February 3, 2020 at 4:16 p.m.
Hoosiers deserve dignity at death
Letter to the editor
To the editor:
It’s Jan. 22, and I’m sitting in a hospital room watching my grandmother try to die.
At the center of the room, Rosemary lies silently, her mouth parted in a prolonged silent gasp. Morphine holds her suspended between life and death, purgatorial.
Sometimes, though, a gurgling cough rises in her throat, and she fights weakly to clear it.
Three days ago, I sat next to her and held her hand, felt spasms of pain shooting from the core of her body through her fingers. Now she lies there with a blanket up to her neck, no hand for me to hold. The pain is still there though. Every so often, a soft cry escapes her lips. Through the morphine fog, the cancer ravaging her colon, uterus and small intestine makes its presence known.
There is no more treatment for her. Nothing to do but wait. Once a day, a nurse comes in to take her vital signs. They pull her swollen arm from beneath the blanket and wrap it gingerly in the blood pressure cuff. The nurse gives us the bad news. Her blood pressure is strong. Her oxygen levels are good. Rosemary’s mind has shut down, but her body hasn’t gotten the message.
It’s hard to sit with the guilt I feel as I wish for my grandmother’s death. It’s hard to know that my mother, who sits for hours at her side, will struggle to draw up memories of her mother that aren’t shot through with the cold darkness of a hospital room and the sounds of agony. And when death finally comes, what mercy will it truly offer in the face of such unnecessary and prolonged suffering?
Four days ago, when IVs still pumped nutrients into her bloodstream, my grandmother spoke for the last time.
“Are we going to talk about small things,” she asked us, each word punctuated with a ragged breath. “Or are we going to talk about serious things?”
We rose and circled the bed. Her eyes flickered open, and she looked at the crowd of faces surrounding her, three generations of family members still holding on to hope of healing.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” she cried. “I can’t live with this pain. I’m sorry. I love you all. But I want to be with God. I love him, and I want to be with him.”
Her voice was her own, the words were her own, and in that moment, I realized that Rosemary knew what we all struggled to accept. Her life was over. At 96 years old, with no hope of healing ahead of her, Rosemary was ready to die.
We surrounded her and lay our hands on her. We pleaded with her. Just go, we said. It’s OK.
But she didn’t. This woman, who for years opened her home to me every day after school, who prepared her couch with pillows and blankets when I was sick, has laid in agony for four days since speaking her last words: “I want to wake up to nothing.”
Anyone purporting to place value on human life cannot accept the prolonged suffering of the terminally ill as conscionable. Matt Pierce’s House Bill 1020, the Indiana End of Life Options Bill, represents a rational solution.
Imagine if Rosemary, upon realizing that she had reached the end of her life, could bow out with dignity. Imagine the countless other Hoosiers given the agency to truly dictate the terms of their life and death. Indiana has the opportunity to join other states that have opted to extend this dignity to their citizens.
Mercifully, by the time you read this, Rosemary will have passed. She will be interred in a plot next to her husband of 69 years, who passed 10 years ago. No one looking at the cold gray marker will know that for days she struggled to pass, deprived of food, water and dignity. Unless, of course, you were with her in the end.
In Rosemary’s memory, I urge all who believe in the value of life to support HB 1020.
Sincerely,
Austin Flynn
Indianapolis
(Flynn is a 2007 Jay County High School graduate. Rosemary McAbee died Jan. 22.)
It’s Jan. 22, and I’m sitting in a hospital room watching my grandmother try to die.
At the center of the room, Rosemary lies silently, her mouth parted in a prolonged silent gasp. Morphine holds her suspended between life and death, purgatorial.
Sometimes, though, a gurgling cough rises in her throat, and she fights weakly to clear it.
Three days ago, I sat next to her and held her hand, felt spasms of pain shooting from the core of her body through her fingers. Now she lies there with a blanket up to her neck, no hand for me to hold. The pain is still there though. Every so often, a soft cry escapes her lips. Through the morphine fog, the cancer ravaging her colon, uterus and small intestine makes its presence known.
There is no more treatment for her. Nothing to do but wait. Once a day, a nurse comes in to take her vital signs. They pull her swollen arm from beneath the blanket and wrap it gingerly in the blood pressure cuff. The nurse gives us the bad news. Her blood pressure is strong. Her oxygen levels are good. Rosemary’s mind has shut down, but her body hasn’t gotten the message.
It’s hard to sit with the guilt I feel as I wish for my grandmother’s death. It’s hard to know that my mother, who sits for hours at her side, will struggle to draw up memories of her mother that aren’t shot through with the cold darkness of a hospital room and the sounds of agony. And when death finally comes, what mercy will it truly offer in the face of such unnecessary and prolonged suffering?
Four days ago, when IVs still pumped nutrients into her bloodstream, my grandmother spoke for the last time.
“Are we going to talk about small things,” she asked us, each word punctuated with a ragged breath. “Or are we going to talk about serious things?”
We rose and circled the bed. Her eyes flickered open, and she looked at the crowd of faces surrounding her, three generations of family members still holding on to hope of healing.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” she cried. “I can’t live with this pain. I’m sorry. I love you all. But I want to be with God. I love him, and I want to be with him.”
Her voice was her own, the words were her own, and in that moment, I realized that Rosemary knew what we all struggled to accept. Her life was over. At 96 years old, with no hope of healing ahead of her, Rosemary was ready to die.
We surrounded her and lay our hands on her. We pleaded with her. Just go, we said. It’s OK.
But she didn’t. This woman, who for years opened her home to me every day after school, who prepared her couch with pillows and blankets when I was sick, has laid in agony for four days since speaking her last words: “I want to wake up to nothing.”
Anyone purporting to place value on human life cannot accept the prolonged suffering of the terminally ill as conscionable. Matt Pierce’s House Bill 1020, the Indiana End of Life Options Bill, represents a rational solution.
Imagine if Rosemary, upon realizing that she had reached the end of her life, could bow out with dignity. Imagine the countless other Hoosiers given the agency to truly dictate the terms of their life and death. Indiana has the opportunity to join other states that have opted to extend this dignity to their citizens.
Mercifully, by the time you read this, Rosemary will have passed. She will be interred in a plot next to her husband of 69 years, who passed 10 years ago. No one looking at the cold gray marker will know that for days she struggled to pass, deprived of food, water and dignity. Unless, of course, you were with her in the end.
In Rosemary’s memory, I urge all who believe in the value of life to support HB 1020.
Sincerely,
Austin Flynn
Indianapolis
(Flynn is a 2007 Jay County High School graduate. Rosemary McAbee died Jan. 22.)
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