Table of Contents
Introduction
The following short essay was written last June in the middle of the night as I was watching over my father during his final weeks in hospice care at our house.
This offers a glimpse into our family’s experience during a sunny Florida June afternoon. Moments like this defined those final and challenging times with him.
Another Little Push
As my daughters are proudly showing me their high scores on their tablets, I look across the room to see my mom, focused, anxious, and getting ready to mix yet another strong afternoon cocktail for his pain.
Once, she explained that, for her, each injection feels like she is pushing him a little closer to death - a sort of gentle euthanasia. In reality, she is the only one in this house willing to do it. The rest of us simply cannot.
She sits down on the floor next to the coffee table that has become our little designated home pharmacy. A variety of cardboard pill packs are organized in the corner of the table. Nearby sit a box of syringes, gauze pads, white medical tape, a pill crusher, and all the other supplies needed to keep this man from suffering.
In the middle of the coffee table, between all the supplies, she keeps a notebook, the very cheap, flimsy kind you’d find in the clearance section at the local grocery store.
Neatly and meticulously she first notes the exact details about today’s formulation. There is a hand-drawn table diagram on each page outlining that day’s medication routine. Her features tighten with focus and seriousness as she writes the time and dosage for each drug. It strikes me once again how alike we are.
I notice the blue pen she is using. It’s a free bank pen she pocketed the other day while we were rushing to sort out their finances before it was too late and before it became complicated.
One by one, she takes a box of pills, pops each pill from its wrapper, and carefully lines them up on the notebook. She reaches for the pill crusher, screws it open, loads it with the selected pills, and screws it closed. She forcefully starts grinding, twisting her hand, while working her shoulder and elbow up and down.
The vigorous movements and crunching sounds take me back to a world of cozy winter mornings, when she’d use an old copper Turkish coffee grinder for their coffee. Now, in this bright June afternoon, that world of sweet morning aromas has been replaced by the musky smell of sickness.
While she is grinding the pills to a fine powder, a familiar bundle of poignant memories and feelings crosses my mind. Memories of doctors, scans, mistakes, hopes, disappointments, defeat, and hurt. I can’t help thinking of what kind of memory this will become. When it’s all over, which moments will live with me forever, and which will die with him?
I worry about what the effects of all this will be on her. I can clearly see the deep open wound that will eventually become a haunting scar. But I don’t think she can see that now. For now she still has this ritual of purpose, responsibility, and focus that keeps her oblivious to that.
She takes one of the saline-filled syringes from the coffee table, sticks it into the top of the pill crusher, and injects it with the saline solution. After a few light shakes, she inverts the whole thing, and draws the mixture back into the syringe. She removes the syringe from the pill crusher, and focuses intently on pressing out any excess air. The afternoon cocktail is ready.
After all this diligent preparation, she holds the syringe between her fingers, its barrel catching the sunlight. There’s a heavy pause. My father exhales. She sighs with hesitation. I can guess what is going through her mind. Another little push.
She turns to him and injects the fresh cocktail into one of his catheters.
I look away.
Thank you for reading this little essay. I hope it has offered you some new perspective.
After two years battling cancer, my father passed away on the quiet afternoon of June 21st. We were fortunate to all be there with him until his last breath.
As we slowly approach a year since that day, my mother is doing well. She is as sharp, creative, and silly as always. Her new snarky cat keeps her busy and in good company. She lives just five minutes from our house and loves being around the grandkids. We and she visits often, baking with them, and filling our home with the same warmth she always has.
Thank you, Dad, for being the solid rock foundation of our family throughout our lives. I miss hanging out, watching live soccer games with you.
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