*LA NACION* interviewed Ken Ross—the son of the psychiatrist who claimed to have proven the existence of the “afterlife” — during his visit to the country.
April 19, 2026
By Evangelina Himitian
He is the son of the physician who claimed to have confirmed the existence of the “afterlife.” For many years, the Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross dedicated herself to gathering hundreds of “out-of-body” accounts from terminally ill paGents who had been declared clinically dead but subsequently returned to life. Drawing on her own experience caring for the terminally ill—many of whom were dying from HIV—she authored a great number of books. Some of these, such as “On Death and Dying”, became bestsellers. She is regarded as the “mother” of palliative care, and her theory regarding the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) transformed the way the medical profession approaches the final stage of life. Inspired by her theory, groups around the world are actively advocating for legislation regarding death with dignity.
Ken Ross—the boy who grew up traveling the globe alongside his mother as she collected testimonies and conducted research into how people experience the moment of death—is now 66 years old and serves as the founder and president of the Elisabeth Kübler-Ross Foundation. It was he who accompanied his mother through the process of her own dying in 2004; just one week ago, he arrived in Argentina for the first time to participate in the 4th Meeting of the Latin American Network for Support in Death and Grief. The event brought together specialists and organizations from across the region to reflect on the challenges involved in providing support at the end of life. Ross spoke with *LA NACION* during his visit.
Ross first arrived in Argentina to participate in the 4th Meeting of the Latin American Network for Accompaniment in Death and Grief. — Hernan Zenteno, *La Nación*
— Death remains something that, as a society, we prefer not to talk about. Why?
— Because it confronts us with that which we cannot control. In many cultures, we are taught to avoid vulnerability, and death forces us to face it directly. It also reminds us of our accumulated losses: our identity, our relationships, our sense of continuity. We cannot imagine a world without ourselves in it. My mother used to say that we deny death not because we don’t understand it, but because we are afraid to live fully. When we begin to talk about death, we inevitably begin to talk about how we live—and that can be uncomfortable, but also profoundly liberating.
— The case of the young woman who requested euthanasia in Spain sparked a great deal of debate regarding the way we choose to live or die. And regarding who has the authority to make that decision…
— These are deeply personal and complex decisions that intersect with ethics, medicine, culture, and individual autonomy. My mother firmly believed in truly listening to what a person expresses—looking beyond their specific request. Often, the desire to die is also a plea for relief: relief from pain, from isolation, or from a loss of meaning. I believe that societies must approach this subject with great humility and caution, ensuring that no one chooses death simply because they felt abandoned while they were alive. The deeper question is this: Have we done everything possible to accompany this person with compassion and care?
Ken Ross, alongside his mother Elisabeth, Australia 1979
— Your mother is considered the mother of palliative care. How would you define this form of accompaniment during the final stage of life?
— Palliative care is a commitment to alleviating suffering in all its forms—physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual—especially when a cure is no longer possible. My mother used to speak of this as a kind of “four-quadrant” model for understanding the human being: we are not merely a body, but also a mind, a complex of emotions, and a spiritual dimension. When care focuses solely on the physical, something essential is lost. Palliative care recognizes that suffering can exist in any—or all—of these dimensions, and that true care entails attending to the person in their entirety. It is not about giving up. It is about shifting the objective: moving from “prolonging life at all costs” to preserving dignity, well-being, and a sense of meaning in life. Taken to its fullest expression, this raises a simple yet profound question: what does this person need right now to feel fully human?
When asked whether the Argentine population currently has access to palliative care, Ross deferred to Dr. Sebastián Figueroa Dunn—a palliative care specialist at Los Pinos, the newest of the nine hospices currently operating in the country—to provide a response. These hospices are, specifically, places where individuals in the final stretch of their lives go to live. “Only partially,” said Figueroa Dunn, “despite the existence of Law 27.678/22 on palliative care, and Decree 311/2023—which regulates the law and mandates coverage under the Compulsory Medical Plan (PMO). The reality, however, is quite different: only 14 out of every 100 adults who require palliative care actually receive it, as do fewer than 10 out of every 100 children; furthermore, 60% of this care is provided within the Buenos Aires metropolitan area.” The conversation then returned to Ross.
Kübler-Ross devoted herself particularly to children with terminal illnesses.
— You were a photographer, and after your mother’s death, you dedicated yourself fully to this work. Why?
— For me, photography was never just about taking pictures, but about bearing witness to the passage of life. It was a way to connect with the profound diversity of this strange and beautiful planet that I inhabit for only a brief time. As a child, I was very quiet but intensely curious: I absorbed, I observed, and I traveled the world with my mother. That experience shaped my vision. Photography gave me a language to express that way of seeing—the beauty, the impermanence, the humanity in every single moment. Everything is temporary, always in transition.
— Your mother used to say that one could meet death in harmony and with happiness. How is that possible?
— By living fully—with intensity and purpose—and by letting go of as many fears as we possibly can, we begin to embrace life more completely; and in doing so, we also begin to accept death. When someone has truly lived, letting go no longer feels so difficult. It isn’t about denying fear, but about integrating it—that’s what my mother used to say. People who find peace have generally had the opportunity to express what remained unspoken: to forgive, to be forgiven, and to feel seen and heard. When a person feels that their life mattered, their fears and regrets begin to fade.
— Is that the state in which most people arrive?
— No, not yet. Many people still reach death unprepared—often in medicalized environments that prioritize intervention over presence. But this is changing. There is a growing movement—both globally and throughout Latin America—toward more conscious and compassionate end-of-life care. The possibility of a more peaceful death is increasing, but it requires changes that are both cultural and medical.
— Does one die with dignity?
— Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Dignity is not solely about the absence of suffering, but about being treated as a whole person right up to the very end. When systems are overburdened or focus too heavily on technology, dignity can be lost. But when caregivers—whether professionals or family members—receive the support they need to offer presence, a listening ear, and respect, dignity can be restored, even under very difficult circumstances.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross alongside Ken Ross, one of her two children and the founder of the EKR Foundation, in honor of his mother.
Since 2002, Argentina has been governed by Law 26,742—the “Dignified Death” Law—which allows patients to refuse disproportionate medical procedures in cases of incurable illness. Yet, the reality is o8en quite different: “In Argentina, as in many other countries, it is the palliative care physician who finds themselves battling against the very embodiment of the healthcare system on behalf of their patients. The physician is trained to cure. A death ultimately proves to be ‘dignified’ only if, at the end of the day, the palliative care specialist has succeeded,” noted Figueroa Dunn.
— Is the way a person approaches the moment of death different for someone who possesses faith? Or, at that juncture, are we all essentially alone in the face of the unknown?
— For some, faith offers a framework that provides solace, meaning, or a sense of continuity extending beyond death. For others, meaning is found in relationships, in one’s legacy, or simply in the mystery of existence itself. What matters most is not the specific belief *per se*, but rather whether a person feels connected—whether to something greater than themselves, to other people, or to their own inner peace. Throughout my life, I have witnessed profound cultural shifts. In the Middle East, for instance, fewer young people identify with traditional religion. In parallel, there is a growing openness to alternative ways of understanding death and the dying process—including the work of my mother. Seeing her books now being sold and read in Arabic was something utterly unthinkable just 40 years ago. Her books have been translated into 17 languages, reaching cultures that differ vastly from one another.
— Does this growing detachment from traditional religions alter people’s perceptions of death?
— Traditional structures for supporting those in mourning are indeed undergoing change. This does not necessarily imply that religion is vanishing, but rather that people are also seeking out other avenues through which to comprehend loss, find meaning, and come to terms with the end of life. This suggests that, while the *language* we use may evolve—whether religious or secular—the deepest human need to understand death, and to approach it with a sense of meaning, remains as present as ever. There are two crucial moments in a person’s life that, paradoxically, generate no memories: the moment we are born and the moment we die. Why might that be?
— From a scientific perspective, both moments occur at the very boundaries of consciousness.
— At birth, the brain is not yet fully capable of forming lasting memories; at death, those same systems gradually begin to shut down. Memory relies on neurological processes that are either not yet active or no longer functioning. But my mother used to invite me to consider a different perspective: perhaps these moments are not meant to be remembered, but rather to be experienced—or even shared—by others. Birth and death are events that deeply engage our personal bonds. We may not retain them as memories, but the way we witness them shapes who we are.
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