by Victoria Moss

Created on: July 11, 2008

How do we compare the death of one person with that of another? Is one worse or more tragic than the other? Are there good and bad deaths? Are there those that are peaceful and in their time, and others that are tragically premature?

Death is, after all, as normal as life itself. That period of intense sorrow that follows bereavement is the result of the emptiness we face when the person we love has passed on. As with all adversity, the grief diminishes in time, or so we are told.

Death takes all forms and each impacts on us differently. We might regard a "good death" as one which comes to a person who has lived a happy, productive and long life, who upon reaching advanced age passes away peacefully and with dignity. We would certainly deem it heartbreaking when the tiny babe succumbs to "cot death" after sharing only months of his life with his family. The death of someone as a result of an act of terror such as the Bali Bombing would be regarded as horrifyingly traumatic.

My brother died of a terminal illness known as Motor Neurone Disease. He was neither young nor old. His death was not a mystery: much is known about the condition. His demise came as a medical prediction, not as the result of an act terrorism or road carnage which would have allowed us to be engulfed in rage and condemning the stupidity of others.

There was no known reason. There was nothing specific that he had done. Possibly it was in his genes. At the age of forty-two, as his body began to fail, the diagnosis was confirmed during a short stay in hospital. The prognosis was death within fifteen months, and he went home to do whatever he needed to do in the time that he had left.

We did not cry or protest as might be expected. That came later. We did not really believe it either. But that came later too. There was a great deal of silence, of staring into space, of stumbling to make conversation, of avoiding each other's eyes.

My brother faced his death as he did his life: courageously and full-on. He researched the disease and separated useful advice from folklore. He blasted his body with high-dose vitamins and alarmingly strong doses of herbal extracts. Stimulation of the nerves by electro-therapy gave some relief from the discomfort he suffered in his arms and legs, but did not slow the deterioration of the muscles or the inevitable result.

My feelings during this time were of total helplessness. This was the brother who had been my primary influence: the freckle-faced boy I had followed across the paddocks to each new day's farm escapade; the schoolboy who had guarded me and guided me when I took my first nervous step inside the classroom.

This was the brother who was my inspiration throughout my life: the one who was intelligent, compassionate, unflinching, honourable and unswerving in his beliefs and his ideals.

During the months of his illness there was no possibility of pretence. Each day his condition worsened and as he suffered, I agonised anew.

His funeral took place according to his wishes. The soaring notes of the pipe organ recognised a life that was truly special and commemorated his gifts to others. The cathedral was crowded with ordinary people from all walks of life and included many of the students who were so special to him.

I have not visited his grave. I do not wish to look at a marble slab or read his headstone, although I hold in my heart the words engraved upon it. Even after fifteen years, his death does not ride easily with me, but it has made me stronger. I will remember how he lived.

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