My father: personal narrative and family relationships

Death & Dying - Hospice

REFLECTING on the DEATH of MY FATHER

My beloved father died recently. In life, he was the source of many lessons, about love, friendship, honesty, compassion, fairness, responsibility, sacrifice, and the meaning of personal integrity. In his death, he provided one last lesson, a lesson represented more by questions and the opportunity for self-exploration rather than a lesson of definitive answers or solutions.

We all knew that my father was dying, because while still a hospital in-patient, his doctor advised him that he had approximately a week to live without dialysis.

Because dialysis meant merely extending a life that had become more difficult to prolong than to relinquish, my father declined the treatment; he had had enough suffering and discomfort. I recall understanding his decision but being aware of a vague feeling of anger at his choice, despite the fact that I did not want him to suffer.

My father spent the last week of his life confined to his bed at home, where we cared for him 'round the clock, changing his position in bed to avoid bedsores, feeding him, changing him, and keeping him clean. We had arranged for delivery of whatever equipment we could find to make the end of his life as comfortable as possible, including hospital bed and supplemental oxygen.

For the first time, our respective roles had reversed completely, with my father's absolute dependence on us, instead of the other way around, for even the most basic human needs. In many ways, it was similar to caring for an infant. At times, it was difficult for me to grasp the reality that this dependent person barely conscious in a hospital bed was really my father. Looking back on it afterwards, I was already in a mild state of psychological shock, just at my father's deterioration, even before he died.

At the same time, I tried to focus on the fact that my father was still alive, which meant that I hadn't yet lost him. In reality, most of the person my father had been died long before he actually drew his last breath. Psychologists would probably say that I was in a state of denial in pretending that my father was still "OK" when in truth, he obviously was not "OK" in the least. Nevertheless, I had also begun anticipating the grieving process while he was still alive.

At first, my reaction to his death matched my expectations as my tears flowed more freely than ever before, at least more freely than ever before as an adult. The morning after he died, my grief seemed at first to have passed, but gradually, I realized that I had become numb. I helped arrange for his funeral and for family gatherings as well as carrying out daily routines that still had to be done. In some respects, the numbness was even worse than the first day of grief I experienced, because nothing else in my life felt real; t was as though I was floating through life without any feelings at all. During that time, I cannot recall mourning, but I cannot recall feeling much of anything else, either.

My grief returned more intensely than before at the graveside service.

Afterwards, I was exhausted by the emotional flood that I had experienced, but it is equally possible that the relief was more a function of all the energy that it had required not to release during the time between my father's death and his funeral. As powerful as the feelings of outright grief were some of the more unexpected feelings I began to experience in the next few weeks: feelings of anger at my father, anger at myself, shame, totally inexplicable feelings of hurt, and fear, and also relief.

A realized for the fist time, only weeks after my father's death, that I was angry at my father: angry that he'd refused the dialysis which could have prolonged his life; angry at having had to watch him die because of that decision. Consciously, I understood that my father's situation was terminal and that he deserved not to be in pain, but on some other level - perhaps the level of the child of his that I will always be - I was angry at him for choosing to leave us even a moment before he had to.

A realized that I was (simultaneously) angry at myself and ashamed, for having any feelings of anger at my father, who deserved only my sympathy and understanding. I was not conscious of it at the time, but I realized that I had also resented my father for having had to assume the role of his nurse, of which feelings I had also been in denial at the time. Acknowledging that resentment only lead to more feelings of shame at having the audacity to resent my father for having changed his diapers a few dozen times, compared to the many hundreds, if not thousands, of times that my father had done the same for me as an infant. Admittedly, I was also afraid of ever being in his condition.