I WAS SITTING at Cork airport yesterday morning next to some talkative young Corkmen. “The Pope is near dett,” says one, reading a text from his mobile phone. “Ah, sure,” says another, “tis the best for him now. Won’t he be better off? He’ll be safe enough anyway — Jeez, if he doesn’t go straight up, what hope is there for the rest of us?” Laughter. “Oh he’ll go straight up all right,” said a third. “I wonder will the schools have a day off? For mourning, like.”

The young Corkonians were articulating, in their cheerful vernacular, something about the Catholic way of death. You go when it is your time to go; and you are being called to your eternal reward. These young men were confident that the Holy Father would go straight to Heaven; while we on earth should have a day’s mourning, which is also a day “off” from earthly routines.

Some of the formal reports heard yesterday, as the Holy Father moved towards his final hours, emphasised how sad Catholics were at the pontiff’s imminent passing. And of course it is natural to be sad when a great man leaves the world’s stage. But it is also natural, at the age of 84, when you have greatly declined in health, to make that worldly departure. And to depart bravely, facing the anguish and the pain that death almost always entails, with valour. The Holy Father’ s last appearances at that Vatican balcony were a visual metaphor of his Calvary — his final struggle with the life which was so evidently ebbing away from him.

People sometimes misunderstand the Catholic attitude to death. Commentators such as Polly Toynbee promulgate the notion that Catholics fanatically believe that life should be preserved at all costs, even when a terminally ill patient is begging for deliverance. This is not so.

The Catholic approach to death is a nuanced mixture of the natural law — it is in the nature of humans, and animals, to affirm life: the French writer Colette once said that the affirmation of life is dictated by every cell of our being — along with an acceptance that nature will eventually take its course by bringing our physical lives to an end. Catholics are enjoined to pray for “a good death” — St Joseph being the patron of this cause — which means being at peace as well as being in a state of grace.

Everything should be done to comfort and relieve suffering, but the truth is that suffering is part of the human condition, and few people get out of this world without some suffering. All illness entails apprehension, decline, discomfort and nearly always, pain, and it is a modern fallacy that we can be spared the anguish of that final Calvary. Some individuals may have a sudden death, or may take their own lives by a leap into oblivion, but the emotional pain, then, is transmitted, in terms of loss, and the unfinished business of parting without farewell, to the survivors.

In Pope John Paul’s case, the ending of his life exemplifies what, for Catholics, is a perfect Christian death. He fought to maintain life; but accepted, too, when it was time to go. Everything was done for him that could be done, but when it became obvious that the end was drawing close, that was accepted with serenity. He chose, as his life was drawing to a close, not to go back into the Gemelli Hospital for further treatment, but to spend his final hours in what has been his home for the last 26 years.

He received the last rites (now more prosaically called the Sacrament of the Sick), heard Mass, and had favourite passages from the Scriptures read to him. The openness with which the approach to his death was acted out was remarkable: one priest said, rightly, I think, that it is as if he were inviting the faithful to accompany him on his final journey. Pope John Paul’s final hours have not been free of pain, but they have been dignified.

The case of Terri Schiavo, whose life has just been ended in Florida, is, by contrast, an example of a death without dignity. She died because she was starved and parched to death by her husband’s decision, backed by a legal decision. The rancour of family feuding and conflicts about money, even stretching to the denial of a religious burial, made matters worse. A good death is one in which grace and harmony reign among those who are bereaved.

John Paul II’s passing will be, to be sure, a bereavement for those he leaves behind, yet he lived with such vigour, energy and affirmation of life, leaving an unforgettable mark on the world, and always showing an unflinching faith. His journey has been magnificent and it had now wound down and come to the end of the road. Catholics will mourn at his departure, but they should not mourn too dolefully: he will have died as courageously as he lived, and he will surely go “straight up” as the young Corkonians were saying.

A secular doctor, commenting on John Paul’s last days, said that it was wonderful, in a way, that he had brought death out into the open: that he had shared his final time with us, because we are all too private and discreet about death’s process. And this, perhaps, will be his last gift to us, in this world.

Mary Kenny is the author of numerous books, including Goodbye to Catholic Ireland

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