Good Grief: On Love, Life and Dying.

The one thing we can all be sure of is that one day we will die.

We will also bear witness to the death of others, our loved ones – parents, partners and heaven forbid our children. We will farewell close friends. We will watch from the comfort of our living rooms the nightly serving of heartrending grief on the news of those losing their loved ones from acts of violence and war.

So much heartbreak, so much sorrow and bottomless grief.

This much we know to be true, but how prepared are you to deal with all the discomfort and pain when death impacts your own life?

As a society, we are cushioned from death’s presence. Many of my clients and even my own children have not seen someone who has died.

We remain fearful, unsure of how to respond or what to feel. We hide death behind euphemisms of “having passed” or “gone to join the angels.”

This denies us the opportunity to accept what death is or means.

When my mother died in the UK, I flew out from Australia for her funeral, but also to see her, and to say goodbye.

She looked peaceful as if asleep. Even though I knew she was dead, I half expected to see her breathing.

We had a chat. Yes, it was a one-sided conversation, but it was an opportunity to say the things I wanted to share while holding her cold hands, and to tell her how much she was loved.

Why do I tell you about this?

Because as a doctor, I have witnessed death in many forms and learnt so much about love and life in the process.

I have seen death while working in Emergency Departments, in Aged Care facilities, even in Birth suites.

Every death being as unique as the person.

As a GP, I have journeyed with those living with a terminal illness, supporting them and their families, cried with those who lost someone close to them unexpectedly, through accident, medical tragedy or suicide.

It has always felt a huge privilege to accompany someone who is dying, to be accepted into their family and be present at that final moment if that is what the person wanted.

I tell you this too, because I get that it can feel very uncomfortable talking about death.

What I’ve heard from those who are dying is that they themselves don’t fear death itself, they fear a slow withering decline, of being in pain or of not being able to breathe.

They also are worried about their family. How they will cope, what needs to be done and how to best prepare them for the inevitable.

You may well be familiar with Bronnie Ware’s book, “The Top 5 Regrets of the Dying: A life Transformed by the Dearly Departing”, written during her time working in palliative care.

The top five regrets include,

 

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.

3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish I had let myself be happier.

 

If you find yourself nodding to each of these as I did, the greater lesson from this is just how important it is to celebrate life to the full.

It’s about how we deal with the sadness and disappointment, the frustrations and the emotional exhaustion that runs ragged when caring for a person who is dying.

It’s about acceptance (a difficult lesson) and understanding.

It’s about tapping into great memories and sharing those moments of love and laughter.

It’s about gratitude for what we have and what we have learned about the process.

Do you have someone you can talk to for these more difficult conversations?

Is it a family member, a trusted friend or your GP?

I have just finished reading an extraordinary book by Casey Beros called “Next of Kin.”

Casey pulls no punches as she writes about the death of her father from mesothelioma, a rare and aggressive cancer of the lining of the lungs caused by exposure to asbestos, often decades before the symptoms start to reveal themselves.

The book is Raw, Real and Honest.

There is no sugar coating to what it is like to be the carer, the next of kin.

But what touched me the most is the book gave me a real sense of Casey the person, the daughter, the mother and wife, and her Dad.

She is pragmatic and outlines in detail what to consider in advance, the paperwork that’s needed (there’s always a mountain of paperwork that continues long after the person has died) and where to find the necessary information. She talks about all those tricky medical, legal, physical and emotional challenges that can arise when least expected.

She shares the funny moments (like Jack-in-the-Box) and the dark ones when human frailty and emotions rise to the surface. She writes so well, you feel like she is walking alongside you, sharing her experience.

This is so much more than a story of a family losing their much-loved father, it’s a framework that everyone can tap into to help them on their own journey.

It’s a book I will be encouraging my own family to read.

One person who died recently was British actress Patricia Routledge, at the age of 96.  She was well known and much loved for the role she played at Hyacinth Bucket in the British TV series “Keeping Up Appearances.”

This is her poem she wrote to life, when 95.

 

Some things bloom late—but they still bloom beautifully.

At 55,
I became known to many as Hyacinth Bucket — a character I believed would be a small role in a little sitcom.
Instead, she carried me into millions of living rooms, and oddly enough… into my own heart.

She was loud, proud, impossible to ignore.
And somehow, she helped me embrace parts of myself I’d kept hidden for decades.

That role didn’t make me famous.
It made me whole.

At 65,
I stopped waiting for permission.
I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could feel opera in its native tongue.
I discovered I rather liked my own company.
I read poetry aloud to no one in particular, simply because it softened the day.
I learned how to be alone… without being lonely.

At 75,
I returned to the Shakespearean stage — a place I once feared I had aged out of.
But this time, I carried no fear of critics or applause.
I stood in stillness.
And I let the words move through me — not because I had something to prove,
but because they still had something to offer.

It wasn’t a performance.
It was presence.

At 85,
I picked up a watercolour brush with unsure hands.
I painted what I remembered:
roses from my garden, old hats from the 60s, faces once seen on the London Underground.

Not to exhibit. Not to impress.
Just to preserve memory — one soft stroke at a time.
Each painting was a small act of remembering.

And now, at 95,
I write letters by hand.
I bake rye bread.
I breathe deeply in the mornings and whisper thanks to the sky.
I listen more than I speak.
I laugh often, but no longer try to be the one who makes others laugh.

I have nothing left to prove — and so much left to feel.

So I’m writing this not as a farewell,
but as a gentle reminder:

Growing older isn’t a fading.
It can be a radiant unfolding.
A blooming — not back to youth,
but back to yourself.

Let these years ahead be your treasure years.
You don’t need fame.
You don’t need perfection.
You only need a presence.

Show up. Gently. Fully. Authentically.
And life — if you let it — will always meet you halfway.

 

For me, this is what life is all about.

It’s how we show up at every time in our life.

If we let go of the fear of looking old as we age, of death and instead look forward to how we can continue to engage, savour and contribute to each day, we no longer need to hide our wrinkles, or seek out the promise of greater longevity from supplements and biohacks.

I hope to age well like Patricia.

I wonder what new things I will be learning when (if) I reach the age of 95.

What are your thoughts about life, love and death?