In the Midst of Life

but it is more likely that I was inarticulate.
    Someone led me to the waiting room and brought me a cup of tea.
    I cannot remember my state of mind – confusion, panic, anger, self-reproach were all mixed up and churning around. Time passed.What were they doing? A ‘cardiac incident’? That could mean anything. When had it occurred? Why, oh why did I take that walk? I should never have done it. Never. I should have gone straight back after breakfast, and then I would have been there to protect her. I envisaged her, weak and helpless, wanting me, perhaps calling for me, and I wasn’t there. I had abandoned her.
    I ran back to intensive care, and banged on the door, calling out, ‘Let me in, let me in,’ but a man came out and told me: ‘No’. I tried to push past him, but he completely blocked my path and held me back. An indistinct picture of white-coated figures, and masses of black machines and wires around a naked body on a bed, was all I saw before the man shut the door. A nurse led me back to the waiting room. She saw my distress and was very sweet. My mother had suffered a second heart attack, she told me, and the resuscitation team were doing all that they could to save her. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said softly, ‘your mother is in good hands. They know what they are doing.’
    ‘But why can’t I go in?’
    ‘It really would be best if you stay here.’
    And so I did, as everyone has to. No one is permitted to see a full-scale hospital resuscitation taking place.
    I sat in numb grief for two hours. Self-reproach amounting to self-flagellation haunted me. If I had not taken that damned walk I would have been with her, and protected her from the violence of resuscitation. But would I? Could I? You never know in life, and it is always easy to be wise after the event. Could I have sat there and watched my mother suffer a heart attack, the symptoms of which I was well acquainted with, and done nothing? Could I have calmly observed her sudden pain, my mother clutching her chest with both hands, gasping, throwing her head back, mouth wide open in a frantic attempt to draw air into her lungs, her colour changing rapidly to a pallor that betokens death? Could I have witnessed this and done nothing? Of course not! In any case, my mother was still wired to cardiac monitoring equipment after the first heart attack, and red lights would have been flashing, warning signals screaming way beyond the confines of the intensivecare unit in which she was being treated. The resuscitation team would have arrived anyway, and would have taken over. I would have been told to go to the waiting room, which is where I sat for two long, dreadful hours.
    Eventually, a doctor came and told me that my mother was dead. They had done all that they could, he told me gently, but she had not responded.

 
     
    ‘Since death (take my words literally) is the true goal of our lives, I have made myself so well acquainted during the last few years with this true and best friend of mankind that the idea of it no longer has any terrors for me, but rather much that is tranquil and comforting. And I thank God that he has granted me the good fortune to obtain the opportunity of regarding death as the key to our true happiness. I never lie down in my bed without considering that, young as I am, perhaps I may on the morrow be no more. Yet not one of those who know me could say that I am morose or melancholy, and for this I thank my Creator daily, and wish heartily that the same happiness may be given to my fellow men.’
     
    —
the young Mozart in a letter to his father

A GOOD DEATH
     
    There are many neuro-muscular degenerative disorders – motor neurone disease, Parkinson’s disease, multiple sclerosis, Huntingdon’s chorea, among many others. Each follows a similar, though slightly different, pattern. Basically, the nerve endings start to degenerate, and with it, muscular control starts to slip, and the condition is progressive over a number of years. Cognitive function is usually not involved, and there are many examples of a brilliant mind in the wreck of a body – Professor Stephen Hawking springs to mind. However, different areas of the brain can sometimes be affected. If the centres regulating speech are damaged, a misdiagnosis of dementia may be made, with tragic results for the patient. I can think of few conditions more heart-rending than to be trapped, unable to speak, in a degenerating body over which you have no control,