One year ago today, my world changed forever, and the time since has been more than difficult.
That day, my father died. I wrote about it in my column on 2/19/01 because the circumstances of his death were more than the fact that he died. His doctor made sure that he would – not on his own time, but when the doctor decided. It’s called “futile care.” One doctor called it “benign neglect.” I call it “killing.”
We knew Daddy would die. He was old – three weeks from his 90th birthday, getting frail and had prostate cancer. He’d decided he didn’t want the usual treatment and dealt with the illness with an effective herb, hormone shots and a good diet.
It worked for a number of years, but the disease progressed slowly and he dealt with it with a resigned courage. But he didn’t want to die. Two weeks before his death, he told my brother that he’d make it to 100! The day before he died, I asked him: “Daddy, do you want to die?” He looked at me and said, without equivocation, “No.”
My mother lived those difficult years with a different kind of courage and unique strength. Born at a different time and of a different generation, she was there for him, no matter what. “For better or worse” were part of an oath they took seriously.
They’d spent their lives together, literally. In their own businesses, in travel, in family obligations, in life and, finally, as death separated them, they were together – one month from their 65th year of marriage.
She was there as his true love, his wife, his life partner and, at the end, his unstinting caregiver in the best sense of the word. There was never a doubt she would be there. Her every action was for his welfare as he became less able to do for himself.
She was there as he took his final breath. She spoke to him, held him and kissed him goodbye. They were alone together so many years, and they were alone together at the end of his life.
They really were alone. The nurse wasn’t there, and neither was the doctor. He wasn’t on call that weekend and had appeared the day before, only under duress and at my insistence.
Two days before, without even seeing his longtime patient, he decided my father would have no more “treatment.” It was his time to die. That meant stopping Daddy’s blood pressure medicine and his simple IV fluid drip. Only a pain pill was allowed, but there was no pain.
Daddy was conscious, could talk, eat and drink, but he needed more fluid. The doctor refused. He didn’t ask my father or my mother. When I found out, I insisted he rescind the order. He refused and then refused to talk to me. He decided Daddy should not have the water that might make his last days comfortable and there was nothing I could do about it.
My father died because a doctor decided it was his time to go. It’s as simple as that and what’s even more shocking is that no one seems to care that a man died because a doctor refused him water.
I was told that a mitigating factor was my father’s “advanced age.” When I asked at what age one becomes expendable, I got no answer. State laws are vague, professional groups tend to favor their own, and people turn their heads when you talk of an old person dying.
Oregon’s assisted suicide law was in the news this week noting the number who took advantage of it and offed themselves. They call it the “Death With Dignity Act.” Strange. They call it “dignity” when you kill yourself but no attention is paid when a dying person is refused water by a licensed physician so that they can die more quickly.
You should know that a few years ago, another elderly relative of mine had his food and water stopped by his doctor. The nurses followed orders – the family was neither asked nor told. The piles of e-mails I got from my first column indicate this happens all the time.
If the only way to end this legalized killing is to get corrective laws on the books, then let’s get to it. I’m working on two states. It’s up to you to do the same in your state.
Doctors are not God. They used to be taught, “first, do no harm.” My father’s doctor is still practicing. I wonder how many patients he “lost” this year.
I should call him and tell him about my Dad. He’s still dead.
