The Language of Dying

I have just finished reading The Language of Dying by Sarah Pinborough. Even though it is a novella that is only 144 pages long, it took quite a while for me to finish it. I need to put the book aside from time to time to ponder on the harshness of life and human frailty.

The Language of Dying by Sarah Pinborough

Here’s how the book opens:

“There is a language to dying. It creeps like a shadow alongside the passing years and the taste of it hides in the corners of our mouths. It finds us whether we are sick or healthy. It is a secret hushed thing that lives in the whisper of the nurses’ skirts as they rustle up and down our stairs. They’ve taught me to face the language one syllable at a time, slowly creating an unwilling meaning.

Cheyne-Stoking.

Terminal agitation.”

Having made frequent trips to Kuching to be with my mum after she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and being with her when she passed on, this book has a profound effect on me. It is actually very raw and emotional yet also incredibly cathartic. There were moments when I got so caught up emotionally that I had to fight back my tears. It made me recall the night before my mum passed away. My mum’s condition deteriorated so fast after she gave up on her year-long struggle with her lung cancer. Though it pained me greatly to see her pass on, I was deeply comforted by the fact that she died so peacefully and without much suffering.

I remember standing by my mum’s bedside after she had breathed her last breathe. I felt so lost that my loving mum had left us. My tears did not flow then. I just felt numb, still hoping that somehow a miracle would happen and my mum would start breathing again. It was only when I called my sister to inform her about mum’s passing that it finally hit me and I lost control and tears just flowed uncontrollably.

I am also greatly comforted that with the passing of my mum, the bonds between the five siblings in our family have remained strong, unlike the five siblings in The Language of Dying.

In this genre-defying novella from Sarah Pinborough, a woman sits at her father’s bedside, watching the clock tick away as her father’s battle with lung cancer comes to a close. She has been the primary caregiver of her father throughout his illness. Her three brothers and a sister–she is the middle child of five–have all turned up over the past week to pay their last respects. Each is traumatized in his or her own way, and the ties that unite them to each other are as fragile as their father’s health. It seems as her father has deteriorated, the bonds between her siblings have done the same.

With her siblings all gone, back to their self-obsessed lives, she is now alone with her father who is on the verge of death. At times like this, the mind seemingly starts to play tricks. The ending sent a shiver up my spine but I won’t reveal it.

I expect this book will resonate tremendously with anyone who has sat throughout the last days with a dying parent, partner or close friend. Reading it was a harrowing experience for me as it is a book of hurtful reality and one that takes an unflinching look at death and how it affects the dying and those around the dying. It perfectly captures the horror of watching a person waste away and the guilt of wishing they would hurry up and die.