To defy death is something most of us dream about at some point in our life. At a young age, we feel invincible. We leap off tall things without fear. We are reckless. Years pass us by. As we grow out of that blissful naivety, we hope science will provide a barrier between us and our demise. We want as much time as possible. We watch shows and read books about magical beings that are invincible. We cherish our remaining youth. Why?
Because death is scary.
I spent the first 28 years of my life not fearing death. I became chronically ill at 12. I’ve had to fight to stay alive. I saw death as natural. Inevitable. Not scary. From the moment we are born, each and every one of us is dying. I wasn’t going to give in or up, but I didn’t fear death like most around me.
Then, everything changed.
One day, it was my health issues piling up. The next my father’s health went from bad to terminal.
Don’t misunderstand. I saw it coming. It would have taken a fool to not see it coming. The strokes. The heart problems. The mobility issues. The dementia starting.
But the kidney failure being imminent was a slap in the face. In a week, I was diagnosed with Covid, laid off, and my father was put on hospice.
That was the beginning. He had a DNR and a POA that limited my sister’s and I from doing much more that watching him die. We were told, right at Thanksgiving, that he didn’t have long without dialysis… to hope we got Christmas with him.
Christmas came. He was so weak I was scared he wouldn’t make it through the day. He did, so Christmas went. With each day that rocked on, he got sicker. Angrier. Sadder.
I watched him drop 70 lbs. He was skin and bones. There were falls. There were meltdowns. There were so many moments that I was NOT prepared for. And I was angry because he was giving in to death. He didn’t fight. Death that is. He fought my sister’s and I about everything. Food. His truck. His house. His meds.
I mean, let’s face it. I loved my father dearly, but no matter how many times the doctors said that smoking and drinking and his eating habits would kill him, he didn’t change his ways. As someone who has had to give up so much to choose life, it was excruciating to watch.
It was the end of May 2022 when he took his last turn for the worse.
The next three weeks were spent, primarily, at his side. He lost the ability to eat and drink, stand, talk, even hold his head. And eventually, he lost consciousness.
He suffered prolonged apnea episodes. Over a minute. I would spend hours watching him breath, not sure if the next was coming. The rattling noise haunts me to this moment, two years later.
We, my sisters and I, gave him medicine and did all we could to make him comfortable. We weren’t comfortable. We were watching him die, one breath at a time.
Both sisters have three children at home. I was allergic to his literal house from the cigarette smoke that penetrated every surface. Yet, dutifully, we stood vigil.
I learned things I never desired to know. If someone is on hospice, it’s normal to have to set with the body approximately three hours. That’s time for the nurse to get there, do what she needs, call the funeral home, and then the funeral home to come and take them away.
It feels more like three days.
I was home for a little restless sleep, but I knew it was coming. It had to be. My sister was there. It was father’s day morning, to add insult to injury, and I awoke suddenly. I felt light and airy. Less heavy than I had in weeks. I sat there a couple moments, and my sister called.
I know I felt it. I rushed over.
I think the worst part is that I have images I can’t ever unsee. The nurse trying to keep his eyes closed. Him being covered by a sheet, draped in a flag covering, and rolled out. The realization that was it.
From there, hellish pandemonium ensued. The following day was memorial planning and obit writing. The pictures. The grief. The cleaning out of his house.
This is why death is scary. There are no absolutes in death. Even when we think it’s planned out, it can throw a curveball at us. One month of suffering can turn into seven and a half.
For me, suffering is something I can handle, but once I’m gone I can’t comfort those I leave behind. Death scares me because this process made me realize that someday, I want my passing to be much easier on my loved ones than this.
He wanted dignity, yet he tied our hands. It hurt me to see him hurt. I support death with dignity, but for the first time in my life, I questioned what that even looked like? Not this… he was skin and bones, miserable at the end.
I don’t want to hurt those I care about like that in the end. But what does it mean to die gracefully, with dignity? I’m scared.
Tough time. Stay positive for yourself. And thanks for sharing your wonderful prose. A great way to connect.
Jenna, I agree with death with dignity, also. I haven't had to endure this as you so valiantly did with your sisters. I feel your frustration at your hands being tied.
‘He didn’t change his ways. As someone who had given up so much to choose life, it was excruciating to watch’. I am in that pickle with my hubs. When we were engaged, (me late 20's, he was late 30's) and exhausted with moving into our new place, I had a nightmare that he was going to drop dead from a heart attack in his 50's. Just 12 yrs away. We were on the path of "way changing" for 7yrs. Fast forward to 6 yrs ago. He had that big one. Known as the Windowmaker. He was spared. After a few months of eating healthier, exercise, etc, he went back to "himself". I too have given much to choose life and understand. Thank you for sharing and being vulnerable. Bless you in your journey to find not only peace but contentment. 🌻