Just a brief, contemplative post on the many exits to life I’ve witnessed or been close to over the years of those closest to me. There are so many ways to face that final transformation. They all unfold differently and must be respected. I am in awe of the fierceness of spirit of all. I’ve been beside those struggling to breathe, to live, and those peacefully gasping their last breaths. I am all too well acquainted with suffering. Oh, how I love and miss them all.
My first pet, beloved Pepper, died in my arms, in the physical heart of the home, after waiting for the entire family to be home.
My first guinea pig had a horrific end of pain, with a bladder stone blocking her ability to urinate. I made the painful decision to end her suffering.
My second piggie and I had a deep bond, and he waited until I was home before passing away peacefully.
My third and fourth piggies were deeply bonded. After long lives, I had to take one for her final trip to the vet. The other had stayed alive through sheer will power to stay with her sister over the months as she was very ill. She passed away that same night at home lying next to where she would lay next to her sister.
My fish was deeply bonded with me and fought to live. There was no merciful way I knew to handle him. It was a rough few days before he finally passed away.
My grandparents all left this earthly existence in different ways. A common thread was a resistance to leaving home and facing hospitalization or hospice. One passed away with family around. Another waited until they heard news of a hospice, and chose a time – a brief lunch break of loved ones- to pass away quietly.
One passed away at home in the night, also alone. And one passed away on the same day at the hospital before transferring to hospice, within an hour of their spouse’s passing 9 years previously, with family present.
I’ve had a friend discuss with me quality of life and then choose assisted suicide to end her suffering, and I’ve been close to near and final deaths from meth.
Of all deaths though, my beloved Dad’s was the most dramatic. The doctor thought he’d make the night before dialysis but my heart felt differently. I just knew. Mom insisted on staying the night despite the positive prognosis. I stayed with her. We weren’t in the room together half an hour when vitals went critical and we were ushered out.
We called my brother while they initiated dialysis stat. The doctor talked to us in a family meeting and we reiterated Dad wanted every last chance to live. After dialysis there was peace and my brother and Mom visited again… until they were ushered out again. There was a long wait.
Perhaps around 2 am or so I ventured at one point to the end of ICU, the room. The doctor was sitting on the bed. Literally sitting on Dad’s bed, beside him. Just staring at the myriad of monitors. I could see how worried he was. I headed back to the family waiting room. The staff were all outside and buzzing. It was awful.
After several eons we were permitted back. I went with Mom first. The nurses were outside and calm, but breathlessly recounted what had just happened, jotted on a tiny note paper in pen crudely.
—the defibrillator plates still lay on a table, cooling off—
Dad’s heart rate, which had been so low for so long, had suddenly took off, wildly fast. Absolute racing. The doctor gave a first bolus to slow the heart, no response. They gave a second bolus to slow the heart, zero response.
They stopped his heart. Restarted his heart. Still tachycardia +++++.
They stopped his heart again. Restarted his heart. Heart rate was still runaway, off the charts.
They stopped his heart a third time.
They restarted his heart.
he was okay.
The cardiologist performed surgery *in* the room, implanting a pacemaker.
and he was okay.
We visited, filled the room with love. He was so peaceful, absolute beauty, had not seen him resting like that for so long. He was going to be okay. He had the pacemaker, he was on dialysis, and his vitals were great. And he was resting so beautifully.
We told him to have a good sleep, and we would see him in the morning, and we as an entire family left, the first time we had left him alone in days and days. We were exhilarated and so happy. Dad was a fighter and he wanted to live. And he would.
The call from the ward to return came a few hours later. We are all certain the few hours of peace and sleep we had was Dad’s last gift to us. He knew we needed each other, and we needed rest. He sent us home together telling us not to worry, without speaking a word.
A remarkable last day, and last gift. An incredible human being. My Dad.