Can we all be as positive as Chris Hoy towards death? Maybe science will change everything when we go | Simon Jenkins
WWe can all sympathize with Chris Hoy over his terminal cancer, and admire the way he brought it to light. Dignity so rarely goes hand in hand with celebrity. We wish him the best. But Hoy has two advantages over me. First, he cycles faster. Second, he knows how long he has to live. On the outside it is four years.
So Hoy can plan. He can create a definitive bucket list. He can complete the projects, deepen the friendships and take the trips. He still has time to climb the munros, visit Machu Picchu and see all of Shakespeare. Or he can choose not to. He can be a bon vivant and take each day as it comes, enjoying what he calls the happiness of having lived at all. He makes no mention of religion, but I feel like life itself has enough meaning for him.
In this respect I really envy him. I had cancer that was caught and removed in time. For a brief moment after the diagnosis, I felt the same panic as Hoy, but also the mild excitement of finding myself in the presence of the gods of time. After revealing themselves to me, how did they want me to use their now modest gifts?
Hoy is specific about this. “The fear and anxiety … comes from trying to predict the future,” he says. For him, that uncertainty has disappeared. He has “the information” and it is invaluable. Most people die amid the pain of uncertainty and ultimate incoherence. They “don’t get a chance to say goodbye or make peace with everything.” Hoy was given that time and he confesses: “real moments of joy”.
If I knew what medical science has told Hoy, I’m sure I would live differently. The casualness with which I enjoy my life seems sloppy and thoughtless. As it is, I get a wave of doubt that maybe I’m wasting my time, but without any idea what this means. The unseen sights, the abandoned friends, the unwritten words. What did I think I was doing all this time, when in reality I was dying?
When one thing is certain, science moves toward solving that doubt. It can’t predict accidents or pandemics, but it can dig deeper and deeper into our genetics, analyze our diet and calculate our vulnerabilities. When I look at my blood test results, I have no idea what they mean. But science does. I’m sure it will be able to probe my body and identify its weaknesses. Sooner or later some diabolical algorithm will produce the result: a 90% chance that I will die in 20xx.
And when that happens, I have no doubt that I want a choice. We can all join in with Dylan Thomas his words to his father: “Do not go softly into that good night. / Old age must burn and rage at the end of the day” and “rage against the dying out of the light.” The uncertainty of death is the devil’s punishment for our arrogance in presuming to live at all.
But if that algorithm really comes into existence, I would demand my human right to see the result. And of course that couldn’t be kept a secret. All the pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies in the world would get their hands on it.
That’s when Hoy’s positivity comes into play. For millions of people, the greatest and most painful chaos in life is the last chapter, because it is the most unpredictable. We cannot prepare for it. As we descend towards Shakespeare’s ‘mere oblivion, without teeth, without eyes, without taste, without everything’, there is no schedule, no time to say goodbye to family and friends as we and they would wish.
In a strange way, the algorithm would provide order and comfort. Nowadays, the aging population is accompanied by a barrage of advertisements for nursing homes and cruise trips. So one day it could be marked by ‘departure advisors’ ready to help us through our final months on Earth. The last wishes are “compiled”. The wish not to be forced to live with advanced dementia is honored. The assisted dying ceremony will take place with dignity.
Do I want this? I think so. I certainly want science to be about to give me the choice, as it gave Chris Hoy. It is the privilege of knowledge. That knowledge is the essence of freedom.
Simon Jenkins is a Guardian columnist
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