The Saturday Morning Post: How Does It All End

Well this one is kind of a downer, sorry, I am trying to collect family stories and this is one that needs to be told. 

A professional hazard, I read a lot about how we live at the end of our life.  Many people lose control of everything at the end of life.  Not all do. 

I remember when my maternal grandfather died.  He had a paralyzing stroke,  was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and was sent home.  He and my grandmother came to live with my parents in Florida that winter.  The alternative was a nursing home.  What no one talked about was he was being sent home to die.  An honest conversation about that, instead of a false hope that he would somehow recover might have led to a better end.  

A few weeks after they came to live with us, I came home from school to find my grandmother agitated and unsure.  He was not well, and she was not sure what to do.  She was terrified that he was going to die, and it was clear that no one had explained to her that he was going to die.  He had been disabled by heart disease for nearly 20 years. Today there are treatments that could have been done, but at that time the options were limited.  

A panicked phone call was made, I don't know if it was to a doctor, or emergency services, or the hospital . . . the recommendation was to put him in the car and drive to the emergency room. He was in the front seat, my father was driving, the rest of us squeezed into the back sear, and at a stop light, he seemed to stop, then started breathing again.  He was rushed into the Emergency Room, the family was sent to the waiting room for what seemed like forever, but was probably 20-30 minutes.  Then we were told he had had major heart attack and was being moved to intensive care, the family was moved to a small private waiting room, on the way down the hall to the waiting room I caught a glimpse of him, his white hair and blue eyes, surrounded by bright lights, noises and shouting by strangers doing everything they could to medically intervene.  We were not in the waiting room 20 minutes when a young doctor came in to break the news that they had done all they could but he was gone. (It has been over 45 years and I have never talked or written about this before.)

Looking back at it, he died surrounded by strangers, bright lights, and pokes and prods, trying anything they could think of to delay the inevitable.  I would bet that was not what he wanted.  He was a quiet man, whose idea of pleasure was a solitary afternoon fishing. If the family had known, I think he would have been much happier at home, with my grandmother holding his hand.  

I contrast this with my father's death six years ago.  About a week before he died, he fell at home. The visiting doctor said, he probably had a heart attack or a stroke that caused the fall.  The visiting nurse recommended that he go to the hospital or a nursing home where he could be more comfortable, and he said no. He knew, anyone who was paying attention knew, that there was no cure that was going to put him back on his feet, back on the golf course, or back behind the wheel of his last Buick.  He argued with them, settling for a hospital bed in the living room, where he could watch Fox News on his 70-inch television, and see it without his glasses.  Hospice controlled his pain. He died in his sleep a few days later.  Where he wanted to be, the way he wanted it, surrounded by peace and love.  

There were two differences.  One was honest communication with health care providers about what they could or couldn't do.  For my grandfather no one wanted to say, we are sending him home to die, for my father his doctors had said, the best we can do is help you enjoy what time you have left.  My grandfather was a quiet man, who seldom spoke up, my father was clear about what he wanted.   

I know which model I want to follow.  Think about which model you want to follow.