Thanks to alert reader Michael, I’ve made my first visit to the Dublin Review of Books site, where you can read a review of Christopher Hitchens’s last book, Mortality. The review is by Seamus O’Mahony, who seems uniquely qualified for the task:
Seamus O’Mahony is a physician with an interest in medicine and literature. He has written pieces on AJ Cronin, Axel Munthe and Somerset Maugham for a variety of medical journals.
O’Mahony’s essay is called “The Big D,” which I presume refers to “death,” and it’s simply the most bizarre critique of Hitchens I’ve ever read. We’ve all seen Hitchens attacked post mortem for his drinking, his promotion of the Iraq war, his “unthinking” atheism, and so on, but O’Mahony goes after Hitchens for—wait for it—being overly optimistic about surviving his cancer. Yes, the skeptic Hitchens, says O’Mahony, was not so skeptical about the odds of beating his disease; in fact, he supposedly acquired a kind of faith that he would survive. So, in the end, Hitchens was quasi-religious after all.
It’s a disgusting allegation, one that demeans anyone who wants to survive a deadly disease.
The interesting part of the essay is O’Mahony’s professional assessment of esophageal cancer, of the kinds of treatment Hitchens received, and of Hitchens’s odds (apparently only 3% of those having stage 4 esophageal cancer survive more than five years). As you’ll know if you’ve read Mortality or the Vanity Fair essays on which it’s based, you’ll know that Hitchens underwent a long regimen of surgery and chemotherapy, and even tried gene-based therapy with the help of his friend, Francis Collins of the National Institutes of Health. It all failed. O’Mahony thinks that Hitchens should have had a better appreciation of the odds.
Here are a few snippets to give the tone of the review:
I am intrigued by Mortality for one main reason, which is this: Hitchens’s beliefs about his advanced cancer and its treatment were, for a man whose fame rested on his scepticism, uncharacteristically optimistic. I hesitate to use the word delusional, as he admitted that he would be very lucky to survive, but he clearly steadfastly hoped, right to the end, that his particular case of advanced cancer might lie on the sparsely populated right side of the bell-shaped curve of outcome statistics. He famously mocked religious folk for their faith in supernatural entities and survival of the soul after bodily death, yet the views expressed in Mortality are just as wishful and magical. “The oncology bargain [oncology is that branch of medicine which deals with the treatment of cancer],” writes Hitchens, “is that in return for at least the chance of a few more useful years, you agree to submit to chemotherapy and then, if you are lucky with that, to radiation or even surgery.” Years? I must now confess to a professional interest. I am a gastroenterologist in a large acute hospital, and I have diagnosed many patients with oesophageal cancer. “Years” is a word not generally used when discussing prognosis in Stage Four oesophageal cancer, “months”, in my experience, being a more useful one.
About Francis Collins’s suggestion that gene therapy might be tried:
[Collins]This great humanitarian is also a devotee of the work of C.S. Lewis, and in his book The Language of God has set out the case for making science compatible with faith.”
Ironically, it is the Christian who has to lower the expectations of the sceptical atheist. Hitchens proposes to Collins that his entire DNA, along with that of his tumour, be “sequenced”, “even though its likely efficacy lies at the outer limits of probability”. Indeed. Collins is circumspect, conceding that if such “sequencing” was performed, “it could be clearly determined what mutations were present in the cancer that is causing it to grow. The potential for discovering mutations in the cancer cells that could lead to a new therapeutic idea is uncertain – that is at the very frontier of cancer research right now.” Diplomatically put, Dr Collins.
It could be argued that [Hitchens’s] approach to his cancer treatment was at odds with much that he previously professed to believe (or not believe) in. In God Is Not Great, he coined the withering phrase “the tawdriness of the miraculous”. . . His wife, his friends and his doctors might wish to remind themselves of what Hitchens wrote in God Is Not Great: “Those who offer false consolation are false friends.” In his memoir, Hitch-22, he was scathing of such wishful thinking: “I try to deny myself any illusions or delusions, and I think that this perhaps entitles me to try and deny the same to others, at least as long as they refuse to keep their fantasies to themselves.”
And, finally, the last blow, implying that Hitchens was, at the end, not so very different from any religious believer:
As news of Hitchens’s cancer diagnosis first became widely known, evangelical Christians speculated on the internet about whether his illness would lead to a religious conversion. In Mortality, Hitchens scoffs at the notion. But in his time of “living dyingly”, he did find a kind of faith. This was not a return to the Anglicanism of his upbringing, or the Judaism of his mother’s family. Hitchens, the arch-mocker, the über-rationalist, the debunker of myth, found solace and consolation in the contemporary rites of genetics and oncology. Reviewing Arguably (Hitchens’s final prose collection), the philosopher John Gray observed: “That Hitchens has the mind of a believer has not been sufficiently appreciated.”
I find this manifestly unfair—in fact, a passive-aggressive claim that “Hitchens was religious, too!” masquerading as a dispassionate medical analysis.
Hitchens admitted openly that he didn’t want to die. He was only in his early sixties, and had tasks to do and children he wanted to watch grow up. His life was full, and I imagine must have been immensely fun. Under such circumstances, is it analogous to religion to think that you might be one of those rare survivors of cancer? After all, there is a nonzero survival rate, and 3% is a probability much higher than that of God’s existence.
And I can’t help but think that Hitch really knew his prognosis. Remember how often people asked him how he was, and his answer: “Dying, like all of us.” He was no slouch, and would have looked up the statistics. But if there might be a way to live, why not try it?
On top of all this, O’Mahony admits that Hitchens was certainly given false hope by his doctors:
Why did Hitchens harbour such unrealistic expectations? It is clear that his oncologists (he would appear to have consulted several) actively encouraged his misplaced optimism. Oncologists prefer the word “hope” to “delusion”. Over the years, I have witnessed many cancer patients, after protracted (and ultimately futile) therapies, facing death with all the preparedness of Carol Blue and Christopher Hitchens. These patients often experience a sudden deceleration in medical intensity from high-tech, invasive intervention to a side room, the morphine infusion and the chaplaincy service. Oncologists naturally tend to emphasise the positive, concentrating on the good news flashes, such as the “clear” scan. Most doctors will only impart the cold, bare facts when cornered and directly questioned, usually by patients with the necessary medical knowledge. As a profession, we are loath to appear “blunt” and “uncaring”.
Indeed, I experienced just this when my father died of lymphoma ten years ago. As an ex-Army officer, he was in Walter Reed hospital, and in bad shape. We all knew the end was nigh, and we considered putting him in hospice care. But hospices in Washington require that admitted patients be no more than roughly six weeks away from death. I tried to find out my father’s prognosis, and the doctors just shuffled their feet, hemmed and hawed, and talked vaguely about “well, it could be a few weeks, it could be months,” and so on. In other words, they talked about the tails of the survival distribution. But I needed something more for the hospice care. I went up through the chain of doctors, and finally cornered the head surgeon in an examining room. “Yes, I know there’s variation,” I told him. “But I want to know what the mean survival time is for someone in my father’s condition.” (I would have said “mode”, but that may have been too arcane.) He finally admitted that it was less than two weeks. My father died within a few days without ever having left the hospital.
Yes, I suppose patients should be given an honest assessment of their odds, and of the time that probably remains—if they want to know. As O’Mahony notes, doctors with a terminal disease die very differently from laymen: knowing the odds, physicians often abjure the last-ditch treatments and “go gently.” But Hitchens was not a doctor: he was a patient who didn’t want to die young. As most of us know who saw him or his videos, he bore his illness bravely, and, though he never said outright “I am going to die soon,” everyone knew that he would—including, I suspect, himself.
O’Mahony’s essay is worth reading for the medical details, but in the end it’s a mean-spirited and misguided attempt to drag Hitchens down to the level of religious believers. O’Mahony couldn’t do that by speaking about deathbed conversions, but he does it another way.

