I imagined a graceful death for my dad. That's not what happened

This is a First Person column by Gordon Petersen, who lives in Okotoks, Alta. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I have imagined my father's perfect death. 

Dad is in his favourite old oak rocking chair, surrounded by all of his family. We are laughing and crying, and he's still cracking silly jokes, as usual. But his bones are brittle and his dementia is worsening. He's had enough.

I sit with him a minute, find the courage to say the words I've never managed to get out before: "Dad, you've always been my superhero, so confident and fearless. Thanks for your selfless love."

He looks me in the eye and smiles. We hug one final time, and he says to the doctor beside him with the IV ready, "Yes, it's time to move on."

That's how it could have been.

But it wasn't.

We avoided the hard conversations.

Henning Petersen, my 94-year-old father, died in March and it was a slow death, cruel and prolonged.

Dad was a genius, a do-it-yourself wizard who never hired repair people. He worked as an elevator mechanic to provide for his wife and five kids in Edmonton. He was a lifelong learner, challenging his grandkids at checkers, picking up Spanish in his 50s, and building a retirement cabin by hand. I made a surprise visit there one Christmas, and he was speechless, in tears.

Family meant everything to Dad. 

When he slipped slowly into dementia, he was agonizingly self-aware. We'd have conversations that repeated every 20 minutes and Dad could sense something was wrong. He'd ask if he was repeating himself. Then he'd turn away in embarrassment or shake his fist and exclaim "Sheesh!" Over time, he just asked fewer questions.

Then one day he suddenly stopped eating and drinking. His witty and silly jokes, gone, and his head hung low, avoiding interaction. 

I often sat with him but felt so lost. I loved this calm, steady man so dearly, but had no idea how to help.

An attending nurse told us he probably felt no hunger, thirst or pain. But only Dad knew for sure. I worried and cursed under my breath each time the sedatives wore off and he grew agitated.

I was sitting in his rocking chair beside his bed one week after he stopped eating. He suddenly sat up and stretched his long, thin quivering arms toward me. 

He swung his bony legs over the edge of the bed.

His hollow gaze was chilling and yet I longed for some spark of connection. I leaned forward. He grabbed my shoulders with a vise grip. No words, just a yearning, almost desperate, look in his sky-blue eyes.

Did he want to pass his last moments in his rocking chair instead?

I tried to bear-hug lift Dad up from his small bed and pivot with him.

The discs and muscles in my lower back screamed and we collapsed slowly in a heap onto the floor, his clammy cheek next to mine. I cradled him in my arms and reached up for the little red help cord to call the nursing home staff.

I pulled up his loose diaper and covered his frail legs and mottled skin with his thin linen gown. Dammit, I just wanted him to have some dignity and peace! 

It took more than three weeks for Dad to die. I look back on that time with grief, regret and guilt.

I cannot imagine it was what Dad wanted — for him or for us. I should have pushed harder to talk about his wishes and the possibility of MAiD (Medical Assistance in Dying) before it was too late, but Dad and I never had an easy time talking about these kinds of personal topics. 

I just wanted him to have some dignity and peace!- Gordon Petersen

I was not there for him during the last hours of his decline. My sister and her close friend were and she describes it as gut-wrenching. He developed "death rattles," as they are known, raspy irregular gasps with long gaps, his emaciated body shaking uncontrollably with the effort. On and on it went, mercilessly, as my sister held his hand and talked to him.

Then, finally, his heart stopped. My sister and her friend broke down, grateful it was over. Dad died staring up at the ceiling and my sister somehow found the strength to reach over and close those ice-blue Viking eyes.

I know those last three weeks of his life did include some smiles and moments of connection. And as I sat next to his bed, I got to say out loud how grateful I was for all he did for me and our family. 

But did he hear me? I don't know. 

What happened was awful. Talking about it helps, and I wanted to write this piece because I think there are a lot of other people experiencing this kind of pain. 

Would my dad have ever agreed to something different? I don't know. Maybe not. 

What I do know is that I will never put my family through this kind of ordeal. I had conversations about MAiD previously with my wife and children, but my dad's struggle made this personal and tragic. It was too late to talk about it when he got seriously ill.

We held a celebration of Dad's life after burying his ashes. Now I'm holding on to the echoes of his laughter from all the good years, the images of his smiling face and heartfelt stories of how he touched so many lives.

Dad's empty rocking chair came home with me. I think over time I'll move on and let it go, but my son says he wants to keep it. To remember the good times. 

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