On addressing tough subjects
A fascinating aspect of the Coronavirus crisis is the light it has directed upon the humanity’s attitudes to mortality and death.
This is a tricky subject because it simultaneously touches upon the fact that every living species goes about its daily business from a starting point that death is not a personal issue – or perhaps just happens to others – and yet at the same time must be aware that at some point it is going to come calling for us all.
Human beings, thanks to their large brains and capacity for thinking outside their particular boxes are more aware of it than most.
At the same time, as a generality we don’t like being reminded of it and/or tend shy away from its implications – most probably because it’s “not the done thing” and – to an extent – an unfortunate a subject to raise in polite society because it might lead to us, or at the very least the vulnerable or disadvantaged, to ponder upon the theme of “Oh, what’s the bloody point?”, the comedian Kenneth Williams’ famous last entry in his diary before he committed suicide.
On the other hand – necessarily – there are those in life who have greater contact with mortality because of their careers, jobs, callings or life’s work.
I’m thinking of the 1.5 million in the medical and nursing professions working in or close to the NHS (and coincidently another 1.5 million who in some form or another work in social care), those who deal in medical/scientific research, those in the military, the fire service, ‘key worker’ jobs, the police and indeed those who work in the funeral directing business.
Traditionally, humanity pays great respect to those who have passed on, and especially so to those who have the misfortune to die young, or in some way “before their time”.
War-time is a particular case in point. In the 20th Century the UK – and the world at large – has made something of an obsession of revering those who volunteered and/or were conscripted to serve in the military in the two World Wars and who ended up either “giving their today for our tomorrow” or returning afterwards to civilian life broken, disabled or mentally ‘shot’ by their experiences.
I’m reminded as I type of those who suffered from ‘survivor guilt’ – such as the UK Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, wounded three times in WW1, severely so at the Battle of Flers-Courcelette (an action on the Somme in 1916).
After the War he never returned to his studies at Balliol College, Oxford, describing it as – for him – a “city of ghosts” because so many he had known there had perished in that conflict.
To an extent, the his biographies attest, a large part of his drive – and devotion to work and duty, including his forbearance and stoic acceptance of difficult things in his life (including his wife’s long affair with Lord Boothby) – in his subsequent life and career were down to his inner determination that somehow he must do his best to ‘make up’ for the deaths of his Edwardian contemporaries whom he felt had been superior fellows to himself.
I doubt that many would disagree with the proposition that life is precious.
There are those, religious or not, who hold that it is precious above all things and whose logic and/or beliefs on the matter underpins their attitudes to abortion, disability, terminal disease and/or life-threatening conditions.
There are others – many of them in the walks of life and professions that I mentioned earlier in this piece – who take (some might suggest have to take) a more pragmatic, or should I say “less absolute” approach.
I’m not making value judgements here about any individual person because, of course, there are people who believe in God working in the fields of both science and medicine, just as there are people who do not.
However, on a fundamental level, sometimes we have to face up to addressing our mortality.
The best part of four decades ago, my wife and I drew up our wills. Back then it seemed somewhat unnecessary task – we were young, embarking upon married life at the time – and indeed a weird thing to be doing.
Yet afterwards – having addressed issues such as who might get what of our vast estate when and if we (and any children we might have) all died simultaneously in the same plane crash – we agreed we were left feeling both content and secure in having done it.
Two years ago I was involved in the making of a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) declaration by an aged parent.
I can recall, nearly ten years ago now, having a conversation with my father and a pal, both in their eighties, who were both bemoaning the current health standards and protocols of the medical profession.
As the pal graphically put it to us “In the old days you could ring your GP, he’d pop round with a dose of something and that was that”: at the time the speaker was actively researching how many pills he needed to amass in order to do away with himself if the time ever came when he’d “had enough”.
Separately, my godfather, two years shy of his century and living in the colonies, signed off his most recent email to me with the cheery message: “About this time of day I weigh up the evils of drink on the physiology of the body and am pleased to tell you the desire for a ready mixed G & T on my veranda (in 33 degrees C) has overcome any desire to live forever. More soon …”
I composed these random thought today having listened to a phone-in discussion on DNR being conducted on Radio Five Live read this report by Conor Boyd, health reporter, on the just-issued NHS guidelines and “frailty scoring system”, as appears overnight upon the website of the – DAILY MAIL
