The moment of death is profound, so we must ensure that it is done as well as possible
A THIN, green, cheap plastic sack, knotted at the top and full of what looked like washing. Amazing how something so simple can cause such pain. After my mother died suddenly at the age of 68, we got her personal belongings back in a sack like that.
My mother died nearly 12 years ago, but the ugly object sitting on the windowsill of the Royal Irish Academy meeting room made it seem as if it were only minutes ago. No doubt I was raw anyway, because my father died only nine months ago. Not only that, but we have had an annus horribilisin the school where I teach, with so many tragic deaths that our coping and caring resources were stretched to breaking point.
No doubt I have already turned off many readers. If it is because thinking about death is too painful because of a recent bereavement, go with my blessing. If, however, it is because the subject makes you uncomfortable, maybe you should stay a while.
One of the reasons I was in the Royal Irish Academy was perched on the windowsill beside the offending sack. The other bag was a muted shade of dark green, with a design featuring part of a purple spiral. It looked discreet and dignified. No connotations of old laundry there.
The Irish Hospice Foundation launched a range of resources this week designed to bring dignity to the process of dying. When someone you love has died, small things matter. Small things like the bag their belongings are handed back in, the belongings that still bear their distinctive scent.
I often think that we Irish do funerals very, very well. Think of Garret FitzGerald’s funeral, where his grandchildren read and sang, and the faith which suffused his life was simply and beautifully expressed. It was a family funeral, despite all the trappings of pomp and power that accompany a State funeral. I was sitting in one of the rows reserved for the public. I wanted to go because my father loved Garret, and now they are both gone. Funny, sometimes, how all roads seem to meander back to the same spot, in this case, the stark reality of death.
Yes, we do funerals well. We have a deep-rooted sense of the healing power of ritual. We know how to magically fill a house with sandwiches and cake to sustain visitors. We queue up to express our solidarity, sometimes for an hour or more.
But we don’t always do death well. Due to my brother’s quiet devotion, my father died at home, his head lifting from the pillow for three breaths spaced so far apart it seemed that the next one would never come, and then, it didn’t. He was gone. The stoic who was the hardiest patient our local GP had ever seen was gone.
He was surrounded by people who loved him, who had kept vigil by his bedside for three days and nights. He slept for much of those last few days. There were no declarations of love, or anything even vaguely dramatic. We are from the country, for God’s sake. We don’t go there.
My father was fortunate, not only because of my brother’s wish to honour what he would have wanted, but because local services were willing to come at all hours, including the GP.
Most people would want a death like that, but few will get it. Three-quarters of deaths occur in hospitals or long-stay facilities. After my mother’s sudden death, the nursing staff were very kind, but so many things were handled badly, including the mortician who greeted us in a stained apron when we went to view her body for the first time.
The Hospice Foundation do death well. They are not frightened of it. They see it as a moment of profound significance.
Although this was the official launch, some of the resources have been in use for a number of years. They are part of the Hospice-friendly Hospital initiative, which aims to bring sensitivity and compassion to the experience of dying.
Hospitals are busy places, so part of the aim is to provide discreet symbols, such as an “end of life” sign depicting a triple spiral, to alert everyone in a ward that someone has died or is dying. There is a beautiful purple drape placed over the deceased person as she or he is moved from the ward. At the launch, a video illustrated the respect that greeted the trolley, as some people blessed themselves or others bowed their head, very much as people would when a funeral passes in the street.
As a student, I worked in a hospital and sometimes got the impression any death was viewed as a failure by some doctors, rather than a natural part of life. People were so rushed, even then, that sometimes grieving families were told tragic news in corridors, or held the hand of a dying person as other families chatted and laughed beyond a curtain. The end-of-life spiral on display in a ward protects people from such unintended insensitivity.
Most of the resources use a rich purple, and the triskele, or triple spiral, found in Newgrange. It was chosen because it has deep resonance in our Celtic history, and so transcends any denominational symbol. It was adopted as a symbol of the Trinity, true enough, but it is far more ancient and deep-rooted. Newgrange was constructed around 3,200BC, more than 600 years before the Egyptian pyramids and 1,000 years before Stonehenge. There is also a small non-denominational ward altar, which contains resources for most of the major faiths, or could simply hold a lighted candle for a person from a humanist or atheist background. Of course, all of these resources are just outward symbols of an inward disposition. Long-time hospice movement supporter Marian Finucane, who launched the resources, used the word kindness several times.
Kindness is the most under-rated virtue. A grieving family needs its balm more than anyone else. Death is as much a part of life as birth, as the triskele implies. Whether you have a religious faith or not, the moment of death inspires awe, as the life force departs, leaving only a shell behind. The Irish Hospice Foundation resources allow us to honour that moment.