I want to share two articles on end-of-life care. If you have some time, read Atul Gwande's article in the New Yorker. (I really, highly, strongly recommend this article -- essential reading)
Next, read a shorter article on the same topic in the New York Times.
Gawande's article presents the end-of-life debate with perfect juxtaposition of fact, reason, and emotion. I found myself releasing my breath in long, deep sighs, as if to comfort myself with the control.
What happens when we are faced with a situation when tubes and pills and caustic solutions running into our veins and breathing machines and new organs leave us in more pain, more depressed, and alive not one day longer? On the day of our diagnosis, or even our birth, did we imagine ending our struggle like this?
"Spending one’s final days in an I.C.U. because of terminal illness is for most people a kind of failure. You lie on a ventilator, your every organ shutting down, your mind teetering on delirium and permanently beyond realizing that you will never leave this borrowed, fluorescent place. The end comes with no chance for you to have said goodbye or 'It’s O.K.' or 'I’m sorry' or 'I love you.' "
A cultural phenomenon has led us to a place where we believe if we acknowledge death we acknowledge defeat.
I recently read a spiritual book that implored its readers to remind themselves of their mortality each day, then ask, "How do I live, knowing I will die?" By acknowledging death (for some this is more imminent than others) we free ourselves from trying to escape it and allow ourselves to focus on living.
This same concept can be applied to how we view, expect, and provide medical care in the last years, months, and hours of our lives.