Talking About Death Won't Kill You: The Essential Guide to End-of-Life Conversations
216
Talking About Death Won't Kill You: The Essential Guide to End-of-Life Conversations
216Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Death is a part of life. We used to understand this, and in the past, loved ones generally died at home with family around them. But in just a few generations, death has become a medical event, and we have lost the ability to make this last part of life more personal and meaningful. Today people want to regain control over health-care decisions for themselves and their loved ones.
Talking About Death Won’t Kill You is the essential handbook to help Canadians navigate personal and medical decisions for the best quality of life for the end of our lives. Noted palliative-care educator and researcher Kathy Kortes-Miller shows readers how to identify and reframe limiting beliefs about dying with humor and compassion. With robust resource lists, Kortes-Miller addresses
advance care plans for ourselves and our loved ones how to have conversations about end-of-life wishes with loved ones how to talk to children about death how to build a compassionate workplace practical strategies to support our colleagues how to talk to health-care practitioners how to manage challenging family dynamics as someone is dying what is involved in medical assistance in dying (MAID)
Far from morbid, these conversations are full of meaning and life — and the relief that comes from knowing what your loved ones want, and what you want for yourself.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781770414068 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ECW Press |
| Publication date: | 03/06/2018 |
| Pages: | 216 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
Why Dying Matters to Me
'There may be no single thing that can teach us more about life than death.
— Ariana Huffington
I remember clearly the very first day of my second shot at a Ph.D. program. I sat in a circle with my fellow new students. It felt a bit like kindergarten, but it was exciting nonetheless. There we were, all of us eager to divulge our plans for research and how we hoped to make a difference in the world. One by one, we shared our ideas and passions and talked about what we wanted to study and why. Our peers responded enthusiastically, nodding their heads, asking questions and making suggestions for further reading, other scholars and researchers to explore. It felt like a supportive, collaborative space.
When it was my turn, I leaned forward into this great group of people and said, "I want to study death education."
There was silence in the room. Crickets.
Finally, after what felt like an uncomfortably long pause, one of the professors — a seemingly kind and gentle soul — spoke up. "Ahhh," he said. "Deaf education. So, you want to work with the hearing-impaired?"
"Uh, no, not really," I replied, trying to push down a sense of dread and panic. "I'm thinking death ... with a 'th.'"
Silence.
"As in dying, dead, death," I stammered.
More crickets.
That's when it occurred to me that maybe we 're all a bit hard of hearing when it comes to talking about the end of life.
This reception to my research idea was a bit disheartening. Here I was, proposing to focus exhaustively for the next five or more years on a subject that no one wanted to talk about. I might have considered finding a new topic, of giving up on death. But I knew I couldn't. That's because I'd already had the experience of being shut down when I'd tried to talk about dying. And I was determined not to let it happen again.
The previous year, precisely 12 days before I was to start that same Ph.D. program, I was diagnosed with cancer. I was 37, a mother of two active children, a wife and an educator, and I had a malignant tumour, 10 centimetres long, in my colon. Instead of beginning my studies, I spent a year in treatment, putting on hold not only the Ph.D. but most aspects of my life as I recovered from my surgery and learned how to navigate what they call "the new normal."
After I was diagnosed, I was referred to a very well-respected surgeon, considered one of the best in her field in Canada. We met on the day I was supposed to begin my first Ph.D. course. I wanted to tell this surgeon that I was scared. I wanted to tell her I was afraid of dying and leaving my children without their mother. I wanted to tell her what I really should have been doing that day instead and how heartbroken — and, frankly, pissed off — I was to be in her office rather than at school!
But I didn't get the chance to say any of those things. ''If you're going to get cancer, this is the kind to get,'' the surgeon told me matter-of-factly. I was a bit confused: I had just told her that my aunt had died of the same disease when she was only a few years older than I. Still, I managed to get up the guts to say, "I'm really scared I'm going to die, and there are some things I want you to know."
She shut me down. "Don't talk like that," she said. "You are not going to die."
And, you know, she was right. Thank God, she was right. I haven't died yet! I owe that surgeon a debt of gratitude for her role in saving my life. Still, though, I wished then, as I wished throughout my treatment, and as I wish now, that someone — one of the multitude of health-care providers I encountered throughout my time as a cancer patient — would have talked with me about the "death elephant" in the room. I could have died. My aunt did. Many others have. I'd supported some of them. I needed someone to hear me out, to let me take ownership of my living until I died.
That's what I want for all of us: to feel like we have a sense of control, to feel heard and to feel safe to talk about dying and death in the midst of our life and living. I want us to have a better death education.
Your Death Education
Take a moment to think about your own death education: how have you learned and how do you continue to learn about dying and death? What was your first lesson? Who was your teacher? What was your take-home message? And how does the sum total of your death education thus far serve you today in how you think and talk about dying and death?
If you're shrugging your shoulders and shaking your head in puzzlement (My "death education"? Who has a death education?) at my questions above, you're not alone. Most of us spend more time choosing a new car than we do thinking about the end of life. The vast majority of us have very little in the way of formal (not to mention informal) training or education about what it means to die. I teach an undergraduate course to future health-care providers — called Introduction to Palliative Care — about how to support people who are dying. Most of the 18- and 19-year-olds who take my course have never experienced the death of someone close to them and have thought very little, if at all, about what death means to them. This isn't unusual: the average health-care professional receives only a few hours of death education over the course of his or her schooling, if they are lucky. If our front-line medical workers, the very people who will most often confront death and dying, have so little in the way of death education, how can they properly and compassionately and productively care for people who are dying? And how can the rest of us, without any formal training, hope to do the same? Let alone think about what we might want for ourselves.
No wonder we struggle with understanding death. Somehow, we've forgotten that we must face the end of our own lives and those of our loved ones. Let's face it: all of us will be intimate with death at least once. Yet we live in a death-denying and death-defying society. We try to pretend death doesn't exist. If someone we love dies, we are granted (or we grant ourselves) only a brief period to grieve, to mourn, and then the expectations of life kick us right back into overdrive. We are expected to get on with things, get over the person we lost — in no small part to make things easier for those around us. I returned to working with people who were dying three days after my aunt, with whom I was very close, died.
This approach does not serve us well. It creates a vicious cycle: we neglect our death education (it's easy to do when no one ever brings up the topic or offers us a course), so we lack the emotional and practical skills when it comes to facing death. Because we tend to fear what we don't know, we become increasingly scared of talking openly about the end of life. Complicating this is the fact that most of us already fear the process of dying: we 're scared about pain, loss of control, losing people we love, being ripped from our own lives, uncertainty. That fear can lead to anger as we pretend that dying and death aren't integral parts of life and living. We feel isolated as we grapple alone, trying to make sense of our emotions around death. Many of us feel ashamed: of our fears, of our lack of knowledge — even of our desire to learn more about the end of life. All these negative emotions can lead to denial; we'd rather not experience them, so we work even harder to avoid learning about death. And then, when we 're faced with death — with the cancer diagnosis or the progressive disease or the car accident or the eventual decline of old age — we are too overcome with grief, disbelief and denial to think about and plan for it coherently.
We need to break this cycle.
When we do break it, we become open to learning and talking about dying and death as an integral part of life. In so doing, we can change the conversation from something negative to one of understanding, compassion and acceptance. Our newly developed and healthy respect for dying and death will strengthen us on both personal and societal levels. We will be able to take better care of our dying and approach our own deaths with less fear and more comfort. When we demystify death and encourage critical thinking, research and debate about it, we will better learn how to support one another in this unavoidable part of life. And we need to begin this work before we, or our loved ones, get sick and before we become overcome by grief, fear and denial. We have to start today to develop our knowledge and understanding and to shift our thinking.
We can do this. We've already done it, ironically, with the beginning of life: birth. In only a couple of generations, we have greatly transformed childbirth from a highly medicalized, mysterious, doctor-centric and sometimes shameful or embarrassing process into one that puts mothers, babies and parents at the centre. We have hundreds of books and countless websites and forums devoted to pregnancy and birth. We talk about it constantly and, more often than not, women have at least some say in how, when and where they will give birth and who will help them do so. New mothers report feeling empowered because they had the opportunity to make plans, learn about the birthing process and share stories with other women. I'm not arguing here that we have perfected childbirth in the Western world, but it is normal to talk openly and often about how we would like our babies to be born, with obvious advantages.
Now we need to do the same with our dying. In the same way that we increasingly understand birth as a social and natural — rather than a medical — process, we need to understand death as a human experience, as social as birth and as worthy of our attention, education and conversation. We need the same kind of research into the benefits of comprehensive death education. We do know that when people feel empowered to talk about their dying, and feel supported and cared for at the end of their lives, they report having less fear, less pain and less anxiety. Those close to the dying person — and each death has a direct impact on at least five people — report that the dying process is meaningful and provides an opportunity to discuss unfinished business, hopes and dreams, and to say good-bye. When we believe that how we die matters, we are more likely to make plans, have important conversations and ultimately die with less regret. We will still grieve our losses, but we will also find solace in knowing that our loved ones died with a sense of control and that they were well cared for. It is the same for our own deaths; we will have a sense of closure and control, and we will hopefully have made peace with the paths our lives have taken.
As Dame Cicely Saunders, the founder of the modern hospice movement, said, "How people die remains in the memory of those who live on." The way we care for people at the end of life reflects our values and compassion as a society.
Changing our approach to death requires a shift not only in our own attitudes but also in our medical establishment. Death is inevitable; it is rarely a medical "failure." But our medical system is trained to "fix" things. That's great when what ails you is fixable, but not everything is. As palliative care physician and author Dr. Ira Byock writes, "Our health-care system is well-honed to fight disease, but poorly designed to meet the basic needs of seriously ill and dying patients and their families. We can do both. We must." We need to find space in our medical and health-care systems to allow natural death. We cannot continue to abandon people when medicine can't cure them, to tell them "there's nothing more we can do."
Because we can do lots to prepare for dying. And it starts with talking about it. It extends to creating communities that step up in a compassionate way when we need them. I think we're ready: the Canadian Hospice Palliative Care Association reported in 2014 that nearly three-quarters of Canadians are beginning to think about the end of life.
Perhaps I am selfish, but now, when as I teach, I imagine the students in my courses as one day being charged with caring for me at the end of my life. I try to instill in them a desire to connect with people, separate from their diseases or conditions. I challenge them to recognize that learning with their heart is a part of their education that needs to be nurtured and developed every bit as much as their clinical skills and theoretical knowledge. I encourage them to think about how they will want to be cared for when they are dying. Ratner and Song (2002) speak to an overarching goal for comprehensive death education that resonates with me: "As educators, we claim to prepare our students for life. We need to prepare them for death as well" (p. 15).
I know that talking about death isn't easy: it is sad and scary, and — for many — it's a taboo topic. I've had to do it as a healthcare provider, fumbling through conversations as I learned on the job. More recently, I have had to do it as a patient, a friend, a wife, a daughter and a mother. But for me, it is essential. We need to bring death out into the open, witness it, talk about it, learn about it and recognize that dying matters because it is an inevitable part of our lives. And in so doing, we can be more prepared, make better decisions about the kind of care we want and ultimately improve the dying experience for ourselves and those we love. I now know that when I am dying, I want to be cared for by people who do not avoid the elephant in the room — the reality of death. I need those closest to me to believe that dying matters.
So, I bet today isn't a good day for you to die. Hopefully tomorrow won't be, either. But maybe today is a good day for you to start talking about death. Let's take death out of the closet and give ourselves — and those we love — a gift and make space in our living for our dying. Canadians are going to be talking about dying and death a lot over the next few years as baby boomers age, and as we figure out how to move forward in light of the Supreme Court of Canada's decisions regarding medically hastened death, which I explore in detail in Chapter 9.
We owe it to our families, friends and communities to show them that dying matters.
We owe it to one of the first patients I ever cared for, who told me in no uncertain terms that she was too young to die, but everyone treated her like she was too old to live. She was 94.
We owe it to the children we confuse when we use euphemisms to talk about dying and death ("Grandma's gone;" "We put the dog to sleep"), instead of clear, honest language to explain this important life event.
We owe it to the groups of tweens/teens who sit in the dark in movie theatres and sob when their beloved characters, like Augustus in The Fault in Our Stars, die. We need to not let movies and books do all the teaching about death for us. We need to talk to our children about dying in the light of day.
We owe it to the vast majority of Canadians (anywhere from 7o to 84 percent) who, according to the Canadian Hospice Palliative Care Association, do not have access to palliative and end-of-life care services, and to even more Canadians who have no access to grief and bereavement services. We need to make death education and these services more accessible to all.
We owe it to the First Nations, who are working hard to figure out how to provide palliative and end-of-life care for elders in their own communities, in ways that honour their traditions.
We owe it to those who phone the call-in radio shows on euthanasia and assisted death and tell us that we treat animals better than humans because at least we euthanize our pets when they are old, sick and in pain.
We owe it to our health-care providers, who are just beginning to figure out that allowing natural death is not a failure, and who are learning how to integrate, when it's appropriate, hospice palliative care.
We owe it to the baby boomers, who are going to let us know exactly what they expect from us at the end of their lives.
And we owe it to my friend Derrick. Exactly one year ago, two weeks before he turned 50, Derrick was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, an aggressive form of cancer in the blood. He has spent the past 12 months fighting his cancer — rounds of chemotherapy and radiation that left him nauseated, weak and hairless; a stem cell transplant that isolated him from his friends and home; and experimental treatments that offered a shred of hope. Today, he learned that that last hope for a cure has failed: his cancer is back. Derrick is dying. He may have only weeks left to live.
When I walked into his hospital room, Derrick looked beaten and exhausted. He reminded me of a fighter who realized he has lost his battle. We hugged. We cried. And he said to me, "I need to talk to you about dying."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Talking about death won't kill you."
by .
Copyright © 2018 Kathy Kortes-Miller.
Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: Why Dying Matters to MeCHAPTER 2: Why Dying Matters
CHAPTER 3: Dying to Know: Improving Our Death Literacy Rate
CHAPTER 4: Dying Matters to Our Families
CHAPTER 5: Inquiring Minds Want to Know! Talking with Children
CHAPTER 6: Discussing Dying and Death in the Workplace
CHAPTER 7: Navigating Challenging Conversations with Healthcare Providers
CHAPTER 8: Holding Space with Someone Who Is Dying
CHAPTER 9: Posting, Tweeting & Texting: Dying and Death in a Digital World
CHAPTER 10: Dying on (Some of) Our Own Terms
CHAPTER 11: Dying to Know: Moving the Conversation Forward
Appendices