"Come on, Dad. Let's go home," he let me lead him back to the car, repeating to himself: "The tree has huge termite damage. It could be treated but that would only prolong its suffering."

"What's the ultimate meaning of suffering?" He asked me quietly in the car, as he watched the tree disappear behind us.

"I don't know, Dad. I really don't."

"In a world without God," he continued as I was driving: "One's suffering doesn't mean much beyond itself. Your predicament is only worsened by this realisation..."

"But you don't believe in God, Dad. Do you?" I asked, confused by his monologue.

He continued, without answering my question: "Your demolition as a human being will never mean anything. You suffer for nothing, You suffer for nothing, you die, you disappear..."

"Please, Dad, don't talk about death. You'll live for many more years," I begged.

"I have to talk about it. When the inevitable is coming, my daughter. Death denial is also life denial." He smiled at me. "Because if we had a chance to live forever or better still, if we were allowed back to do it better next time, then we'd just fritter away time doing things that don't inspire us."

"Give me the chance to live forever and I promise you I'll cherish every minute of my life," I laughed.

"No you wouldn't, and you know it. We cherish only what's precious to us, the things we may lose," he got out of the car to walk toward his old house.

The house had a fragile beauty with its delicate bones of deteriorating carved wood and iron fences: "Just like in the cemetery, my next home," my father nodded quietly, entering his home for the last time.

The concept of dying is so taboo...

Western society

still

doesn't

really

get death,

shutting

their eyes

and their

ears,

in the slightest

mention

of this word.

Something

in the very distant

future.

Something

to be avoided

at any costs,

and yet

it's the only

certainty

for us,

for every person

who draws breath.

"Death is life's best invention",

the late Steve Jobs once said.

"Capable of stripping

away all pride

and fear

of embarrassment,

failure,

and all external expectations.

Leaving behind

only

what's truly important".

The carers of the dying

are surrounded

by death

every day.

They know it all

very well.

The living

don't

want

to hear

or talk

or write

about the final chapter

of life.

The window of opportunity

to better understand death

prompted one doctor

named Doug Bridge

to take notes

while conversing

with the dying.

The result

a beautifully

confronting

writing:

'Conversations with the dying.'

Even more compelling

is the knowledge

that all died

soon after

their words had

become

immortal...

There's no connection

to the afterlife,

no voices

from the other side.

They all agreed that

their deaths gave them

a gift,

an altered state

of consciousness

allowing them

to appraise life

in a way

that living could not.

"When you're dying,

you become real,"

one of them explained:

"You have to stop.

You can't escape it."

"In many ways people become

the most honest

they've ever been,

because there's no pretence any-more."

Doug scribbled his notes.

Doug, a stranger,

turned up

at the bedside

of six terminally ill patients

who'd been told

by their doctors that

they'd only weeks left.

He asked them to share

their innermost thoughts,

as they contemplated

their lives

coming to an end.

To his great surprise,

no one turned down

his request.

For them,

it was a rare chance

to talk about death.

Something

they weren't comfortable

doing

with relatives

or hospital staff.

Regrets and fears

about how

family members

would cope,

were common themes.

They were dying and

feeling worthless,

a burden on their family,

facing death

while feeling

they had

no control

over anything

anymore.

When Doug asked them

how they really wanted

to spend their final days,

there was no burning desire

to visit far-flung places in the world.

They just wanted to be at home,

wherever that was.

Fifty year old Lesley

shrugged off

any fears of dying,

saying that the suicide

of her twenty-five year old son,

five years earlier,

was the worst thing

she'd ever face.

"I know that some people

would be absolutely

devastated,

but this gives me time

to tell them

how I feel

and what

I want them

to have.

I could have been killed

in a car accident,

then I wouldn't have this time."

Lesley smiled a weak smile:

"We all have to die,

I'm just going a bit sooner than others."

She died two weeks later.

Forty year old Basim

had two young children:

"I've never done anything bad

to people

or my family,

so why should I be worried

about after death?

I have to take it."

Sixty year old Nevin

described

how his faithful

old dog Sammy

had passed away

and a good friend

had died suddenly

from a heart attack,

both in the previous weeks.

After tying up loose ends

to make things easier

for his wife

when he had gone,

he was ready to join them.

"I don't really care

if I went tomorrow

because I've sorted everything,

I was lucky

to have had the time,"

he said at the end.

Seventy year old Bruce

spoke of his support

for euthanasia,

"I'm in so much pain

and they can't help me.

I wouldn't like

anyone else

to suffer like this."

He also left

a parting message

for his doctors,

calling

for more sympathy.

"You're the first person

I've met in this hospital Doug,

who 's been compassionate

and expressed feelings

about us old and dying..."

But Doug knew

it wasn't just

the medical profession

that needed a lesson

in dealing with death.

We all

should get involved

in the psycho-spiritual

side of dying.

Not only

where our time comes,

but long before...

Doug talks about

'the good death'

that he wishes

for himself,

and his own

father's

'wonderful death',

at home

in his nineties,

sharing openly

with Doug

in his last moments.

There are many

euphemisms

for death.

Dying people

just don't want

to hear that word.

We replace it with

'palliative care'

and

'supportive care'

to avoid

the association with death.

We have a fragmented

culture

about death,

in which

the concept of being open

about death

doesn't sit easily.

Primitive societies

view the body

whereas

we still regard

seeing dead people

as something unsuitable.

Indigenous communities

aren't afraid of dying.

They only fear dying

without their family

or being

out of their country.

As modern medicine

prolongs

lives

and

chronic diseases like

cancer

increases,

sudden death

is more unlikely

and less common.

We find ourselves

living with the knowledge

that our time's running out.

That window of time

represents

a chance

for you,

for me,

for us,

for families

to remember

to tell stories,

share memories

and pictures,

and say their goodbyes.

It can also

be a time

to say sorry.

'IF WE KNOW HOW TO DIE;

THEN WE KNOW HOW TO LIVE,'

were the last words

with which

Doug Bridge

finished his

'Conversation with the dying.'

I've read it.

It was the word 'dying'

that was heard

before.

"I like getting old,"

I said to myself:

"It's kind of curious

to see

that you're heading

to all the places,

you've seen,

the people

dear to you,

and those who go before you.

Death

is your final destination."

Make it

I am human. I'm going to die...

The Power of Forgiveness