My father is dying in front of my eyes and even as a non-medic, the physical changes taking place in him are clear for me to see. His breathing is becoming more laboured. His fingertips have turned a bluish-purple colour, because his blood circulation is diminishing. The doctor and nurses tell me that, soon, his lungs will become so congested that he will not be able to take in air. I sit beside his bed, staring at his face. At least he seems calm now, and for that I am truly grateful. I know he is fading - his skin is becoming increasingly cooler to the touch as I touch it and his pulse is weakening.
An hour later, I begin to see saliva around his mouth because he can no longer swallow - I take tissues and wipe it away. His breathing is becoming increasingly irregular - the periods when it stops altogether are becoming longer and longer. The nurse tells me it’s called ‘Cheynes Stokes’ - rapid breaths followed by slower breaths.
I am on autopilot now, not allowing myself to feel anything because I have to stay with him and see this through - whatever the emotional cost to myself. My role is to provide him comfort - I feel it very important that not only does he not die alone, but that his death is dignified. And yet as his breathing becomes more shallow, I find myself unable to maintain my composure. I lay my head on his chest and weep.
“Don’t leave me, dad. Don’t leave me.”
One of the nurses sees my distress and brings me a cup of tea. The other puts a comforting arm on my shoulder. They reassure me that he feels no pain. This reassurance is all I have left to cling onto now.
I sit there, holding his hand, stroking his forehead and listening to him begin to gasp for breath. The ‘death rattle’ as it’s referred to, though the nurses prefer not to use this term and, instead, revert to medical parlance - the ‘agonal breath.’ Apparently, they are the last reflexes of a dying brain.
And then - in the blink of an eye - it happens. Silence. I stare at his face, disbelieving, willing him to breathe just one more time. But the gasping has stopped. I reach over to take his pulse but can feel nothing. I call a nurse. She stands over him and does the same thing.
“He’s gone, my love.”
I cannot take the words in; I am not prepared for this moment. I stare at my father, whose eyes are closed but whose mouth has fallen open. He looks peaceful. Another one of the angels returns with a single red rose, which she places next to his pillow.
“May I sit with him for a while?
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
I sit there for about 20 minutes, just holding his hand. Then I step outside to the balcony, to take in some air. When I return, a knitted heart has been placed next to the rose (crafted by a volunteer). Then two of the nurses arrive and tell me they are going to wash and dress him.
“May I help you?”
“Absolutely.”
So the three of us bathe my father, then dress him in brand new pyjamas. As they move his limbs, they address him as ‘Ron’ and ask for permission, gently telling him that they hope they’re not causing him too much discomfort. The care and consideration they are showing him, even in death, is astonishing. Finally, they spray a little cologne on him. My father liked looking good - he would have appreciated these gestures, I think to myself.
After it’s over, I sit with him again, for a while, until it’s time for them to take him to the mortuary. By now, shock has turned to distress and I beg the staff to let me have just five more minutes with him. Unfortunately, the moment cannot be delayed any longer. They wheel him out of his room, me walking alongside the bed, clutching at his hand and, as we head towards the elevator, we walk past two of the nurses and a health attendant, all struggling to hold back tears. I kiss him lightly on the forehead then watch his bed disappear into the distance. The staff later tell me it’s very unusual for a relative to keep vigil for as long as I have done, especially alone - one of them comes up to me afterwards and whispers in my ear, “You were amazing.”
Was I? I hardly think so. I feel I did what was correct and accompanied my father on his journey from earth onto…well, who knows? I fulfilled my obligation to him not just as a daughter but as a Jew. It is an ancient ritual not to let the dying die alone and I have honoured it. And, despite the enormous emotional toll it has taken on me, I am not sorry and would do it all again, if necessary. Because caring for him at the end of his life was not actually a burden, rather a privilege.
‘Tsetchem l’shalom, aba”. Godspeed, dad, and may peace be your journey.