December 19, 2005
I have learned in this year of illness that legislation for
the right to die at a time of one's own choosing, and with help
if necessary, will and should come.
'You have multiple myeloma. It's not curable, but it is treatable.
The usual outlook is one to eight years." In the bed next
to mine an old man who'd had two toes amputated because of diabetes
was crying loudly. I don't know why they insist on putting men
and women together in hospital rooms these days. I don't think
either sex likes it much.
I had never heard of multiple myeloma, which is cancer of the
bone marrow. I'd been in Africa, was sick while I was there
and sicker when I got home, and thought I had picked up some
exotic virus. My doctor sent me to the Royal Melbourne Hospital,
where after many blood tests the diagnosis was made.
The world of illness is a different world. Weeks later I stood
before the mirror, 13 kilograms lighter, my head completely
bald, a plastic tube burrowed into my chest, and saw myself
a poor, diminished creature. I used to bustle about. Now I walked
slowly, weakly. When I went out into the street I marvelled
at how well and strong all the people looked. I felt no longer
one of them.
I didn't cry, though I came close to it when my hair came out
in my hands and lay in long strands on the floor of the shower.
I didn't pray, and I didn't ask, "why me?" as others
have told me they have. As far as I can tell there's no one
up there handing out fairness; in any case, I wouldn't even
want a God who would save me and let so many innocent children
die. I am sure the parents of those hundreds of children buried
under the rubble of the earthquake in Pakistan prayed.
All right, if I'm going to die, let's get it over with, I thought.
But that was a year ago and I haven't died yet, despite my refusal
to think "positive" thoughts. Why am I writing about
this now? Partly because I couldn't before. But also because
there is nothing unusual about my case. Multiple myeloma is
fairly rare, but cancer is not. One in four, or even one in
three people will get it.
There's a whole community of us out there; we can be seen around
the place in our headscarves and wigs and beanies, and we recognise
each other and give each other sympathetic smiles. Please leave
Kylie Minogue alone, I shouted silently to the media. She's
one of us and I know how she feels: she just wants to be left
alone.
What have I learned in my year of illness? That there is an
amazing degree of kindness around. I have been overwhelmed by
kindness: the kindness of family, of friends, of work colleagues;
the kindness of people in shops and cafes in my local shopping
centre; the kindness of the doctors and nurses at the Royal
Melbourne Hospital, far beyond the requirements of their professions
(oh, but the food at the RMH is an insult to sick people!);
the kindness of my specialist, who tells me to stop talking
about dying. There simply is a great instinct for kindness in
most people. One thinks a system should be devised in which
this is more strongly appealed to.
I have learned that this is a society in denial about death
— hardly a revolutionary discovery, it's often been remarked
on. On one level everyone knows they are going to die, but the
mind slides away from it. People change the subject. At first
I was critical of this, but now I think it has to be this way.
You can't spend your life being constantly aware of your death.
Harder was the other realisation that struck me with force:
not only will I die, but so will everyone else: every single
one, every little baby with dribble running down his chin, every
carefree teenage girl, every rich and powerful businessman.
All must die. What is the point then?
You have to learn again what you always knew. Life is more precious
because it is brief and the only one there is (and really, who
would want an eternity of anything, even paradise?). What matters
— and I do apologise for this sentimentality — is
that although every individual will die, the human race will
go on. I believe it will, and I even believe it will get better.
Notwithstanding the strange, apocalyptic times we are in, I
still believe in the continuing, gradual, difficult, faltering
improvement of the human condition. If I had space I could make
a rational argument for this.
Fear of death is natural; it's what keeps us alive when we are
young and strong. But for most older people, for whom death
is no longer a remote, unlikely possibility, the fear is not
so much of death as of what might precede it: prolonged pain
and sickness and (especially) dementia. More than death, what
most people fear is the prospect of being kept in some sort
of half-life for years, being spoonfed and toileted in some
nursing home, sans mind, sans personality, sans dignity.
What I have learned in this year of illness is that legislation
for assisted suicide — for the right to die at a time of
one's own choosing, and to have help to do so if necessary —
will and should come. It will come because the majority of the
population wants it (according to opinion polls), and because
those who protest so loudly every time the subject is mentioned
are a minority. To know there is the means to end life peacefully
and painlessly when they want to would be a great comfort to
most old people. This is a kindness that we, as a society, need
to extend to ourselves.
Last week when I walked into the hospital, which is now as familiar
as a second home, some schoolchildren were there singing Hark
the Herald Angels Sing. All year, music students come into the
hospital wards and play instruments and sing.
Others come to offer conversation and pastoral care, for those
who want it. In the foyer, volunteers sell knitted toys and
jams and raffle tickets to raise money to help the hospital.
There it is again, that human kindness. It's all around, if
you care to look.
This is my last column. It has been an immense privilege to
have this space for so long, to have my say about things. I
have not set out to be a "contrarian", as I have been
described, but then, to offend no one you will say nothing.
I do want to thank all of you who have read, either approvingly
or disapprovingly, what I have written over the years. I will
miss you.
Pamela Bone retired on Friday December 16, 2005 after 23 years
with The Age.
