Death and Dying
Heaven help me I am putting my “two cents” into the Schiavo matter. My mother and I were discussing the case this weekend. She reminded me that my grandfather (my dad’s dad) died at home after his family decided to stop feeding him.
It was March 1968, and he was beyond the help of medical science, in the final stages of cancer. The doctor gave the family the option to keep him in the hospital on a feeding tube, or take him home to be with the family. It was explained that taking him home would speed the inevitable death process since we wouldn’t be able to feed him regularly and the only way to get him to “eat” would be forcing food down. He had lost appetite and ability to eat independently.
I remember visiting my grandparents’ home during this time. I was a few days shy of 5 years old. They lived in the lower floor of a duplex in south Minneapolis. My grandfather lay on a little couch or day-bed in a back room. While I don’t recall all the details, I can picture him lying in a room that wasn’t his regular bedroom – perhaps a spare room?
He died a few days later, in the early morning hours, with my father at his bedside. His kids were taking turns sitting with him and providing relief to my grandmother, and my dad happened to be there when he died. My father had just gotten home when I woke up. I remember asking lots of questions about what it was like to watch someone die —typical brutally honest questioning from an almost 5 year old.
Thirty-two years later, my mother and I sat by my father’s bed as he died of cancer.
Felt like I completed the circle.
It was March 1968, and he was beyond the help of medical science, in the final stages of cancer. The doctor gave the family the option to keep him in the hospital on a feeding tube, or take him home to be with the family. It was explained that taking him home would speed the inevitable death process since we wouldn’t be able to feed him regularly and the only way to get him to “eat” would be forcing food down. He had lost appetite and ability to eat independently.
I remember visiting my grandparents’ home during this time. I was a few days shy of 5 years old. They lived in the lower floor of a duplex in south Minneapolis. My grandfather lay on a little couch or day-bed in a back room. While I don’t recall all the details, I can picture him lying in a room that wasn’t his regular bedroom – perhaps a spare room?
He died a few days later, in the early morning hours, with my father at his bedside. His kids were taking turns sitting with him and providing relief to my grandmother, and my dad happened to be there when he died. My father had just gotten home when I woke up. I remember asking lots of questions about what it was like to watch someone die —typical brutally honest questioning from an almost 5 year old.
Thirty-two years later, my mother and I sat by my father’s bed as he died of cancer.
Felt like I completed the circle.
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