, I was taken back to our final moments together, where fear sutured me to each passing second. Not fear of the past or some uncertain future, but fear of the vast, strange intensity of what is.

Complete Article HERE!

Palliative and hospice care in hospitals and clinics

— The good, the bad, and the ugly

By Earl Stewart, Jr., MD & Miguel Villagra, MD

I walk into the patient’s hospital room during evening rounds. He looks pale and tired, having recently completed a round of chemotherapy for his stage IV pancreatic cancer. His wife is at the bedside, scared and concerned about her husband’s rapid decline. I sit down to discuss goals of care when the patient immediately says, “I can’t do this anymore.” His wife responds immediately to the patient: “Of course you can.” As I delve deeper into the patient’s constant pain and discomfort, the conversation naturally shifts toward a comfort care-focused approach. After 55 minutes at the bedside, both patient and wife agree to further discuss this with the palliative care team. Ultimately, the medical team decided to transition the patient to hospice care.

Similar examples exist in outpatient practice. Take, for example, the 56-year-old female patient with metastatic non-small cell lung cancer who would clearly benefit from early institution of palliative care given the known mortality benefit. When you see her time and again, she engages in candid discussions with you as her physician that she would rather let “nature take its course.” She doesn’t want chemotherapy. She refused radiation. She continues to smoke. She doesn’t want her family to know, and palliative care options, though previously discussed with her, remain out of the question for her.

These are realistic examples from daily practice that present an interesting quagmire to the practicing physician as he or she treads the lines of patient autonomy and applies the evidence of what has been shown to clearly help a patient feel and live better, especially those with terminal illnesses. Tools exist to aid with these difficult conversations, and awareness among the patient, health care professionals, and family members makes all the difference in having these critical discussions. It’s often rather difficult to accept when you are taught to do something but come to the realization that sometimes doing nothing is what a patient prefers. In that moment, you realize that doing nothing means doing everything.

Sometimes practicing hospital medicine is a battle between life and death. Outpatient practice, too, is rife with such battles between the material and immaterial. Palliative and hospice care, though different, offer hope and comfort in some cases. Together, these medical disciplines not only alleviate physical suffering but also, through a conjoined care model, address the emotional and spiritual needs of patients and their families, guiding them through one of life’s most difficult journeys.

Palliative care is a specialized approach that aims to alleviate physical symptoms, manage pain effectively, and reduce the emotional and psychological distress experienced by individuals facing incurable illnesses, irrespective of their specific diagnosis. Palliative care is designed to improve the quality of life for both patients and their families. At the center of this is holistic care. A patient qualifies for hospice services if he or she has an illness that limits his or her life expectancy to six months or less.

Transitioning a patient from palliative care to hospice care is a crucial step that signifies a shift toward comfort-focused end-of-life treatment. Clear communication, compassionate support, and honoring patient and family preferences play critical roles in improving quality of life, increasing satisfaction with care, and enhancing emotional well-being during this transition. This process ultimately hinges on doing what is in the patient’s best interest and ensuring a death with dignity.

Physicians navigating palliative and hospice care face a unique set of emotional and professional challenges, such as handling end-of-life conversations with families to determine a patient’s goals of care, managing pain and symptom control effectively, and addressing spiritual distress in patients. However, within these challenges, there is a profound reward in making a significant difference in the final stages of a patient’s life. It has been previously heralded that caring for the dying patient is indeed a rewarding challenge given the intricacies it presents and doing so is crucially important is physician education. We now know that not only does education matter for physicians in these veins of practice, but it matters for nurses as well.

In palliative and hospice care, an interdisciplinary approach involves physicians overseeing medical decisions, nurses providing direct patient care and symptom management, social workers addressing psychosocial needs, chaplains offering spiritual support, and pharmacists ensuring proper medication management. Each team member contributes his or her expertise to create a comprehensive care plan that supports the physical, spiritual, and psychosocial well-being of the patient, highlighting the power of collaboration in providing holistic, patient-centered care.

Physicians navigating the complexities of palliative and hospice care must adopt practical strategies for effective patient management and compassionate support. Key strategies include fostering open communication with patients and their families, setting realistic expectations, and managing one’s own emotional well-being. Active listening, providing clear and empathic explanations, and involving the entire care team in medical decision-making are crucial for effective patient care.

Though we understand more as a physician community about employing palliative and hospice services for our patients when apropos to providing evidenced-based care, we are aware there is still work to be done to better the delivery of this care.

It has been documented that work is needed to further guide the integration of the family meeting specifically into oncology practice.

Recent data have shown how the institution of information technology and so-called “e-health” methods can be very helpful in individualizing care and extending palliative care services to patients.

We will all have these conversations. We will see patients like these. We charge all physicians to embrace the tenets of palliative care and hospice when appropriate for their patients and to learn more about the services offered in their hospitals, health systems, and practice structures to provide for the most optimal health outcomes.

Complete Article HERE!

The new science of death

— ‘There’s something happening in the brain that makes no sense’

New research into the dying brain suggests the line between life and death may be less distinct than previously thought

By

Patient One was 24 years old and pregnant with her third child when she was taken off life support. It was 2014. A couple of years earlier, she had been diagnosed with a disorder that caused an irregular heartbeat, and during her two previous pregnancies she had suffered seizures and faintings. Four weeks into her third pregnancy, she collapsed on the floor of her home. Her mother, who was with her, called 911. By the time an ambulance arrived, Patient One had been unconscious for more than 10 minutes. Paramedics found that her heart had stopped.

After being driven to a hospital where she couldn’t be treated, Patient One was taken to the emergency department at the University of Michigan. There, medical staff had to shock her chest three times with a defibrillator before they could restart her heart. She was placed on an external ventilator and pacemaker, and transferred to the neurointensive care unit, where doctors monitored her brain activity. She was unresponsive to external stimuli, and had a massive swelling in her brain. After she lay in a deep coma for three days, her family decided it was best to take her off life support. It was at that point – after her oxygen was turned off and nurses pulled the breathing tube from her throat – that Patient One became one of the most intriguing scientific subjects in recent history.

For several years, Jimo Borjigin, a professor of neurology at the University of Michigan, had been troubled by the question of what happens to us when we die. She had read about the near-death experiences of certain cardiac-arrest survivors who had undergone extraordinary psychic journeys before being resuscitated. Sometimes, these people reported travelling outside of their bodies towards overwhelming sources of light where they were greeted by dead relatives. Others spoke of coming to a new understanding of their lives, or encountering beings of profound goodness. Borjigin didn’t believe the content of those stories was true – she didn’t think the souls of dying people actually travelled to an afterworld – but she suspected something very real was happening in those patients’ brains. In her own laboratory, she had discovered that rats undergo a dramatic storm of many neurotransmitters, including serotonin and dopamine, after their hearts stop and their brains lose oxygen. She wondered if humans’ near-death experiences might spring from a similar phenomenon, and if it was occurring even in people who couldn’t be revived.

Dying seemed like such an important area of research – we all do it, after all – that Borjigin assumed other scientists had already developed a thorough understanding of what happens to the brain in the process of death. But when she looked at the scientific literature, she found little enlightenment. “To die is such an essential part of life,” she told me recently. “But we knew almost nothing about the dying brain.” So she decided to go back and figure out what had happened inside the brains of people who died at the University of Michigan neurointensive care unit. Among them was Patient One.

At the time Borjigin began her research into Patient One, the scientific understanding of death had reached an impasse. Since the 1960s, advances in resuscitation had helped to revive thousands of people who might otherwise have died. About 10% or 20% of those people brought with them stories of near-death experiences in which they felt their souls or selves departing from their bodies. A handful of those patients even claimed to witness, from above, doctors’ attempts to resuscitate them. According to several international surveys and studies, one in 10 people claims to have had a near-death experience involving cardiac arrest, or a similar experience in circumstances where they may have come close to death. That’s roughly 800 million souls worldwide who may have dipped a toe in the afterlife.

As remarkable as these near-death experiences sounded, they were consistent enough that some scientists began to believe there was truth to them: maybe people really did have minds or souls that existed separately from their living bodies. In the 1970s, a small network of cardiologists, psychiatrists, medical sociologists and social psychologists in North America and Europe began investigating whether near-death experiences proved that dying is not the end of being, and that consciousness can exist independently of the brain. The field of near-death studies was born.

Over the next 30 years, researchers collected thousands of case reports of people who had had near-death experiences. Meanwhile, new technologies and techniques were helping doctors revive more and more people who, in earlier periods of history, would have almost certainly been permanently deceased. “We are now at the point where we have both the tools and the means to scientifically answer the age-old question: What happens when we die?” wrote Sam Parnia, an accomplished resuscitation specialist and one of the world’s leading experts on near-death experiences, in 2006. Parnia himself was devising an international study to test whether patients could have conscious awareness even after they were found clinically dead.

But by 2015, experiments such as Parnia’s had yielded ambiguous results, and the field of near-death studies was not much closer to understanding death than it had been when it was founded four decades earlier. That’s when Borjigin, together with several colleagues, took the first close look at the record of electrical activity in the brain of Patient One after she was taken off life support. What they discovered – in results reported for the first time last year – was almost entirely unexpected, and has the potential to rewrite our understanding of death.

“I believe what we found is only the tip of a vast iceberg,” Borjigin told me. “What’s still beneath the surface is a full account of how dying actually takes place. Because there’s something happening in there, in the brain, that makes no sense.”


For all that science has learned about the workings of life, death remains among the most intractable of mysteries. “At times I have been tempted to believe that the creator has eternally intended this department of nature to remain baffling, to prompt our curiosities and hopes and suspicions all in equal measure,” the philosopher William James wrote in 1909.

The first time that the question Borjigin began asking in 2015 was posed – about what happens to the brain during death – was a quarter of a millennium earlier. Around 1740, a French military physician reviewed the case of a famous apothecary who, after a “malign fever” and several blood-lettings, fell unconscious and thought he had travelled to the Kingdom of the Blessed. The physician speculated that the apothecary’s experience had been caused by a surge of blood to the brain. But between that early report and the mid-20th century, scientific interest in near-death experiences remained sporadic.

In 1892, the Swiss climber and geologist Albert Heim collected the first systematic accounts of near-death experiences from 30 fellow climbers who had suffered near-fatal falls. In many cases, the climbers underwent a sudden review of their entire past, heard beautiful music, and “fell in a superbly blue heaven containing roseate cloudlets”, Heim wrote. “Then consciousness was painlessly extinguished, usually at the moment of impact.” There were a few more attempts to do research in the early 20th century, but little progress was made in understanding near-death experiences scientifically. Then, in 1975, an American medical student named Raymond Moody published a book called Life After Life.

Sunbeams behind clouds in vivid sunset sky reflecting in ocean water

In his book, Moody distilled the reports of 150 people who had had intense, life-altering experiences in the moments surrounding a cardiac arrest. Although the reports varied, he found that they often shared one or more common features or themes. The narrative arc of the most detailed of those reports – departing the body and travelling through a long tunnel, having an out-of-body experience, encountering spirits and a being of light, one’s whole life flashing before one’s eyes, and returning to the body from some outer limit – became so canonical that the art critic Robert Hughes could refer to it years later as “the familiar kitsch of near-death experience”. Moody’s book became an international bestseller.

In 1976, the New York Times reported on the burgeoning scientific interest in “life after death” and the “emerging field of thanatology”. The following year, Moody and several fellow thanatologists founded an organisation that became the International Association for Near-Death Studies. In 1981, they printed the inaugural issue of Vital Signs, a magazine for the general reader that was largely devoted to stories of near-death experiences. The following year they began producing the field’s first peer-reviewed journal, which became the Journal of Near-Death Studies. The field was growing, and taking on the trappings of scientific respectability. Reviewing its rise in 1988, the British Journal of Psychiatry captured the field’s animating spirit: “A grand hope has been expressed that, through NDE research, new insights can be gained into the ageless mystery of human mortality and its ultimate significance, and that, for the first time, empirical perspectives on the nature of death may be achieved.”

But near-death studies was already splitting into several schools of belief, whose tensions continue to this day. One influential camp was made up of spiritualists, some of them evangelical Christians, who were convinced that near-death experiences were genuine sojourns in the land of the dead and divine. As researchers, the spiritualists’ aim was to collect as many reports of near-death experience as possible, and to proselytise society about the reality of life after death. Moody was their most important spokesman; he eventually claimed to have had multiple past lives and built a “psychomanteum” in rural Alabama where people could attempt to summon the spirits of the dead by gazing into a dimly lit mirror.

The second, and largest, faction of near-death researchers were the parapsychologists, those interested in phenomena that seemed to undermine the scientific orthodoxy that the mind could not exist independently of the brain. These researchers, who were by and large trained scientists following well established research methods, tended to believe that near-death experiences offered evidence that consciousness could persist after the death of the individual. Many of them were physicians and psychiatrists who had been deeply affected after hearing the near-death stories of patients they had treated in the ICU. Their aim was to find ways to test their theories of consciousness empirically, and to turn near-death studies into a legitimate scientific endeavour.

Finally, there emerged the smallest contingent of near-death researchers, who could be labelled the physicalists. These were scientists, many of whom studied the brain, who were committed to a strictly biological account of near-death experiences. Like dreams, the physicalists argued, near-death experiences might reveal psychological truths, but they did so through hallucinatory fictions that emerged from the workings of the body and the brain. (Indeed, many of the states reported by near-death experiencers can apparently be achieved by taking a hero’s dose of ketamine.) Their basic premise was: no functioning brain means no consciousness, and certainly no life after death. Their task, which Borjigin took up in 2015, was to discover what was happening during near-death experiences on a fundamentally physical level.

Slowly, the spiritualists left the field of research for the loftier domains of Christian talk radio, and the parapsychologists and physicalists started bringing near-death studies closer to the scientific mainstream. Between 1975, when Moody published Life After Life, and 1984, only 17 articles in the PubMed database of scientific publications mentioned near-death experiences. In the following decade, there were 62. In the most recent 10-year span, there were 221. Those articles have appeared everywhere from the Canadian Urological Association Journal to the esteemed pages of The Lancet.

Today, there is a widespread sense throughout the community of near-death researchers that we are on the verge of great discoveries. Charlotte Martial, a neuroscientist at the University of Liège in Belgium who has done some of the best physicalist work on near-death experiences, hopes we will soon develop a new understanding of the relationship between the internal experience of consciousness and its outward manifestations, for example in coma patients. “We really are in a crucial moment where we have to disentangle consciousness from responsiveness, and maybe question every state that we consider unconscious,” she told me. Parnia, the resuscitation specialist, who studies the physical processes of dying but is also sympathetic to a parapsychological theory of consciousness, has a radically different take on what we are poised to find out. “I think in 50 or 100 years time we will have discovered the entity that is consciousness,” he told me. “It will be taken for granted that it wasn’t produced by the brain, and it doesn’t die when you die.”


If the field of near-death studies is at the threshold of new discoveries about consciousness and death, it is in large part because of a revolution in our ability to resuscitate people who have suffered cardiac arrest. Lance Becker has been a leader in resuscitation science for more than 30 years. As a young doctor attempting to revive people through CPR in the mid-1980s, senior physicians would often step in to declare patients dead. “At a certain point, they would just say, ‘OK, that’s enough. Let’s stop. This is unsuccessful. Time of death: 1.37pm,’” he recalled recently. “And that would be the last thing. And one of the things running through my head as a young doctor was, ‘Well, what really happened at 1.37?’”

In a medical setting, “clinical death” is said to occur at the moment the heart stops pumping blood, and the pulse stops. This is widely known as cardiac arrest. (It is different from a heart attack, in which there is a blockage in a heart that’s still pumping.) Loss of oxygen to the brain and other organs generally follows within seconds or minutes, although the complete cessation of activity in the heart and brain – which is often called “flatlining” or, in the case of the latter, “brain death” – may not occur for many minutes or even hours.

For almost all people at all times in history, cardiac arrest was basically the end of the line. That began to change in 1960, when the combination of mouth-to-mouth ventilation, chest compressions and external defibrillation known as cardiopulmonary resuscitation, or CPR, was formalised. Shortly thereafter, a massive campaign was launched to educate clinicians and the public on CPR’s basic techniques, and soon people were being revived in previously unthinkable, if still modest, numbers.

As more and more people were resuscitated, scientists learned that, even in its acute final stages, death is not a point, but a process. After cardiac arrest, blood and oxygen stop circulating through the body, cells begin to break down, and normal electrical activity in the brain gets disrupted. But the organs don’t fail irreversibly right away, and the brain doesn’t necessarily cease functioning altogether. There is often still the possibility of a return to life. In some cases, cell death can be stopped or significantly slowed, the heart can be restarted, and brain function can be restored. In other words, the process of death can be reversed.

It is no longer unheard of for people to be revived even six hours after being declared clinically dead. In 2011, Japanese doctors reported the case of a young woman who was found in a forest one morning after an overdose stopped her heart the previous night; using advanced technology to circulate blood and oxygen through her body, the doctors were able to revive her more than six hours later, and she was able to walk out of the hospital after three weeks of care. In 2019, a British woman named Audrey Schoeman who was caught in a snowstorm spent six hours in cardiac arrest before doctors brought her back to life with no evident brain damage.

“I don’t think there’s ever been a more exciting time for the field,” Becker told me. “We’re discovering new drugs, we’re discovering new devices, and we’re discovering new things about the brain.”


The brain – that’s the tricky part. In January 2021, as the Covid-19 pandemic was surging toward what would become its deadliest week on record, Netflix released a documentary series called Surviving Death. In the first episode, some of near-death studies’ most prominent parapsychologists presented the core of their arguments for why they believe near-death experiences show that consciousness exists independently of the brain. “When the heart stops, within 20 seconds or so, you get flatlining, which means no brain activity,” Bruce Greyson, an emeritus professor of psychiatry at the University of Virginia and one of the founding members of the International Association for Near-Death Studies, says in the documentary. “And yet,” he goes on to claim, “people have near-death experiences when they’ve been (quote) ‘flatlined’ for longer than that.”

That is a key tenet of the parapsychologists’ arguments: if there is consciousness without brain activity, then consciousness must dwell somewhere beyond the brain. Some of the parapsychologists speculate that it is a “non-local” force that pervades the universe, like electromagnetism. This force is received by the brain, but is not generated by it, the way a television receives a broadcast.

In order for this argument to hold, something else has to be true: near-death experiences have to happen during death, after the brain shuts down. To prove this, parapsychologists point to a number of rare but astounding cases known as “veridical” near-death experiences, in which patients seem to report details from the operating room that they might have known only if they had conscious awareness during the time that they were clinically dead. Dozens of such reports exist. One of the most famous is about a woman who apparently travelled so far outside her body that she was able to spot a shoe on a window ledge in another part of the hospital where she went into cardiac arrest; the shoe was later reportedly found by a nurse.

an antique illustration of an 'out of body experience'

At the very least, Parnia and his colleagues have written, such phenomena are “inexplicable through current neuroscientific models”. Unfortunately for the parapsychologists, however, none of the reports of post-death awareness holds up to strict scientific scrutiny. “There are many claims of this kind, but in my long decades of research into out-of-body and near-death experiences I never met any convincing evidence that this is true,” Sue Blackmore, a well-known researcher into parapsychology who had her own near-death experience as a young woman in 1970, has written.

The case of the shoe, Blackmore pointed out, relied solely on the report of the nurse who claimed to have found it. That’s far from the standard of proof the scientific community would require to accept a result as radical as that consciousness can travel beyond the body and exist after death. In other cases, there’s not enough evidence to prove that the experiences reported by cardiac arrest survivors happened when their brains were shut down, as opposed to in the period before or after they supposedly “flatlined”. “So far, there is no sufficiently rigorous, convincing empirical evidence that people can observe their surroundings during a near-death experience,” Charlotte Martial, the University of Liège neuroscientist, told me.

The parapsychologists tend to push back by arguing that even if each of the cases of veridical near-death experiences leaves room for scientific doubt, surely the accumulation of dozens of these reports must count for something. But that argument can be turned on its head: if there are so many genuine instances of consciousness surviving death, then why should it have so far proven impossible to catch one empirically?


Perhaps the story to be written about near-death experiences is not that they prove consciousness is radically different from what we thought it was. Instead, it is that the process of dying is far stranger than scientists ever suspected. The spiritualists and parapsychologists are right to insist that something deeply weird is happening to people when they die, but they are wrong to assume it is happening in the next life rather than this one. At least, that is the implication of what Jimo Borjigin found when she investigated the case of Patient One.

In the moments after Patient One was taken off oxygen, there was a surge of activity in her dying brain. Areas that had been nearly silent while she was on life support suddenly thrummed with high-frequency electrical signals called gamma waves. In particular, the parts of the brain that scientists consider a “hot zone” for consciousness became dramatically alive. In one section, the signals remained detectable for more than six minutes. In another, they were 11 to 12 times higher than they had been before Patient One’s ventilator was removed.

“As she died, Patient One’s brain was functioning in a kind of hyperdrive,” Borjigin told me. For about two minutes after her oxygen was cut off, there was an intense synchronisation of her brain waves, a state associated with many cognitive functions, including heightened attention and memory. The synchronisation dampened for about 18 seconds, then intensified again for more than four minutes. It faded for a minute, then came back for a third time.

In those same periods of dying, different parts of Patient One’s brain were suddenly in close communication with each other. The most intense connections started immediately after her oxygen stopped, and lasted for nearly four minutes. There was another burst of connectivity more than five minutes and 20 seconds after she was taken off life support. In particular, areas of her brain associated with processing conscious experience – areas that are active when we move through the waking world, and when we have vivid dreams – were communicating with those involved in memory formation. So were parts of the brain associated with empathy. Even as she slipped irrevocably deeper into death, something that looked astonishingly like life was taking place over several minutes in Patient One’s brain.

The shadows of anonymous people are seen on a wall

Those glimmers and flashes of something like life contradict the expectations of almost everyone working in the field of resuscitation science and near-death studies. The predominant belief – expressed by Greyson, the psychiatrist and co-founder of the International Association of Near Death Studies, in the Netflix series Surviving Death – was that as soon as oxygen stops going to the brain, neurological activity falls precipitously. Although a few earlier instances of brain waves had been reported in dying human brains, nothing as detailed and complex as what occurred in Patient One had ever been detected.

Given the levels of activity and connectivity in particular regions of her dying brain, Borjigin believes it’s likely that Patient One had a profound near-death experience with many of its major features: out-of-body sensations, visions of light, feelings of joy or serenity, and moral re-evaluations of one’s life. Of course, Patient One did not recover, so no one can prove that the extraordinary happenings in her dying brain had experiential counterparts. Greyson and one of the other grandees of near-death studies, a Dutch cardiologist named Pim van Lommel, have asserted that Patient One’s brain activity can shed no light on near-death experiences because her heart hadn’t fully flatlined, but that is a self-defeating argument: there is no rigorous empirical evidence that near-death experiences occur in people whose hearts have completely stopped.

At the very least, Patient One’s brain activity – and the activity in the dying brain of another patient Borjigin studied, a 77-year-old woman known as Patient Three – seems to close the door on the argument that the brain always and nearly immediately ceases to function in a coherent manner in the moments after clinical death. “The brain, contrary to everybody’s belief, is actually super active during cardiac arrest,” Borjigin said. Death may be far more alive than we ever thought possible.


Borjigin believes that understanding the dying brain is one of the “holy grails” of neuroscience. “The brain is so resilient, the heart is so resilient, that it takes years of abuse to kill them,” she pointed out. “Why then, without oxygen, can a perfectly healthy person die within 30 minutes, irreversibly?” Although most people would take that result for granted, Borjigin thinks that, on a physical level, it actually makes little sense.

Borjigin hopes that understanding the neurophysiology of death can help us to reverse it. She already has brain activity data from dozens of deceased patients that she is waiting to analyse. But because of the paranormal stigma associated with near-death studies, she says, few research agencies want to grant her funding. “Consciousness is almost a dirty word amongst funders,” she added. “Hardcore scientists think research into it should belong to maybe theology, philosophy, but not in hardcore science. Other people ask, ‘What’s the use? The patients are gonna die anyway, so why study that process? There’s nothing you can do about it.’”

Evidence is already emerging that even total brain death may someday be reversible. In 2019, scientists at Yale University harvested the brains of pigs that had been decapitated in a commercial slaughterhouse four hours earlier. Then they perfused the brains for six hours with a special cocktail of drugs and synthetic blood. Astoundingly, some of the cells in the brains began to show metabolic activity again, and some of the synapses even began firing. The pigs’ brain scans didn’t show the widespread electrical activity that we typically associate with sentience or consciousness. But the fact that there was any activity at all suggests the frontiers of life may one day extend much, much farther into the realms of death than most scientists currently imagine.

Other serious avenues of research into near-death experience are ongoing. Martial and her colleagues at the University of Liège are working on many issues relating to near-death experiences. One is whether people with a history of trauma, or with more creative minds, tend to have such experiences at higher rates than the general population. Another is on the evolutionary biology of near-death experiences. Why, evolutionarily speaking, should we have such experiences at all? Martial and her colleagues speculate that it may be a form of the phenomenon known as thanatosis, in which creatures throughout the animal kingdom feign death to escape mortal dangers. Other researchers have proposed that the surge of electrical activity in the moments after cardiac arrest is just the final seizure of a dying brain, or have hypothesised that it’s a last-ditch attempt by the brain to restart itself, like jump-starting the engine on a car.

Meanwhile, in parts of the culture where enthusiasm is reserved not for scientific discovery in this world, but for absolution or benediction in the next, the spiritualists, along with sundry other kooks and grifters, are busily peddling their tales of the afterlife. Forget the proverbial tunnel of light: in America in particular, a pipeline of money has been discovered from death’s door, through Christian media, to the New York Times bestseller list and thence to the fawning, gullible armchairs of the nation’s daytime talk shows. First stop, paradise; next stop, Dr Oz.

But there is something that binds many of these people – the physicalists, the parapsychologists, the spiritualists – together. It is the hope that by transcending the current limits of science and of our bodies, we will achieve not a deeper understanding of death, but a longer and more profound experience of life. That, perhaps, is the real attraction of the near-death experience: it shows us what is possible not in the next world, but in this one.

Complete Article HERE!

I understand why people are wary about assisted dying

— But it gave my mother a dignified end

Protesters gather in London to call for a change in the law to support assisted dying.

The Dutch legalisation spared her further misery. We don’t take euthanasia lightly; we’re just grateful to have the option

By

My mother, Jannèt, was 90 years old when she ended her life by means of euthanasia. For years she had been suffering from numerous serious and painful conditions that made her life miserable. She always worried about her health and was terrified of what the future undeniably held in store for her: more pain, more dependence on others, more suffering, more desperation.

On 20 June 2022 at 2pm she was visited by a doctor and a nurse. They had a last conversation with her, during which the doctor asked her if euthanasia was still what she wanted. My mother said yes. She had already decided that she would take the drink herself instead of being injected. She didn’t want to mentally burden the doctor more than necessary.

I was impressed by my mother’s courage in the face of death. She was completely calm, almost cheerful. Before the procedure started, she spoke briefly to us, her three daughters. She told us how it was important to take care of the Earth wisely, to recycle as much as possible and to look after one another. She then drank the small cup in one gulp. She fell asleep very quickly and 15 minutes later the doctor told us her heart had stopped beating. A long and tormented life had come to an end.

The country in which I live, the Netherlands, was the first in the world to legalise euthanasia in specific cases. That was in 2001. Assisted dying has become generally accepted in our country. We talk about it openly and we consider the possibility when situations call for it. We are grateful that this option exists, because it prevents so much pointless suffering. But we never talk about it lightly. Assisted dying has always remained something huge, something you don’t resort to lightheartedly.

Renate van der Zee’s mother Jannèt
‘I was impressed by my mother’s courage in the face of death.’ Renate van der Zee’s mother Jannèt

As a matter of fact, you can’t. In the Netherlands it will always remain a criminal offence to end a life. Exceptions are made only when a whole range of requirements are met. First of all, the patient must ask for it themselves and must therefore be mentally capable of asking for it. In addition, there are all kinds of due care requirements. For example, the doctor must be convinced that the request for assisted dying is voluntary and that the patient has carefully thought it through. The doctor must also be convinced that the patient’s suffering is hopeless and unbearable. That they can no longer heal, that it is not possible to alleviate their suffering and that there is no reasonable other solution. At least one other independent doctor must be consulted. That independent doctor will discuss the situation with the patient and form his or her own opinion about the situation.

Assisted dying is allowed only if a person is suffering owing to a medical cause, not if someone is simply tired of life or feels that their life is complete. My mother didn’t feel that her life was complete. There were still things that made her happy. She loved flowers and plants; she loved politics; she followed the news. But because of her deafness, incontinence and many other conditions she became socially isolated. Visits from friends became too much for her, and at a certain point even phone calls became impossible.

Walking became very difficult, and she grew afraid to go outside. She always loved to wander through a neighbourhood park, especially in springtime, when the bluebells and lilies of the valley bloomed abundantly. But she was no longer able to go there, not even in a wheelchair. She always enjoyed reading and watching nature programmes, but those things too became increasingly difficult. Her numerous ailments and her lack of mental resilience to deal with them made a normal daily existence impossible. And there was no prospect of improvement.

My mother’s euthanasia was a long process. Five years before her death, she told her GP that assisted dying was what she wanted if her life became unbearable. Over the years, my older sister discussed this wish with her during long conversations. She also took charge of all the conversations that were necessary before permission was finally given.

My mother wanted to celebrate her 90th birthday before she took leave of life. Her last birthday fell on Easter, which she regarded as meaningful. But what kind of birthday gift can you give to someone who will soon be gone? My older sister came up with the idea of making a book in which all her loved ones wrote down what she meant to them, or reminisced. She was very happy with that.

We sat close to her when she died. My younger sister took my mother’s hand and she held it tightly. The older sibling said in a soft voice, “You can close your eyes now, Mum.” That’s what my mother did. I sat there and tried not to cry. It’s not easy to witness your mother drinking a deadly potion and dying after 15 minutes.

The next day was the first day of summer. The sun was shining, the weather was beautiful. I woke up with the pain that my mother was gone. But also with a feeling of relief and deep gratitude that, after such an incredibly difficult life, she had been granted a painless and dignified death. I knew we had given her a great gift.

Complete Article HERE!