Do people die as they've lived?

La mort intime by Marie de Hennezel, with a preface by François Mitterrand (published in Paris by Robert Laffont, 1995, ISBN 2 221 07830 6, 109 French francs).

Marie de Hennezel, the author of La mort intime (which has yet to be translated into English), is the psychologist who helped the late French President, François Mitterrand, face his approaching death with such courage; and to use it as an opportunity to unravel knots from his past - for instance, to be more open about his compromising wartime encounters with members of the Vichy regime and to reveal his secret illegitimate daughter. Mitterrand writes in the preface that "this book's finest teaching is that sometimes dying can help a being to find fulfilment, dying can be an accomplishment". In the event, Mitterrand took his dying under his control at the very end, by deciding against accepting further medicine or food.

The following is a free translation of a summarised extract from Marie de Hennezel's book.

"Do people die as they've lived?" an old friend of mine asked. I remembered Dürckheim, who'd spent his life learning and teaching a form of Buddhism and yet who died after a year of agony, struggle and resistance - just the opposite of that radiant serenity which used to draw spiritual seekers to him.

So do people die as they've lived? I could still be tempted to believe it and yet for my part, the most beautiful death I have witnessed was that of a young addict woman of 25, suffering from advanced breast cancer, who had lived, she said, "the life of a galley-slave". On her bald head was a tattoo with the inscription "Walk or die". She had had a childhood without love, and a hard, almost absurd life. Abandoned at birth by her prostitute mother, brought up by her grandmother, she had developed like a wildflower, thirsting for love and the absolute, and finding whatever she could to quench her thirst. She had, she said, tried everything. She was without illusions. Her cancer in some ways had brought hope: hope that at last her wretched existence would end - her drugs of addiction hadn't yet had time to kill her.

If death were indeed to come as a reflection of her life, this woman's death could be a difficult and rebellious death, or at least an anguished one. But in fact it worked out differently.

'She had asked her mother to bring a bottle of champagne, which the two of them drank, remembering the good times, despite everything'

One morning I was at her bedside. She said she was about to die. The day before, she had asked her mother to bring a bottle of champagne, which the two of them had drunk, remembering the good times they'd had together, despite everything. This had been her way of saying goodbye to this woman who had abandoned her, but who remained her mother.

I was there at her side at Dr Clement's request, given that she had announced that she was going to die. The young woman was lying on her back, her head slightly lifted on the pillow. Her lungs were hardly functioning and she had oxygen tubes in her nostrils. Her breathing was difficult and noisy. On her naked front, there was a wet face cloth for relieving her fever. As I took her hand, I noticed that she was indeed burning with heat.

She wanted to speak with me, but her voice was feeble. I brought my ear close to her lips. I distinctly heard her say, "I am going to die".

'She went into a birthing position. Her breathing became short and more and more noisy'

With one decided movement, she pulled out the oxygen tubes and threw them beyond the face cloth. Whilst I looked on stonily, she went into a birthing position, with her legs apart. Her breathing became short and more and more noisy. But she seemed calm and did not seem to be suffering.

For several minutes, I asked myself if I should put the oxygen back, but her action had been so decisive and she seemed so calm, that I decided to do nothing, except to stay with her, so that she would not be alone. She repeated "I am going to die". I started to caress her, whilst she panted. And it was as if she were pushing with her legs, as if giving birth.

Michel de M'uzan's words came into my mind, about the interior work accomplished by someone who is dying: "it is an attempt to bring oneself completely into the world before disappearing." Now, for the first time, these words had a real meaning for me. This young woman, who had had such a lot of trouble living, was she not bringing herself into the world, giving birth to herself? I felt tenderness and awe.

She could have been my daughter and I held her and spoke comforting, motherly words to her, words coming from the soul of all mothers, from infinity. Several times she swallowed a little air. The image of a poor fish floundering on the sand was in my mind. I would have like to have put her back in the water. I would have liked to give her life. Tears came to my eyes. A third time she stopped breathing and all at once the tension left her body. I realised she had died.

We too could wish to die with such awareness and such dignity.

Stocking up on beauty

Adapted extracts from an interview by Alex Duval Smith with Marie de Hennezel, entitled 'The art of dying', in the Guardian (Sept 28th '95).

I have treated two priests. They were among my most anxious patients. Faith does not help you to die. Confidence in life does.

Accompanying the dying has taught me to appreciate life in the moment it is lived. What wears us out is bearing the burden of thought for the past or the future. I have also learnt to relax. I enjoy country walks, singing and beauty. The dying want to sap a great deal from the living. It is my duty to stock up on these things - beauty, life, pleasure - so that I can give it to those I am accompanying.

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