To me, it was a look of perplexity, a look of bewilderment. There was a disturbing look on his face, with sunken eyes and a half-open mouth outlined by blue lips. I wish I could say he looked at peace in death, but he did not. He took one final breath in but did not exhale. Despite the observations of hospice nurses in Oregon, I believe it is what he would have wanted. Nevertheless, I wish doctor-assisted death had been available to my father. Why stretch it out over seven days? Without a doubt, the path we’d taken was far preferable to a drawn-out death in the ICU or in a nursing home. The “esters” and “ketones” were finally kicking in.Īs I sat at the bedside watching him finally at peace, I had to ask: Why did we have to wait six days to reach this point? My father was on a sure path to death when we decided to withhold fluids.
Triple doses of morphine didn’t seem to help much.įinally - mercifully - he began to lose consciousness toward the evening of day six. At times, my dad’s breathing rate topped 40 breaths a minute (three to four times normal). The arm reaching, though weakened, continued. Yet the signs of agitation were still there.ĭays five and six were the hardest. By day four, we were far exceeding hospice protocol doses.
We were giving the medications around the clock, but as the days progressed, we needed to give higher and higher doses. Both the hospice nurse and I were giving my father morphine for pain and Ativan for sedation. There were other suggestions of discomfort: rapid breathing, mild groaning, and sweating. I took this as a sign of agitation and discomfort, though I will never know for sure. Despite the stroke, he was able to move his left arm a bit, and beginning on day two, he started reaching with the arm, repeatedly pushing against the bed mattress and the bed rail. Over the seven days it took him to die, I watched as my father seemed to become increasingly restless. I wish I could say he died a gentle death.
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