Rule #21: We Seek Dignity
Dignity comes from the Latin dignitas, meaning “worthiness.”
In my 50s, I’ve watched many friends struggle with the illness or loss of their parents, just as I once did. Caring for those who once cared for us brings a flood of childhood memories and unresolved emotions, mixed with fear that we’re doing too little—or doing it wrong.
My parents had told me long before they grew ill what to do with their house, their belongings, even their healthcare. But they never told me what to do with the feelings that would come. I knew who to call for the funeral. I didn’t know who to call for understanding.
Though I fully intend to live forever, in the unlikely event my plan for immortality falls through, I want to share what I learned from their passing. Perspective only comes by looking over the edge of life yourself—dangling your toes above the unknown.
At first, as my parents declined, I thought they needed to hear my apologies: for being inattentive, ungrateful, disappointing, for crashing my first car (twice), for the F in biology, for failing to catch a fly ball, for not including my dad in enough milestones. I thought I owed them that.
But none of it mattered. They weren’t lying there keeping score of my failures. They were afraid. Afraid of losing control over their bodies and their lives. Afraid of not knowing what comes next.
My children are mostly convinced that God does not exist. Science, they believe, explains Him away. But at the bedside of someone you love who is dying, you will think about God—or the absence of Him—a great deal. In that moment, the lines between real and unreal blur. Clarity comes. It may not change your beliefs, but it will change you. And it will show you what fear truly looks like.
What I learned from being with my father in those last months is this: what mattered to him was not apologies or reassurances. What mattered was dignity. And dignity lessens fear.
My sister, who has long worked with the Center for Advocacy for the Rights and Interests of the Elderly (CARIE), often says that the loss of dignity is the loss of self. Without it, we cease to be who we are.
Death is hard. Dying slowly is harder. Yes, there is rice pudding, a comfortable bed, and the occasional sponge bath. But the truth is: it mostly sucks. My father’s only moments of enjoyment came when a young, kind nurse gave him a sponge bath. My regret is that I couldn’t arrange more of them. (Note to self: less rice pudding, more sponge baths.)
In those final months, dignity mattered most—dignity that illness and the medical system so often erode. The best doctors were the ones who allowed him some control and treated him with respect. When people face the unknown, even small choices help them find peace on their own terms.
When the time comes, don’t ask what else you can do to save a life. You can’t. At best, you can delay, and often the delaying is more about the living than the dying. Instead, focus on dignity. Show, in small and daily ways, that a person’s worth remains intact. Let them choose their clothes, their food, their routines—even the TV remote.
Seek dignity for the dying, and in doing so, you will also find peace.
And yes—keep Christine the candy striper on speed dial for the sponge baths.
Love, Dad