The Art of Dying Well
November is the month of the dead. Today, those words seem distasteful, but for centuries, remembering and honoring the deceased held a place of distinction in the calendar year. As the crops were harvested and the earth left barren and the days grew shorter and colder, nature herself appeared to call humanity to sobering reflections on mortality.
The vestiges of the age-old traditions of homage to the dead provoke surprise and nervous humor in some. Visitors to Rome marvel at families gathering together to make a trip out to the monumental cemeteries of Verano and Prima Porta. Many are taken aback in confession when they receive a penance to offer prayers for the souls in Purgatory. To modern persons, it comes as a shock to see ornamental motifs like skeletons and flying hourglasses, or a crypt decorated in bones. We push to the margins of consciousness the thought that these bizarre images could have meaning in our day.
And yet they do. The constant reminder of human mortality in art, in architecture and in prayer was intended to prepare the Christian for the inevitability of death, and promote an interest in the ars bene moriendi, the art of dying well.
While contemporary society may scoff at the Christian manifestation of the good death, it is most certainly interested in the subject of how to die well. In the midst of summer fun and sun, the New York Times magazine this summer ran an article titled "The Search for the Good Death." On the magazine cover, however, the word "death" was printed in such pale tones as to be almost illegible. If the mere word must be hidden from view, how can people confront the fact?
The article by Robin Marantz Henig betrayed the difficulty Americans have in facing death and dying. Henig's interviews and research show that the American idea of a "good death" is one that can be "micromanaged." Many terminally ill patients believe that in choosing the amount of pain relief and medical intervention and place of dying — home, hospice or hospital — they can somehow control death.
Yet while attending to the details of death, the fact of dying becomes increasingly obscured. The language of mortality conceals itself in euphemisms — "end of life," "last phase" and "passing." In a world where even explicit sexual material has become an acceptable topic of polite conversation, the subject of death has increasingly taken its place as social taboo.
Moving examples of individual stories illustrate how Americans are ever more inclined to conceal death: physically, by staying in hospitals and hospices rather than at home, and emotionally, by denying the reality of dying through obscuring words and phrases.
The desire to tame death into quiet submission leads to the misconception that one can select how to die and what to die from. A relatively minor leap separates the idea that terminally ill patients should be spared as much pain as possible from the demand that the patient be allowed or even "helped" to end his or her life through euthanasia, or in the language of denial, "physician-assisted dying."
On October 5, 2005, the U.S. Supreme Court heard the Gonzales v. Oregon case which considers the "Death with Dignity Act" passed by the State of Oregon. This law allows doctors to prescribe a lethal dose to a terminal patient.
Assisted suicide aims at sparing patients dependence on others as they are less able to care for themselves. A prescription for a lethal injection releases the dying person from eventual suffering and loss of faculties by releasing him from life itself. This, according to current Oregon law, is a "dignified" death.
John Paul II recognized the insidious threat inherent in man's attempt to take the role of God into his own hands. From the "right to die," it would be only a matter of time until the old and infirm would have "a duty to die." While appearing to affirm human dignity, such measures deny the inherent value of human life and lead inexorably to a "culture of death."
According to many US opinion polls, over half of the population is in agreement with this definition of a good death. Yet this quintessentially modern notion flies in the face of centuries of Christian wisdom regarding what constitutes a good death. The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that direct euthanasia "is morally unacceptable." (2277) As regards the dying, they "should be given attention and care to help them live their last moments in dignity and peace." The family's privileged role is clear, they are to help through prayer and "see to it that the sick receive at the proper time the sacraments that prepare them to meet the living God." (2299)
Herein lies a fundamental difference &151; death not as a good end, but a good transition, a transition which needs proper acceptance and readiness.
The words of the Catechism were given eloquent example in the actions of John Paul II whose last great act of teaching was the demonstration of the Christian good death.
In September 2005, the Holy See released the official account of the death and funeral of John Paul II. The first four pages clinically describe the ailments and activities of the last weeks of the Holy Father, from the first hospitalization on February 1 to his final hours on April 2.
This short chronicle, while medically exact, does not do justice to the dramatic and heroic nature of those concluding months. Those of us living in Rome have indelibly engraved in our memories the Pope's urgent hospitalization and the forest of film crews camped around the clinic. Nor will witnesses ever forget his triumphant ride through the streets of Rome as he returned to the Vatican, seemingly victorious over death itself.
This extraordinary man, who had already defied society's tendency to shun the sick by keeping up a full public schedule despite his increasingly obvious Parkinson's disease, also showed us true dignity in death.
The Pope's illness took a turn for the worse on February 24, when he was re-hospitalized and the doctors performed a tracheotomy to ease his breathing. Although he again returned from the hospital, John Paul II was not as quick to recover speech as many had hoped. One of the first realizations that the end of the pontificate had come was when the Pope appeared at his window above St. Peter's Square for the Easter Blessing, and although he pulled the microphone before him to speak, no words would come out. He stood, a "mute Pope" at the window for thirteen minutes and the faithful began to understand that soon the silence would be forever.
One of the great magisterial moments of this period took place during Holy Week when the Pope was televised in his chapel on Good Friday watching the Via Crucis taking place in the Coliseum. Seen only from the back, hunched over and weak, the vision of this once-robust pontiff wrenched the hearts of viewers. But during the last station, the world saw John Paul II embracing the cross with his cheek resting against the wood, and the dignity of accepting suffering, weakness and death needed no words.
Five days later, he made his last silent appearance above the square. The same day, a feeding tube was required to ensure proper nourishment for the Holy Father. Thursday, March 31, the Pope was stricken by a high fever and the world knew the end was near.
The account narrates that John Paul II, rather than return to the hospital, chose instead to remain in his apartments. This decision did not exclude medical care &151; which continued as before — but allowed the Pope to be in familiar surroundings and with the people he loved.
These last private days, invisible to the thousands gathered in the square below, are described in the account as a time of prayer. After he was administered the Anointing of the Sick, the Pope concelebrated Mass every day and was constantly surrounded by people praying for him.
The account also reveals that during the Mass for the Feast of Divine Mercy, "Polish hymns accompanied the celebration and blended with those of the young . . . gathered in prayer in St. Peter's Square."
In this setting, as the Mass was offered at the foot of his bed and the faithful sang outside, John Paul II died at 9:37 p.m. on April 2, 2005.
The stories of the saints highlight the moment of death and their certainty that they are going to heaven. John Paul II's last words were, "Let me go to the house of the Father." For Christians, the end of temporal life coincides with the commencement of the eternal one.
In his last days, John Paul II taught that although science can ease the physical discomfort of death, palliative care should not be used as a cloak to mask the fact of dying. Modern technology can anesthetize the dying process, but science offers no wisdom regarding how to address the reality of death itself.
The Church has taught her members how to confront mortality for two millennia. High mortality rates right up to the last century made death a vividly real part of every person's experience from childhood. The Catechism states that "the Church encourages us to prepare ourselves for the hour of death," meaning that a good Christian life should be lived as Thomas a Kempis suggests in the Imitation of Christ.
"All your actions, all your thoughts, should be those of one who expects to die before the day is out. Death would have no great terrors for you if you had a quiet conscience."
The Christian definition of a good life is in a good death. To render less fearful the end of bodily life, art and literature were called into service. St. Francis' poem, "The Canticle of the Creatures," encourages all to praise God "for our sister bodily death, from whom no living man can escape."
In painting, St. Joseph's death was represented as the ideal end for Christian men and women. Surrounded by his wife Mary praying by his bedside and his Son Jesus authoritatively pointing upwards towards heaven, Joseph was the first man to know with certainty that he would go to the "house of the Father."
The revival of the ars bene moriendi in the 17th century led to more extravagant representations of death. The winged skeletons and empty hourglasses portrayed in monuments like the Tomb of Alexander VII Chigi in St. Peter's Basilica again forced the faithful to face the inevitability of dying. Although a man could not choose when his earthly life would end, he could choose in what manner he would face his end.
In striking contrast to what most people think, quick death is not the best death. The litany of the saints asks for deliverance from "a sudden and unforeseen death," for as St. Francis said, "Woe on those who die in mortal sin!" Constant vigilance and preparation were needed — no room for denial here.
At the same time, the ever-present reminder of mortality gave significance and importance to every person's life from the most exalted to the humblest.
The emphasis on man's every action transformed him into the protagonist of the most important spectacle on earth, his own life. Each decision, reaction and deed was a choice, like those made by the greatest artists, and the result was the individual work of art, a life to be offered to God when the moment of death came.
The Rome of dramatic piazzas opening suddenly off medieval alleyways and church facades resembling theatrical stages was created in the 17th century to remind citizens and pilgrims alike that one does not know what waits around the corner and that it behooves the good Christian to always be ready for the curtain to fall. At the same time, bright marble, gold gilding and brilliant light effects offer solace and beauty. Death is not the end, but the beginning of something more precious than earthly life.
Contemporary culture concentrates on the temporal aspect of the process of dying and as a result loses sight of the eternal world that waits beyond. Christians need to remember that acceptance and preparation are the keys to facing this transition. Those skeletons that so amuse tourists serve as a stern warning: "Hodie mihi, cras tibi," or "Today death strikes me, tomorrow it will be you."
This apparent threat is simply a friendly Christian reality-check echoing Jesus' injunction: "Be ready, for you know not the day or the hour."
Elizabeth Lev is an American art historian in Rome.
© Ignatius Press
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