My Father Always Wanted to Die with Dignity. But When His Time Came, I Couldn’t Let Him Go.

As a doctor, Dad was very specific in his wishes for end-of-life care. I agreed wholeheartedly…back when it was purely theoretical.

Illustrations by Avalon Nuovo

My father’s whiskers were healthy to the end. After scraping away the stiff scruff from my dad’s face in the morning, he looked handsome – dignified. The next day, the whiskers returned. As if a sea captain had blown a whistle, facial stubble popped out and stood at attention on deck. The silver crew bristled, ready for orders to save the slow-sinking vessel that was his body. I emerged too, each day, ready to save, save, save. But I now realize that in my zeal to care for my father – shave, reposition, feed, provide skin care, brace his broken hip and treat his bladder infections, I almost forgot to let him die.

I was born when my father was 48 years old, so I was on the younger end of the caregiver spectrum, still in my thirties, when he came to live with me the last four years of his life. During his final year, he was diagnosed with a broken hip, which didn’t sound terminal. But four months, three failed hip revision surgeries and two sepsis cures later…