¿Quién muere?

Authors: Aina Camps Claramunt, Vinita Mahtani Chugani, Alejandra Méndez-González

Original research project

Artistic mirror result

The original project is a qualitative research study using in-depth interviews to explore the experiences of palliative care users and their environment. It is nested within DIPEx Spain, a database of patient experiences, available at: https://www.dipex.es/nueva/cuidados_paliativos/

1 Aina Camps Claramunt, Vinita Mahtani Chugani, Alejandra Méndez-González. ¿Quién muere?: Transformación artística de un estudio cualitativo sobre tabúes, creencias y miedos a la muerte en cuidados paliativos.

Language: English and Spanish.

Summary: The play script emerged from the identification of key concepts resulting from the analysis of data from in-depth interviews. These interviews indicated that caregivers fear suffering and loneliness after the death of their loved ones, while also valuing the time shared and the opportunity to say goodbye. Patients, for their part, fear dying in pain and emphasize the importance of living fully in the moment, their spiritual beliefs, and the significance of farewells. The resulting script, based on Lincoln and Guba's rigorous criteria for qualitative research, reflects all these messages and is delivered in a way that generates an emotional impact through empathy and audience identification with one of the characters. This format invites both individual and collective reflection on the taboos, beliefs, and fears surrounding death among the audience.

Art format: Play script

SCENE 0

In semi-darkness, the deceased enters and stands in the center of the stage (hospital setting). The general lights come on, illuminating the entire stage space. The four family members of the patient come out and position themselves at the front edge of the stage, facing forward, speaking to the audience (breaking the fourth wall). At that moment, all four receive the news of the death. Each reacts differently to the message, facing the audience, using only nonverbal language. The general lights go out, and the characters move to their specific stage areas.

SCENE 1: The Mother

A single spotlight comes on, illuminating the mother's home. She is getting ready to attend the wake of her 40-year-old son, who has died after spending some time in palliative care. She is sad, exhausted, and resigned. As she slowly dresses for the ceremony, she speaks to her son. She approaches a photograph of her son as a child, with sorrow.

MOTHER: I never thought you’d go before me, it’s something mothers never imagine.

She picks up the photo and looks at it closely, smiling.

I remember that day fondly. You were about eight years old. It was summer, and we went out to get one of those ice creams you loved. You held it so carefully, walking slowly until we found a bench with a bit of shade. Then some kids came running, playing football, and one of their kicks hit your hand, and the ice cream fell to the ground. You stayed silent for a while, the kids ran off. I came closer and asked you what had happened, and you, with your eight years and a thousand bits of wisdom, told me: “These things happen, mommy.”

She puts the photo on the nightstand and puts on her shoes.

MOTHER: Yesterday you looked tired. Your hands, so cold, and your eyes, so warm. We said goodbye so many times… sometimes with words, sometimes not. I feel such a huge emptiness in my chest that I don’t know if it will ever be filled again. But what a gift life gave me, to sit with you on that hospital bed and talk about our hopes, fears, sadness, and dreams. To know that what scared you the most wasn’t death, but pain. And you left without suffering, peacefully, finally free. The doctor had told me it would be like that… So many questions I had, and they all got answers. What a patient woman.

Now I’ve started dreaming of you. Some people have to open their eyes to see their child. I only have to close mine.

She puts on her jacket and heads to the wake. She sits on the front bench.

SCENE 2: The Partner

The stage area for the home shared by the partner and the deceased is lit. She is in the living room, also moments before leaving for the wake. She plays the last WhatsApp voice message he sent on repeat. In frustration and rage, she throws the phone to the ground.

PARTNER: Who am I supposed to tell all my stupid little work stories to now? When I get mad at Pili or the boss won’t let me leave early. Or when the kid refuses to clean his room, and I’m so tired of being the bad cop, but I can’t stop because there’s no one else to take the shift. Loneliness scares me so much it feels like I’m drowning.

It’s hard to remember your face without the hospital. Without the illness. Without the suffering. The only thing that gives me comfort is the time we had together. Time enough to talk about what we wanted for our child, to care for each other, to say goodbye. Sometimes I torture myself wondering if I could’ve done something differently. But, as the palliative care nurse (or angel, as you called her) said, we have to learn to delegate the decision-making and focus on caring and being present. And that, we did well.

She turns, their son is calling her.

You did that really well too. Being a dad, I mean. Right to the end. You always explained what was happening, so he could understand and be with you through all of it. But you still gave him songs, games, and adventures, because like you said, “it’s not all about illness in this house.”

He made you a beautiful drawing. I told him we’ll give it to you today. See you soon, my love.

She picks up a child’s backpack and sits on the front bench.

SCENE 3: The Friend
The friend’s home is lit. He sits at the kitchen table with a coffee. He’s nervous, anxious, jittery. He fidgets with the coffee cup. His leg bounces off the floor, he touches his hair often. He looks tired and distressed, sleep-deprived.

FRIEND: You weren’t supposed to go. Not yet. You were too young. I’m too young. Death shouldn’t be here yet. Not now. It’s ironic… just a few days before, you seemed better. You looked better. I talked to you about playing paddle again, going out for walks, getting an ice cream. You loved ice cream. Ice cream and a stroll.

He breaks down crying.

It was just a sign you were fading, that the end was near. How life works. I’m so sick of hearing that you left peacefully, that death is part of life, and that we need to say goodbye and whatever else. I don’t want to. I can’t let you go. You were so full of life. So many times you pulled me out of the darkest places with your endless energy, that spark you carried everywhere. I didn’t have enough time to thank you, to give back what you gave me, what you took with you. I just hope to wake up from this nightmare. To wake up and see you sitting on the park bench, with a half-melted ice cream, waiting to tell me about your week.

He straightens his tie, puts on his jacket and sits on the front bench.

SCENE 4: The Brother
The brother’s home lights up. He’s sitting on the floor with family photo albums spread around, flipping through them.

BROTHER: You always made me laugh. When we played that game to see who would laugh first, and you made those weird faces like some crazy monkey. I was never one to talk much. Mom always said: “He’s a quiet one.” But with you, that had to change. Because you were leaving and we didn’t have time. We had to say it all, tell each other everything we’d never said.

I think about how I’ll make it through this day next year, or the year after. Or in ten years. How I’ll honor your life, your memory, and keep it alive in a beautiful place. Maybe the prayers will help, they’ve brought me peace lately. Or maybe I’ll celebrate you with some kind of charity event, just like you wanted. We’ll see.

In a few days, when the ceremonies end and life returns to “normal,” I’ll have to face it without you, and that terrifies me. I don’t know where to keep all the love I still have for you, what to do with everything we’ll never share again. For now, I find comfort remembering you happy, calm, and at peace. And just like you told me: “Sick people die, but so do healthy ones. You just don’t know when yet.”

He closes the album, places it on the shelf, picks up a bouquet of flowers, the candle, and leaves the lit space. He places the candle on a small table in the center of the stage.

SCENE 5: The Deceased

The stage lights up the deceased’s hospital room. He is sitting in a chair, reading a letter aloud, which is also being heard at the wake. The other characters are seated in the center benches, facing the audience, listening to the farewell letter.

He sits holding a letter and reads aloud.

DECEASED: If you’re hearing these words, it means I’m already gone. I wish I’d learned how to die sooner, because talking about death teaches you how to live. To really live, without unnecessary pain or suffering.

We come into this life with nothing and leave with nothing. All we accumulate along the way often just distracts us from what really matters, because we don’t know how to pay attention, how to truly see.

These past months, I learned to pay attention. To see each of you. To enjoy card games, the sun in the courtyard, conversations about the weather, the news, the latest gossip. I shared silences with all of you, and with my new family: the angels in white coats. People who heal the body and the soul. I got to say goodbye to each of you. You gave me wings to go in peace. I know I leave pain behind, but in some time, that will become longing, and eventually even bring smiles when you think of me.

I’m a lucky person. I was surrounded, not just these last months, but my whole life, by a wonderful circle of people, open arms, and roots of care deeply anchored in the earth.

I encourage you to live lives that aren’t dead. Fill them with people and experiences. Pay attention to what’s around you. Learn to see.

Finally, I leave you with a beautiful poem by Pablo Neruda. You’ll each find a copy under your seats. See you again. Live a happy life.

He blows out the candle. The hospital space goes dark. Only the front of the stage remains lit, where the characters are seated on the benches. Each picks up a copy of the poem from under their bench. The deceased begins reading, and the others gradually join in.