Best 10 quotes of Katy Butler on MyQuotes

Attempting to grapple with improving end-of-life care is a political third rail.

I don't think people ever were free of fear of death, but clinging to life and being so unprepared for it is a modern experience.

I think it's very interesting that [doctors] privilege the self that is saying, "I don't want to die," but want to discount the self that said, "I want to allow natural death in such a situation.

I've heard doctors say that before the crisis hits, people don't want prolonged measures, but then in the middle of the crisis they want everything.

I want to break the taboo against questioning this drive for maximum longevity.

Let's spend less on trying to fix the unfixable in the last five years of life and spend more supporting people so that they can stay the least disabled as they possibly can, the most independent as they possibly can, and keep them at home.

Three-quarters of people say they want to die at home, but only a quarter of people actually do.

Very few of us are succeeding in giving our parents the ideal death.

We offer such false hopes to people that every medical problem can be fixed even when you're starting to deal with an 80- or a 90-year-old body that is breaking down in multiple ways and doesn't have that resilience. And so it doesn't surprise me that someone who is completely unprepared for death may say, "Doc, do everything.

When a fine old carpet is eaten by mice, the colors and patterns of what's left behind do not change,' wrote my neighbor and friend, the poet Jane Hirschfield, after she visited an old friend suffering from Alzheimer's disease in a nursing home. And so it was with my father. His mind did not melt evenly into undistinguishable lumps, like a dissolving sand castle. It was ravaged selectively, like Tintern Abbey, the Cistercian monastery in northern Wales suppressed in 1531 by King Henry VIII in his split with the Church of Rome. Tintern was turned over to a nobleman, its stained-glass windows smashed, its roof tiles taken up and relaid in village houses. Holy artifacts were sold to passing tourists. Religious statues turned up in nearby gardens. At least one interior wall was dismantled to build a pigsty. I've seen photographs of the remains that inspired Wordsworth: a Gothic skeleton, soaring and roofless, in a green hilly landscape. Grass grows in the transept. The vanished roof lets in light. The delicate stone tracery of its slim, arched quatrefoil windows opens onto green pastures where black-and-white cows graze. Its shape is beautiful, formal, and mysterious. After he developed dementia, my father was no longer useful to anybody. But in the shelter of his broken walls, my mother learned to balance her checkbook, and my heart melted and opened. Never would I wish upon my father the misery of his final years. But he was sacred in his ruin, and I took from it the shards that still sustain me.