I had been concerned about my father’s passing for many years, presumably ever since I discovered that smoking causes cancer. However, years of anticipatory anxiety were insufficient to prepare me for the unbearable heartbreak that struck me like a rock when Dad passed away from lung cancer at the age of 82 last year.
I had no idea that his intentional death would become a lasting part of his legacy. Or that Mom’s shyness would keep me from telling the world that he was assisted by medicine in dying. With my obituary, I had hoped to honor my father by encouraging readers to love and live life to the fullest. Additionally, I wanted to compile his entire life, with all of its quirks and complexity, into a sincere homage that, if you read
between 20 column inches – demonstrated his genuine personality.
I mentioned, for instance, that he delighted us with stories we never got weary of hearing, that he never engaged in small conversation, and that when he traveled, he was at ease the most. I’ll explain: Dad would always say, “Stop me if you’ve heard this,” before launching into one of his (although hilarious) anecdotes, giving no room for interruptions and a nanosecond’s leeway. He could be very set in his ways and did not put up with idiots.
How Dad passed away was the one thing I didn’t want to discuss.
I hesitate to use a platitude like “transformational,” but that’s the only word that comes to me when describing what we went through. For the family he left behind, knowing ahead of time the precise day and time of his death gave us the opportunity to say everything we wanted to say and send him out soaked in the love he deserved. Medical help in dying spared Dad many indignities.
I was overcome with thankfulness for living in a nation that allowed my father to choose a peaceful death over a protracted, slow one as I saw him take his final, calm breath (this is not a euphemism, people). I desired to spread it throughout the world.
