When I was 15, my grandfather died. He was a coal miner and was bedridden from black lung since he was 70. He was always a stubborn old goat determined to prove everyone wrong and do what wanted. When the doctor told him he’d never walk again, he’d get on his walker and walk out to the living room to watch TV with his beloved wife just to show that he still could, because f**k doctors and their opinions.
He drank whiskey like a fish in water until the day he died. And he always said he never wanted to be a burden. He told my father, his son, that he doesn’t want to be in a nursing home, ever.
Well, he took a really bad turn one night, after stubbornly deciding he’d walk again because a doctor told him he can’t. And he was hospitalized again. That night, my dad told his father… “I’m sorry dad, we have to move you into a nursing home in the morning.”
My grandfather squeezed his hand, smiled, said, “I understand and I love you, son.”
He died that night.
I always took a bit of solace and price that my grandfather’s stubborn will was so strong that he followed his intention to never be put in a nursing home, to never be a burden to anyone, that through sheer will, he went to sleep forever that night.
But it weighed heavily on my father. He felt guilty. Felt like he killed his father.
Now, many years later, a mere week before last Christmas, my father is hospitalized. He always said he never wanted to be on life support, never wanted to be a burden.
And here he is, with a breathing tube down his throat. We’re scared. I drive up to the hospital. I get my brother and my sister to fly up.
And my father finally wakes up after a very long day and night. I hold his hand. He can’t talk, but I know this man that raised me. I’m his mirror, I’m him in every way. And I can read his eyes.
I know as he’s holding my hand and looking at me he is asking me to give him grace, to let him die with dignity, to take him off life support.
I feign ignorance to his obvious plea for grace and tell him that his daughter and other son are on their way. I can tell he’s okay with holding on to say goodbye.
He got better. He got stronger. The doctors and nurses said they were amazed at his recovery. They got our hopes up thinking he’d recover. But… he was only holding on to say goodbye to his kids.
My sister and brother got there. They talked to him, held his hands. We had to take turns seeing him.
That night, we all took a break from the ICU room to go in the waiting room and talk while he was sleeping.
He woke up, and he pulled out his breathing tube. And died.
I know why he did it. He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want to be on life support. He wanted God to decide if he lived or died and not some machine.
I respect his strength just like I respected my grandfather’s unyielding willpower.
But I feel so guilty.
My dad made it clear he never wanted to be on life support. That he never wanted to be a burden. And yet… as the power of attorney with the full legal weight… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there and face my mother, my brother, my sister, and tell them we need to let dad go. I was selfish, because I wasn’t ready to lose my father. Apparently, I didn’t care about what HE wanted.
It was my job to ensure he would not be kept alive by a machine. But he had to do it himself. He had to wait until no one was in the room with him and painfully rip that breathing tube out of his throat.
I am so fucked up over this. I can’t forgive myself.
I did however convince my mother, sister and brother to tell the doctor to stop doing CPR and let him go.
But I’ll never forgot that look he gave me. A pleading look. A look that said, “Son, I’ve given you all that I am all your life and never asked for anything until now. Please let me die.” And I failed him. He had to do it himself.
He asked me for grace. I feel like I’ve never failed my father worse than that horrible day.
