Let’s Talk About Death
Perhaps we should learn to admire the sunset of life as much as we celebrate its sunrise.
Why should we talk about death?
We talk freely about birth, childhood, education, careers, marriage, children, retirement and aging. We plan for almost every stage of life. Yet there is one certainty that awaits every one of us—and strangely, that is the one subject we hesitate to discuss.
Death.
We whisper about it. We avoid mentioning it around elderly people. We sometimes behave as though talking about death might somehow invite it.
Perhaps this silence is one reason we are so frightened of death.
I believe we need to talk about it—not morbidly, pessimistically or with resignation, but openly, rationally and even positively.
Because perhaps death is not life’s failure.
Perhaps it is its culmination.
And perhaps, if we allow ourselves a little philosophical freedom, it may even be life’s graduation.
Death entered my life early
My own thoughts about death have evolved over several decades.
When I was around twenty, I lost someone very close to me. It was sudden and devastating. That experience affected me profoundly and probably started a process of questioning death that has continued throughout my life.
I shall leave that memory where it belongs—in my private world.
Soon afterward, however, I entered medicine, and death ceased to be merely philosophical.
It became real.
During my internship, I cared for a young pregnant woman suffering from pregnancy-induced hypertension. Her husband was constantly beside her, caring for her with enormous tenderness. Despite everyone’s efforts, she developed disseminated intravascular coagulation (DIC) and died.
She was probably the first patient under my care whose death I experienced personally. I remember not only her death, but her husband’s devastation.
Later, during a night posting in medicine, three seriously ill patients died during my duty.
I was shattered.
I spent the night wondering what I had done wrong. Was my knowledge inadequate? Had I missed something? I was terrified of facing my seniors the following morning.
When they arrived and I told them what had happened, they received the information almost matter-of-factly.
They understood something that I, as a young doctor, was only beginning to learn:
A patient dying does not necessarily mean that somebody has failed.
Sometimes disease can be treated.
Sometimes life can be prolonged.
And sometimes, despite everything medicine can offer, a life reaches its end.
Over the years, I became professionally accustomed to encountering death. But something else increasingly began troubling me—not death itself, but our attitude toward it.
When did death become a failure?
Modern medicine is extraordinary.
We replace joints and organs, open blocked arteries, ventilate failing lungs, dialyse failing kidneys, treat cancers that were once considered hopeless and keep physiological systems functioning in circumstances unimaginable a few generations ago.
But perhaps our success has created an unintended illusion.
We have begun confusing our ability to postpone death with an ability to defeat death.
We sometimes behave as though modern medicine is omnipotent. If enough expertise, technology and money are available, surely death should be preventable.
Do whatever it takes.
Money is not an issue.
Just save him.
These are understandable words from frightened families. Love desperately wants another day.
But medicine cannot sell immortality.
Imagine a 90-year-old suffering a major myocardial infarction. Doctors attempt appropriate treatment, but the patient dies.
The family will grieve. Of course they will.
But does death necessarily mean that something went wrong?
Could it instead mean that a long human life finally reached its biological conclusion?
If we call every death a failure, someone must eventually carry the blame—the doctor, the hospital, the family, or sometimes the person who died.
If instead we can sometimes recognize death as culmination, there can still be tremendous sadness, but perhaps less guilt, anger and blame.
Grief is natural. Blame need not always accompany it.
There is a difference between death and dying
I have gradually realized that I am not particularly frightened of death.
I am much more concerned about how I die.
Personally, I would not want my life prolonged indefinitely through extraordinary medical interventions when there is no reasonable prospect of meaningful recovery. I would not want a prolonged existence involving repeated hospitalization, invasive procedures and complete dependence merely to add time to life.
This is my personal view—not a prescription for anyone else.
For years, I have even contemplated getting a tattoo saying:
DNR — Do Not Resuscitate.
I haven’t got it yet. Perhaps I will.
The thought behind it is not a rejection of life. Quite the opposite. I love living.
It is simply an acknowledgement that loving life does not require demanding immortality.
Given a choice, a sudden painless death sounds attractive. Yet even that isn’t quite so simple. What might be easy for the person dying can be devastating for those left behind. There is no opportunity to prepare, say goodbye or gradually comprehend what is happening.
At the opposite extreme, a prolonged, painful and highly dependent dying process can be distressing both for the person and for the family.
Perhaps there is a middle path—a death that allows enough time for awareness and acceptance, but not years of avoidable suffering; a death that is comfortable, dignified and peaceful.
Not a romantic death.
Simply a graceful one.
Acceptance is not abandonment
This distinction is important.
I am not arguing against treatment. I am certainly not discussing euthanasia.
Nor am I suggesting that an arbitrary age should determine who receives medical care.
I am asking something subtler:
Must everything that can technically be done always be done?
There comes a time when the purpose of medicine may need to change.
Sometimes medicine cures.
Sometimes it prolongs meaningful life.
And sometimes its most humane role may be to relieve pain, provide comfort, preserve dignity and accompany a person through the natural end of life.
Acceptance does not mean abandonment.
And choosing proportionate care does not necessarily mean giving up.
Nature never promised us immortality
Look at the architecture of life.
Birth. Growth. Maturity. Aging. Senescence. Death.
We don’t regard childhood ending as a disease. Nor youth ending. Yet somehow we have come to regard life’s final transition almost as an aberration.
Our bodies themselves tell a different story.
They change. Repair becomes slower. Strength diminishes. Organs age. The face changes.
Perhaps the aging body is nature’s quiet reminder that permanence was never part of the contract.
And there is a strange paradox here.
When we are young, healthy and have potentially decades of life ahead of us, we often take extraordinary risks as though we were immortal.
Then, as we grow older and naturally move closer to death, we sometimes begin clinging to life with increasing desperation.
Why?
I don’t know.
Perhaps the survival instinct becomes stronger. Perhaps we fear nonexistence. Perhaps we fear leaving people behind. Perhaps there is always something unfinished.
But the paradox is worth contemplating.
Maybe our ancestors understood something we have forgotten
I remember the funeral of my great-grandfather. I was very young.
He had lived a long life, and his departure was not marked only by mourning. There was also an element of celebration—the acknowledgement of a life completed.
Similar ideas occur across cultures and philosophies.
The Bhagavad Gita famously uses the metaphor of changing worn-out garments to describe the embodied self leaving one body and taking another.
Buddhist traditions approach the self differently, yet contemplate impermanence, death and rebirth rather than treating death merely as an incomprehensible catastrophe.
Other religious traditions have their own understandings of what follows death.
They disagree profoundly about what lies beyond it.
But perhaps they share an important insight:
Death deserves contemplation, not denial.
But does anything actually continue?
I find this question fascinating.
Ian Stevenson spent decades investigating children who appeared to remember previous lives. Researchers including Satwant Pasricha in India and, later, Jim B. Tucker continued studying such cases. Stevenson also investigated unusual birthmarks and congenital abnormalities that appeared, in some cases, to correspond with reported circumstances of a purported previous life. There have also been controversial reports involving apparent knowledge of languages not ordinarily learned by the individual—often discussed under the term xenoglossy.
None of this proves reincarnation.
These observations have alternative possible explanations and remain scientifically controversial. They should not be presented as established evidence that consciousness survives bodily death.
But neither do I think they should simply be dismissed because they make us uncomfortable.
They leave me with perhaps the most intellectually honest answer:
I don’t know.
Maybe consciousness ends with the brain.
Maybe something continues.
Maybe the religious concept of a soul describes something science has yet to understand—or perhaps it does not.
I don’t know.
And strangely, I find that uncertainty beautiful rather than frightening.
It leaves room for curiosity.
What if death is graduation?
This is the metaphor I increasingly like.
When someone graduates, something genuinely ends.
A familiar institution is left behind. Friends separate. A chapter closes permanently.
Yet nobody calls graduation a tragedy.
Why?
Because we see the ending as completion and transition.
Perhaps, after a long and reasonably fulfilled life, death can sometimes be viewed similarly.
I am not claiming to know that there is another “course” waiting for us somewhere. Graduation is a metaphor, not proof of an afterlife.
But it changes the emotional vocabulary.
Instead of:
Everything is over.
Perhaps:
This life has been completed.
And if something lies beyond it, perhaps another journey begins.
But when is a life fulfilled?
This question is much harder.
What is the ultimate purpose of life?
I don’t know.
I am a doctor. I have treated patients and operated on thousands of eyes. But is that my purpose? If I were not here, other ophthalmologists would treat those patients.
We educate ourselves, build careers, raise families, create homes, earn money, travel, pursue passions and contribute to society.
These things give life meaning.
But are they its ultimate purpose?
I still don’t know.
Perhaps searching for purpose is itself part of the purpose.
Until I find a better answer, my working definition of a fulfilled life is simpler:
Fulfil your responsibilities.
Do your karma.
Care for yourself.
Care for your family.
Contribute something to society.
Seek your own happiness without diminishing somebody else’s.
And, whenever possible, add something to the happiness of the people whose lives touch yours.
Perhaps that is enough.
Preparing for death is also an act of love
During COVID, when nobody knew what lay ahead, I made a small notebook.
I wrote down information my family would need if something happened to me. I discussed with my children what I would and wouldn’t want medically if things went badly.
It wasn’t depressing.
It was practical.
Talking about death allows us to ask questions that otherwise remain dangerously postponed.
Have I made a will?
Does my family know where my important documents, accounts and assets are?
Have I made my wishes clear enough to prevent disputes after I am gone?
Have I discussed organ donation?
Does my family know what kind of medical intervention I would or wouldn’t want if meaningful recovery became impossible?
Are there particular rituals I want—or don’t want?
I have seen families torn apart after a parent’s death because nobody clearly expressed how property should be divided.
A well-prepared will therefore does more than distribute assets.
It can protect relationships.
Perhaps getting our affairs in order isn’t an obsession with death at all.
Perhaps it is one final way of caring for the people who will outlive us.
Learning to admire the sunset
We celebrate sunrise.
Perhaps we should also learn to admire sunset.
A sunset isn’t ugly because the day is ending. In fact, sometimes the ending produces the most extraordinary colors of the entire day.
Perhaps old age deserves the same dignity.
Live fully while life permits you to live.
Seek treatment when treatment can help.
Exercise. Travel. Love. Work. Laugh. Learn. Create. Take reasonable risks. Look after your body. Remain curious. Keep searching for purpose.
But somewhere along the journey, perhaps we should also learn the art of letting go.
Not because life has lost its value.
Because life was valuable precisely because it could never last forever.
And when the culmination eventually comes, those around us will naturally grieve. They will miss us. There will be an empty chair, an unanswered phone and memories that suddenly hurt.
But perhaps they need not be shattered.
Perhaps they need not feel guilty that they failed to save us.
Perhaps they need not blame themselves, a doctor, a hospital—or God.
They could mourn the person while also celebrating the life.
So, let us talk about death
Start with yourself.
What does death mean to you?
What exactly are you afraid of—death, or dying?
What would dignity mean to you toward the end of your life?
How much medicine would you want when medicine could prolong biological existence but could no longer restore the life you value?
What would you want your family to know?
And then, one day, sit with the people you love and talk about it.
Not when somebody is critically ill.
Now. While everyone is alive.
There need not be agreement. There only needs to be conversation.
And perhaps, gradually, we can create a culture in which death is neither romanticized nor demonized—simply understood as part of the same natural journey that began with birth.
I am still exploring these questions myself. I certainly don’t have all the answers.
If these thoughts raise questions, disagreement, fears or simply curiosity, talk to me. I would genuinely be happy to have that conversation.
Because perhaps the first step toward overcoming our fear of death is remarkably simple:
We need to stop being afraid of talking about it.
And maybe, when our own sun eventually begins to set, we can turn toward the horizon rather than away from it—
and admire the sunset of life.
Dr Sanjay Dhawan23 September 2026
