My father has had a stroke and brain bleed. He knows the consequences and feels that his time is up. He is entirely of sound mind and, despite not being able to talk properly, makes it clear to the consultant by nodding and gesturing that he wants all further treatment withdrawn. At present he is being sustained by IV drips which give him water and nutrients. This will now be stopped. He has no interest in rehabilitation - all he wants, he whispers to me, is to return home and die in his bed.
To my deep sadness, I cannot grant him this wish - not only is he suffering from Covid (therefore cannot be released) but the logistics are problematic - the elevator in his building would not fit a hospital bed and then there is the problem of round-the-clock nursing. Nor can I talk to my siblings about this - due to a complicated and painful situation within the family, we are no longer on speaking terms. This makes the whole situation that much more unbearable for me.
After I’ve left the hospital, I feel mentally drained. My mind is cast back to the book I first read in 2018, when my beloved grandmother was dying. Atul Gwande, who is the most extraordinary writer, penned a book entitled ‘Being Mortal - Medicine, Illness and What Really Matters in the End.’ It had a profound impact on me back then and his words return to me now.
Gwande, a regular contributor to the New Yorker, is a true renaissance man - he has a first degree in biology and political science from Stanford, a masters in PPE from Oxford and a medical degree from Harvard. However, as well as being brilliant, he is humble and insightful.
Much of the first part of his book - about living meaningfully and making decisions relating to end of life earlier rather than later, resonated with me personally. My beloved grandmother refused to make these decisions when she still was able and the outcome was…well - incredibly difficult for her and everyone around her.
However, it’s the second part of the book (where Gwande shifts his focus to end-of-life care and dignity in dying) that I’m thinking of now. I completely respect my father’s decision - as do my sisters, I believe - but it’s still a sobering thought for me. I always hoped (secretly) that he’d die in the night, drifting away peacefully, or perhaps have a huge heart attack (30 seconds of pain and then no more).
I never imagined what would happen if he were able to carry on but actively chose to die. I never allowed myself to think about what it would entail.
Now the moment is here.
Soon after, I receive the news that my father is being moved to a hospice.