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I accidentally euthanised my father because I misunderstood the conversation I was having with a nurse. He had a stroke and was in intensive care, we were told he probably wouldn't live - and if he did - he'd require care for the rest of his life. He had fallen into a coma when the nurse kept asking me if I thought he was in pain and needed more morphine. She kept giving him more, returning to ask the same question and doing it over and over. I can't remember how many times. He began Cheyne–Stokes breathing, and eventually died. I remember feeling strange about the situation, and years later I connected the dots between the amount of morphine given, the breathing (symptomatic of morphine overdose), and his subsequent death. Understanding that I was responsible was something that took a long time to cope with. My mother faced terminal cancer a few years ago, and I found myself in exactly the same situation. Thankfully I understood what was happening. The decision to take her off fluids and to "help her along," was made by a team of medical staff with myself deeply involved in the discussion (which looking back, was a desperate attempt for me to negotiate any way I could for her life). At least Mum understood she was going to die, and I'm glad my eyes were open to what was happening. I feel that the economics of hospital beds have a lot to do with this. Beds in the oncology ward are in demand, as of those in intensive care. I've seen all of my families previous generation die of cancer in either in the same way - in hospital, in oncology or intensive care, always assisted death. It makes me think that if I ever go down that road I don't want to be anywhere near the medical industrial complex. |
It finally got bad enough that he was moved to hospice. The doctors and nurses at his hospital did not make any sort of suggestions about "helping him along" and it was my wife (whose mother works for a probate/guardianship attorney and has observed the process many times) who suggested that they use the code words to "help him along". My parents and grandmother, ever in denial, would not consider it.
So instead he lay there being given palliative care but no food or drink, only water sponged on his lips to keep them moist, for 2 weeks before he finally died of either starvation or dehydration. It was awful- his urine turned a dark purple and it was like he melted from the inside.
I wish the doctors had been a little more forward about it. There was absolutely no purpose in making him endure that. I can only hope his mind was by then too far gone to suffer, but it sure looked like suffering to me. My wife and I have discussed it and both know that's we would prefer a little help. Sometimes it really is the most humane thing to do.