Dying

after Sylvia Plath

 

Dying

is an art, like everything else.

I’ve never seen it done well.

 

I’ve seen it peacefully

settle on a woman in a hospital bed,

drunk on morphine and midazolam.

 

She took ten hours,

and that’s the best death –

the closest to a good death I’ve seen.

 

I’ve seen it ugly.

Massive transfusion protocols,

CPR, a throat too bloody to tube.

 

Those deaths,

the bloody, violent deaths

can never be good deaths.

 

I’ve seen it prolonged.

Over days, painless, peaceful

but no relief for family and friends.

 

I’ve seen it prolonged.

Over days, unable to achieve

adequate relief from pain

 

Moaning in pain,

even while dosed with hydromorphone

at each tick of the clock.

 

Restless,

even while dosed with midazolam

at each tick of the clock.

 

Dying

is an art, like everything else.

I’ve never seen it truly done well.

 

I’ve never seen it done

on a patient’s own terms,

before, not after

 

the cancer,

neurodegeneration, etc

decides it is the time.

 

That is to say,

I’ve never seen it, a good death,

outside of coronial findings,

 

or journalism,

from Switzerland,

where one can check in

 

to a clinic,

with an incurable illness

that has a brutal, beastly end,

 

and simply drink a glass

of pentobarbitone and water

at a Marilyn Monroe dose

 

and with loved ones

holding their hands, fall asleep,

and never suffer, and never wake again.

 

ⓒ 'Moth 2020-2024