TL;DR: The modern hospice room defaults to distraction, using television to fill the void left by medicalized dying. We must actively choose presence, personalization, and human connection over the passive, noisy default of the screen.
The television is on. It is always on. Wheel of Fortune, then the news, then a movie, then advertisements for medications and retirement plans—content irrelevant to the man in the bed who used to love Elvis. I sit with my uncle in hospice. He cannot speak; he cannot reply. The TV remains on, filling the silence with game show applause and manufactured drama. I question: is this how we manage life’s final moments?
“Do you want to watch TV?”
“Do you want to watch TV?” Everyone asked this when they visited my uncle in the hospice whenever the TV was switched off. I asked it too, on my first visit. After a while, I noticed most rooms kept their TVs on the entire day, some throughout the night.
During one visit, Raid the Cage played. I thought, “Is this how our last moments of life should be spent?” as I sat beside my uncle, who stared intently at the screaming hosts and players. A documentary on recreating food of those who have passed on came and went, followed by the news. We left him to rest in the presence of the TV.
What does the TV represent in institutional care?
The TV is safe. It is the default. The absurdity of the situation is striking. We sit vigil at one of life’s most profound thresholds, and the backdrop is health supplement commercials and car insurance jingles. A game show where the stakes are a new appliance. This is so absurd it nearly circles back to meaninglessness. We have defaulted to white noise, but this white noise has content, narratives, and people selling things we do not need while someone we love dies.
Previous generations had prayers and rituals that provided intentional meaning. The TV, however, is merely a default setting. It is the illusion of interaction.
We could argue that TVs reveal a collective failure. We created a system where most people die in institutions, and we filled those institutions with screens because screens are easier than human presence. They are cheaper than companionship and simpler than individualized care plans. They are less awkward than sitting with silence, grief, or the reality of death. The TV represents institutional convenience masquerading as patient comfort.
However, we must acknowledge that our hospice workers (angles in disguise) are stretched thin. Families are exhausted and do not know what to do. We are a death-denying culture, simultaneously death-saturated through media, yet unable to face it directly. The TV fills a void we collectively cannot address.
Watching my uncle slowly die accompanied by random programming, I wonder whether dying in an open field under the stars is really any better.
Does the choice of comfort matter?
We must ask: What do dying people actually need, especially in societies where hospices are common? We should explore how families and communities reclaim a role in this universal human transition. What would it mean to design end-of-life care around connection rather than distraction, around presence rather than protocols?
Some hospice programs emphasize music therapy, bringing musicians to play a patient’s favorite songs. Others integrate life review processes, helping patients and families construct narratives about a life lived. Chaplains provide spiritual support. Volunteer programs train community members to provide companionship, recognizing that dying is a human event, not a medical one.
These personalized, relationship-based interventions improve both patient experience and family outcomes. Music therapy reduces pain and anxiety. Life review helps patients achieve a sense of meaning. Spiritual care addresses existential concerns that medication cannot touch.
These interventions require time, individualization, and the acceptance that dying is a transition to be supported, not a problem to be solved.
Or maybe all is well.
Or, maybe the TV is fine, really. My uncle watched TV alone for years while living by himself. Now, when he is too weak to talk, perhaps this is the last of his familiar comforts. It is a connection to the world he is leaving, a familiar, non-demanding presence.
What’s wrong with watching your favorite TV shows since they have been such a large part of your life? Maybe all I need to do is to watch it with him. To just be present.
This is Part 2 of a series. Read Part 1, “Television and the Medicalized Death: What Happens in Hospice Rooms,” for the research behind this reflection.
Epilogue
My uncle passed and went to a better place. Thankfully, there was no TV at his wake. I played Elvis and Cliff Richard for him on the Bluetooth speaker, but my mum often hijacked it to play the Divine Mercy prayers—which was appropriate too. Rest in peace.
