Hospitals represent both the great advantages and limitations of modern medicine. Initially, hospitals primarily helped poor people gain some comfort as they died—most doctors treated people in their own homes. But after World War II (with improvements in antibiotics, surgery, and other treatments), hospitals transformed from symbols of sickness and death to places of hope and healing, reflecting the new benefits of modern medicine. Yet at the same time, hospitals have also become symbols of its limitations. Many people who have severe conditions or incurable diseases, including Joseph Lazaroff and Sara Monopoli, tell family and friends that they don’t want to die in the hospital. But because both doctors and patients constantly consider additional treatments that have a scant possibility of helping patients live longer, patients continue to receive more and more treatments and surgeries at the hospitals. These treatments can often lead patients to a kind of death that they do not want, as Lazaroff and Monopoli both die in the hospital due to complications from treatments.
In these cases, hospitals symbolize some of the problems with over-medicalizing death: because the medical system doesn’t prioritize well-being over lifespan, people spend their last days in this sterile hospital environment, barely conscious and intubated or on ventilators, rather than having meaningful goodbyes with family. While hospitals do often allow people to live longer, they also ultimately reveal that medicine does not always cure or save people, and society has to be willing to acknowledge these limits.
Hospital Quotes in Being Mortal
But hospitals couldn’t solve the debilities of chronic illness and advancing age, and they began to fill up with people who had nowhere to go. The hospitals lobbied the government for help, and in 1954 lawmakers provided funding to enable them to build separate custodial units for patients needing an extended period of “recovery.” That was the beginning of the modern nursing home. They were never created to help people facing dependency in old age. They were created to clear out hospital beds—which is why they were called “nursing” homes.
This is the consequence of a society that faces the final phase of the human life cycle by trying not to think about it. We end up with institutions that address any number of societal goals—from freeing up hospital beds to taking burdens off families’ hands to coping with poverty among the elderly—but never the goal that matters to the people who reside in them: how to make life worth living when we’re weak and frail and can’t fend for ourselves anymore.
The problem with medicine and the institutions it has spawned for the care of the sick and the old is not that they have had an incorrect view of what makes life significant. The problem is that they have had almost no view at all. Medicine’s focus is narrow. Medical professionals concentrate on repair of health, not sustenance of the soul. Yet—and this is the painful paradox—we have decided that they should be the ones who largely define how we live in our waning days. For more than half a century now, we have treated the trials of sickness, aging, and mortality as medical concerns. It’s been an experiment in social engineering, putting our fates in the hands of people valued more for their technical prowess than for their understanding of human needs.
It’s worth pausing to consider what had just happened. Step by step, Sara ended up on a fourth round of chemotherapy, one with a minuscule likelihood of altering the course of her disease and a great likelihood of causing debilitating side effects. An opportunity to prepare for the inevitable was forgone. And it all happened because of an assuredly normal circumstance: a patient and family unready to confront the reality of her disease.
I asked Marcoux what he hopes to accomplish for terminal lung cancer patients when they first come to see him. “I’m thinking, can I get them a pretty good year or two out of this?” he said. “Those are my expectations. For me, the long tail for a patient like her is three to four years.” But this is not what people want to hear. “They’re thinking ten to twenty years. You hear that time and time again. And I’d be the same way if I were in their shoes.”
If to be human is to be limited, then the role of caring professions and institutions—from surgeons to nursing homes—ought to be aiding people in their struggle with those limits. Sometimes we can offer a cure, sometimes only a salve, sometimes not even that. But whatever we can offer, our interventions, and the risks and sacrifices they entail, are justified only if they serve the larger aims of a person’s life. When we forget that, the suffering we inflict can be barbaric. When we remember it, the good we do can be breathtaking.