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Hans, el padre de mi esposa, efectuó viajes desde Connecticut a Europa incluso ya bien entrados los ochenta años. Erudito autodidacta, apasionado por la historia y la religión, no estaba dispuesto a permitir que la edad se interpusiera impidiéndole asistir a conferencias y realizar giras. Si encontrarse con gente interesante significaba tener que salvar en avión grandes distancias, que así fuera. Después de todo, viajar no le agotaba, sino que más bien le rejuvenecía. Un familiar predijo sobre él: «Cuando muera, lo hará con las botas puestas».
La Nochebuena de 1992, cuando ya tenía noventa años de edad, Hans estaba sentado sobre una bala de heno, con una capa de ovejero sobre los hombros y un cayado de madera en la mano, tras haberse presentado como voluntario para representar el papel de pastor en la Navidad, al aire libre. Al sentir el frío, pidió que lo llevaran dentro y, poco después, alguien lo tenía que llevar de regreso a casa en el coche, a pesar de que sólo estaba a muy poca distancia. Pero Hans no consiguió llegar. Al detenerse el coche ante la casa, cuando el conductor le abrió la portezuela para que bajase, Hans ya no estaba con vida.
Perder inesperadamente a un amigo o familiar siempre produce una conmoción. Pero si se trata de una persona anciana que ha vivido una vida plena, también puede ser una bendición. Seguramente, si pudieran elegir, la mayoría de la gente elegiría morir como Hans: feliz y rápidamente. Pero son pocos los que siguen ese camino. Para la mayoría, el fin llega gradualmente.
Seguramente, si pudieran elegir, la mayoría de la gente elegiría morir feliz y rápidamente. Pero son pocos los que siguen ese camino.
Morir significa casi siempre una dura lucha. Parte de esta lucha está compuesta por temor, que a menudo hunde sus raíces en la incertidumbre de un futuro desconocido e imposible de conocer. Otra parte puede deberse a la urgencia de cumplir obligaciones no realizadas o a la necesidad de liberarse de lamentaciones o culpabilidades pasadas. Pero otra parte también se debe a nuestra resistencia natural ante el pensamiento de que todo aquello que conocemos está a punto de llegar a su fin. Llámesele instinto de supervivencia, voluntad de vivir o como se quiera, el caso es que se trata de una poderosa fuerza primigenia. Y, excepto en casos raros, como por ejemplo aquellos que mueren en un estado de sedación a causa de los medicamentos, puede proporcionar a la persona una resistencia extraordinaria.
Con la voluntad de vivir, la persona puede superar situaciones increíbles. Pero a la muerte no se la puede evitar continuamente y la vida física ha de llegar por último a su final. Por extraño que parezca, nuestra cultura se resiste a aceptar esta verdad.
En los siglos pasados, la peste, el hambre y el cólera diezmaban las ciudades y, tarde o temprano, cada familia se veía afectada por la muerte de una mujer durante el parto o la pérdida de un bebé. Según señala el escritor Philip Yancey: «Nadie podía vivir como si la muerte no existiera». En la actualidad, gracias a la medicina moderna, a las mejoras en la alimentación, la sanidad pública y una mayor expectativa de vida, la muerte ya no parece aquella otra realidad inevitable de antaño y, cuando no podemos evitarla, la ocultamos. Yancey dice al respecto: «Los clubes de salud se han convertido en una industria en expansión, lo mismo que la nutrición y las tiendas de dietética. Tratamos la salud física como una religión al mismo tiempo que nos alejamos de todo aquello que nos recuerda la muerte: funerarias, unidades de cuidados intensivos, cementerios, etc.».
Al mantener esos tabúes, hemos eliminado en buena medida la muerte de nuestra experiencia cotidiana. Pero esa moneda también tiene otra cara: hemos perdido la habilidad para aceptar el final de la vida cuando esta se produce finalmente. No quiero decir con ello que debamos restar importancia a los temores de un moribundo, induciéndole a aceptar la muerte como una amiga, tal como hacen algunos expertos. Hay muy buenas razones para ver la muerte como una enemiga, que es como la describe la Biblia. Lo mismo que el autor de los Salmos, que ruega que la mano de Dios lo mantenga firme mientras cruza por el «valle de la sombra de la muerte», a la mayoría de la gente no le hace ilusión morir, sino que más bien lo contempla con recelo. Incluso mi tío Herman, a pesar de que murió muy seguro de sí mismo, se tuvo que esforzar para llegar a ese punto y admitió su temor de que aquello sería como entrar en un túnel largo y oscuro.
Se ha escrito mucho acerca de cómo consolar al enfermo terminal, pero habría que recordar que cada individuo tiene necesidades y deseos únicos. Una persona se mostrará habladora y nerviosa, otra serena y ensimismada y otra completamente angustiada. Una se sentirá deprimida, otra tratará de negociar con Dios y otra estará tranquila. Todas éstas son respuestas normales y ninguna de ellas es acertada o está equivocada. Después de todo, morir es un proceso complejo que afecta a un complicado y enmarañado espectro de emociones humanas: terror, ansiedad y agotamiento, esperanza y alivio. Todos esos sentimientos afectan no sólo al moribundo, sino también a quienes le rodean.
Extracto del capítulo “Morir” del libro No tengas miedo
It is important to consider a dying person’s surroundings. A hospital may be best for recovering from surgery, but it is hardly the ideal place to die. For one thing, it cannot possibly match the familiarity and comfort of a home; for another, visiting hours do not allow for the spontaneous coming and going of close friends and family members.
is sometimes excruciatingly difficult. One person will find the environment of a hi-tech intensive care unit reassuring; for another, the maze of wires and IV lines and the constant bleeping of electronic monitors is so disruptive that it prevents sleep. Either way, it is vital to try to discern a dying person’s wishes and to communicate them to the attending physician, even if they go against our own gut feelings, and even at the risk of being misunderstood. Medical technology has made great advances in recent years, but beyond a certain point it may prolong dying, instead of extending life. The line between the two is often very fine.
Naturally, a private setting is no guarantee of a peaceful death. When adult children who have not lived together for years gather at the home of a dying parent, they just as often clash as harmonize. And when wills and inheritances are involved, even carefully hidden tensions may explode into the open. All the more it is important that when we enter the room of someone who is near death, we are aware of his need for peace, and respect it. It cannot be said strongly enough: a deathbed is no place to bring up old grievances. Nor is it the place to belatedly press for reconciliation.
It is different if the dying person feels the need to resolve something, or if we can set something right by offering a simple apology. According to hospice nurse Maggie Callanan, co-author of the book Final Gifts, the emotional needs of the dying are often more painful than their physical ailments, and the failure to address them can leave them so unsettled that they feel unable to die. Remembering a dying Vietnam vet she once helped, she writes:
One day I received an urgent call from the nurse on duty.
“Please get here fast,” she said. “Everything seemed to be going okay, but now Gus is very confused and anxious, and we’re losing it.”
“No, I bet we’re finally getting it,” I thought to myself. I had wondered how long Gus would be able to keep up the tough-guy façade. I felt there must be times he felt frightened – even if he wouldn’t talk about it, or allow his fear to show.
The scene was chaotic. Gus was crying out in anguish; his speech was so disjointed it was hard to make any sense of it. But in his confused language were the words “villages,” “babies,” “napalm,” “burning” – and the tragic words “I did it, I did it!”
Eventually, Gus’s caregivers figured out that he wanted to see a chaplain – a request they were happy to meet. Shortly afterward, Gus died, relieved at having been able to unburden himself to a local priest.
Sometimes the distress of the dying is rooted in the worry that no one knows what they are going through –or that they are about to go. This fear may be present even in people who are surrounded by a large circle of friends or family members. To quote Final Gifts once more:
Many dying people are lonely, not only because people don’t visit, but also because of what happens when people do visit. Visitors may spend their time with the person wrapped up in idle talk about the weather, sports, or politics. Perhaps because, consciously or unconsciously, it’s intended to do so, their chatter keeps the dying person from being able to speak intimately. A dying person’s world shrinks, narrowing to a few important relationships and the progress of his illness. When dying people aren’t allowed to talk about what’s happening to them, they become lonely, even amid loving, concerned people. They may feel isolated and abandoned, and in turn become resentful and angry.
“I have read many books about dying, but this is the one I would give to someone approaching death or facing bereavement. From start to finish it shines with hope. I want a copy beside my bed when my time comes.” —Paul Brand, M.D., author, Pain: The Gift Nobody Wants
Small talk and humor have a place alongside prayers, of course; there is nothing more oppressive than unnatural holiness. But far more significant than words are simple deeds of love: a cloth offered to cool a burning forehead, a hand reached out to steady a shaking shoulder, ointment to moisten dry lips. Though modest, such acts of kindness are all most people want or need at the end. Helen Prejean, a nun who has accompanied prison inmates to their deaths, notes that even when there is nothing you can do, you can still ensure that at least one face he sees as he goes will be comforting him with eyes of love.
Unfortunately, the dying often take their last breaths alone. Sometimes a person appears to be slipping away, but hangs on for weeks or months. In other cases, a person may seem to be on the mend, only to surprise everyone by dying suddenly. Interestingly, hospice workers have found that when a person is worried that his death might distress loved ones, he may try to spare them by waiting until he is alone, and only then breathing his last.
On the day that Rob, a friend, died a few years ago, he called his wife and children to his room, told them each how much he loved them, and wished them well for the future. Hours later he was gone. Brad, another friend, was unable to say goodbye. When he fell ill, his children (all adults) traveled long distances to see him one more time. One of them always remained at his bedside, ready to call the others at a moment’s notice. When the end came, however, it came so quickly that most of his children were not in the house. All were deeply disappointed, and some even felt guilty.
In trying to help this family through their grief, I reassured them that whether or not we are there, no one is truly alone at the hour of death. On the contrary, I believe that the dying are always in God’s hands.
Recalling the last night he spent with a patient who died of cancer, a doctor I know wrote in his journal:
Although intermittently confused, Mark made several lucid comments between labored breaths. At one point he said something about “going” somewhere, and I replied, “Yes, you can go, Jesus will take you!”
“But it’s so hard!” he responded.
I said, “Don’t cling to us. Cling to God!”
“I’m trying,” he said, “but I don’t know what to do next. It’s so unfamiliar!”
“Yes, but you are going before us,” his mother said. “And then you can tell us how to get there.”
Later Mark asked his father to read something from the Bible, which he did. Just as he was finishing Romans 8, Mark said, “Maybe Jesus will come!” Several of us responded, “He will come!”
Later he said quite loudly, “Can’t wait much longer!”
Over the next half hour, Mark’s breathing became more labored, though every few minutes he would say something. Sometimes it was just one word; sometimes a whole sentence, but hurriedly spoken between gasps, and hard to understand. His eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to see us any more: “This is a great struggle…You don’t know how tired I am! Pathetic…Don’t focus on…but on the spiritual.” And later: “Gotta go…Jesus…Amazing! Very real…”
After a pause, he added “I feel real bad, but I can’t do anything about it now.” We assured him that whatever he regretted, he was forgiven; that God would take him; and that it would be very soon. Mark then asked for water, and said, “Gonna go very shortly…One of my best days…”
About an hour and a half later, he took his last breath.
As Mark’s story shows, dying is a mystery before which we can do little but stand in awe. If someone is fighting for life, we can uphold him and fight with him; if he seems ready to die, we can assure him that we understand, and release him. Beyond that, however, we must get out of the way. I say this because ultimately, nothing is so crucial at the bed of a dying person than an atmosphere of peace. And as long as we focus on ourselves and our attempts to ease his pain, we risk disrupting and distracting him, and preventing him from finding this peace.
, everything – no matter how important it once seemed to be – falls away. And when it is gone, nothing matters but the state of the soul. We cannot look into a person’s heart; nor is it our place to worry about how he stands before God. But in opening our eyes and ears to what he is going through, we can share his suffering by letting it become ours, and we can pray that he finds mercy and grace. Finally, we must let the dying go, trusting, as Henri Nouwen puts it, “that death does not have the last word. We can look at them…and give them hope; we can hold their bodies in our arms. And we can trust that mightier arms than ours will receive them and give them the peace and joy they desire.”
