The indecently perfect symmetry of human existence has been well-documented ever since Genesis (the Old Testament page-turner, not the band – even Phil Collins has his limitations) observed, ‘for you are dust, and to dust you will return'.
Shakespeare's Seven Ages of Man poem, from As You Like It, caught the mood. ‘Last scene of all/ That ends this strange eventful history/ Is second childishness and mere oblivion/ Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.’
Yet, for all the exploration of the subject, one question is widely ignored. In the context of abortion, there is endless, feverish discussion about exactly when – conception/ foetal heartbeat/ at a certain number of weeks? – life can be said to begin.
But we too seldom talk about when it is effectively over. When, to be more precise, does it become folly to try to extend a life that has plainly run its course?
It is a question with which many of us will have to deal, as patients or as carers, and one that has continually preyed on me since my father's final days.
In August 2021 came an episode of such tragicomic synchronicity as to have the most devout wondering what kind of talentless
