The Final Prescription

I had spent four decades in medicine, long enough to see how death arrives in different disguises. Sometimes it comes quietly, like a lamp going out at the end of a long evening. More often now, it comes dressed in tubes and monitors, escorted by alarms, surrounded by machines that keep a body going long after the person inside has begun to slip away.

I had worked in emergency rooms, ICUs, and medical wards. I had used every weapon modern medicine offered—ventilators, defibrillators, vasopressors, dialysis, antibiotics strong enough to frighten bacteria into submission. I had watched patients recover in ways that felt miraculous. I had also watched families cling to hope with the desperation of drowning people clutching a floating twig.

Over the years, something began to trouble me more than death itself: the way we often refuse to let it be natural.

I had seen the medicalisation of mortality up close. Frail old men with skin like parchment, ribs cracking under CPR, their dignity reduced to a set of numbers on a monitor. Women who had lived full lives lying sedated, restrained, and ventilated, while their children hovered outside the ICU, torn between love and guilt. It wasn’t cruelty. It was fear—fear of regret, fear of being judged, fear of the sentence families whisper to themselves at funerals: We should have done more.

That sentence has destroyed more peace than disease ever did.

I decided early that I did not want my own ending to become such a spectacle. I did not want my last days to be spent in a sterile room, half-conscious, tethered to machines, while my family stood outside signing consent forms they did not fully understand and would never forgive themselves for. If medicine could give me meaningful life, I wanted it. If it could only prolong dying, I wanted it to step aside.

The Family Meeting

One evening, not in the middle of an illness, not in a hospital corridor, but at home—when life was ordinary and calm—I asked Bhavana, Ashwini, Amrita, and Shaily to sit with me.

There was no drama in my voice. I wasn’t announcing bad news. I was simply doing what doctors rarely do for themselves: planning ahead.

Bhavana looked at me with the quiet alertness she has perfected over the years—the look that says she is listening not just to words, but to what lies behind them. Ashwini and Amrita, both doctors, understood immediately where this was going. Shaily sat beside them, attentive, steady, family in every sense that matters.

I told them I wanted to speak about the kind of care I would want if I could no longer speak for myself. Not in theory, not in a vague “do your best” way, but in clear terms that would protect them from doubt later.

I wasn’t afraid of death. What I feared was leaving them with confusion—forcing them to guess, in the middle of panic and grief, what I would have wanted. Families do not just lose a person in the ICU; they lose their certainty. They keep asking themselves, Should we try one more thing? Should we wait one more day? What if he would have wanted this?

I wanted to spare them that torment.

What I Wanted Them to Remember

I explained it simply. If I had a condition from which meaningful recovery was not possible—if the body was being kept alive while the person I was had already slipped away—then I did not want aggressive life-prolonging interventions.

I did not want my breathing handed over to a machine if my own lungs could not sustain me and there was no real chance of returning to an independent life. I did not want my ribs broken in the name of resuscitation if my heart had truly reached its end. I did not want artificial feeding forced into a body that could no longer swallow, not as nourishment, but as a ritual of postponement.

What I did want was comfort. Clean sheets. Relief from pain. A calm room. Familiar voices. A hand to hold. I wanted the kind of care that does not fight death like an enemy but treats it as a guest who has arrived uninvited, yet cannot be thrown out.

And if it was possible, I wanted to be at home.

Hospitals are excellent for saving lives. They are not always kind places to die.

The Relief of Saying It Out Loud

When I finished, there was a silence at the table. Not the awkward kind, but the quiet that comes when something truthful has been said and allowed to settle.

Bhavana nodded. She had seen enough with me to understand why I was doing this. She knew the cases that returned with me in the evenings—the ones where families could not let go, and doctors could not say no, and patients remained trapped between the two.

Ashwini and Amrita understood it not only as children but as clinicians. They knew that a “good death” is not a poetic phrase; it is a practical mercy. Shaily’s eyes held the same acceptance, the same steadiness.

No one argued. No one said, “Don’t talk like this.” Instead, there was a kind of calm agreement—as if we had collectively decided to protect one another from a future storm.

That night, I felt lighter. Not because I had invited death into the room, but because I had taken fear out of it.

A living will is not a morbid document. It is an act of tenderness. It is what you leave behind for the people who love you

—not money, not property, but clarity.

We spend our lives writing prescriptions for others. This was the last one I wrote for myself.

Life, after all, is not something we own. It is something we are allowed to hold for a while. And when the time comes to return it, I hope to do so with grace, gratitude, and a quiet namaste.

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