Talking of pieces far better than we could have written, this week, we’re handing the reins over to the wonderful Jane Roberts. Neil Gaiman got it right in The Kindly Ones. The part where Rose Walker writes in her diary and comments ‘I’ve been making a list of the things they don’t teach you in school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody… They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who’s dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing’. What do you say to someone who is dying? It’s one of the hardest challenges I’ve ever faced. It shouldn’t have been. The person in the critical care bed was my dad, with whom I’d had a sometimes difficult relationship but who was ultimately irreplaceable in my affections. I turned off my father’s life support. The permission, the decision, the moment was of my choosing. I would make the same decision again if I had to. I received the phone call early in the morning. When the consultant calls you personally and won’t tell you the situation you know it’s bad. Just how bad became clear when I got to the hospital. My father had collapsed with chest pain. They’d worked all night to save him, but by the time his heart kickstarted into a proper rhythm his body had gone into multi-organ failure. I could see what he was building up to. The question he was going to ask me. It’s a question I pray nobody reading this ever has to answer on behalf of another. He asked me for my permission to remove life support. To effectively terminate my Dad’s life. I remember my unhesitating answer. I didn’t even think about it. I told them to let him go. I remember the look of relief on the doctor’s face. How many times must that poor man have played out this scene? How many differing reactions must he have seen? And with infinite care and tenderness the doctor withdrew life support, my husband and I at my Dad’s side. I didn’t know what to say to Dad other than I loved him. I put my hand on his forehead and my face on his shoulder. And we let him go. My father adored me. He’d also told me many times that his greatest fear was loss of independence, of being rendered incapable. I couldn’t leave him like that, in limbo. It was easy to respect his wishes. It is infinitely harder to live with the consequences. And this was the truth. With one omission. I told nobody that I’d had to give permission for life support to be turned off. I know one of them would have found that horrific. I couldn’t face the recriminations. I think until you face the horrible, horrible in-the-moment choice yourself, you can’t even begin to understand how profoundly it can affect you. I felt guilty in a way I’d never felt before. You may wonder why I’ve written this article. Well, Geeks Vs Loneliness has been a huge support to me over the past two years. It has covered loneliness, anxiety, depression, and grief. I’d looked for a grief support group specifically helping those who’d made a similar decision but couldn’t find one. Grief forums seemed squeamish about this subject – though please correct me if you know of any that can help. We don’t talk about death enough. We don’t really want to think about it. I am forever grateful that my Dad had been very clear on his wishes of what to do. From a personal point of view I’d want someone to take the same decision for me, were I ever in his place – but many people wouldn’t. At what point can we stand to let go? People who’ve been in a similar situation to me will have reacted in many different ways, and all of them are valid responses. We can only respond to our own circumstances, our own truths. That day, my truth was to honour and action my Dad’s wishes. I know that now. I hear my Dad’s voice sometimes, and his infectious raconteur’s laugh. Wherever he is, he loves me still, and it’s sent back in spades. For further support on dealing with grief you can contact Cruse in the UK on 0844 477 940 or at www.cruse.org.uk Your GP will be able to advise you of local support and counselling services.
