Dad’s Final Journey
By Kelsey Cleveland
Dad opened his mouth and winced because of the squamous cell carcinoma tumors near his jaw. Eating—once a source of pleasure for a man who could remember menus and the accompanying wines from decades earlier—had become a torture. The church deacon placed a communion wafer on his tongue and made a cross on his forehead with oil.
I sat to Dad’s right on an extended sofa bed decorated with a quilt given to him by the oncology department. My mother, his wife of over 50 years, clutched Dad’s left hand. Fellow adventurers who traveled the world and lived in four countries, Mom always relied on Dad to meticulously research and plan their trips; he took the same care as he prepared to take his final journey alone.
Six women surrounded Dad in the den. We served as a Greek Chorus whose role wasn’t to comment but to guide my father in his final act. The two most famous deaths in Western culture are those of Jesus and Socrates. The situation reminded me of the Greek philosopher, who was forced to commit suicide by drinking a cup of poison hemlock in 339 BC.
My dad, too, would die by drinking poison. Chemotherapy, surgeries and radiation could no longer stop cancer from spreading in his body. But, unlike Socrates, he chose death with dignity after beginning hospice care at home three months earlier.
As his quality of life diminished, Dad planned to die on his terms. Washington State, where he lived, is one of only 10 states in the United States where this choice is legal. By law, a Death with Dignity is not suicide. The death certificate listed his underlying diagnosis of two types of cancer as the cause of death.
Kathy, an End of Life Washington volunteer, rose from her chair at the end of the bed. She nodded to me as she went to the kitchen to mix up what we called a Cheerio concoction or a sayonara cocktail. Morbid humor helped my family to cope.
A small, dark red bottle contained powdered diazepam, morphine and phenobarbital. The drugs would cause my dad to fall asleep and progress to a deep coma. The lethal mixture also included digoxin and amitriptyline to cause cardiac arrest after Dad was comatose and comfortable. I imagined her pouring four ounces of room-temperature apple juice into the bottle, recapping it, and shaking it for at least 30 seconds to make a smooth, non-clumpy solution.
“She looked at our family, who had already spoken all the words we wanted to say to each other before she and the chorus arrived. ‘Are you ready?’”
Kathy returned to the den with the cocktail and a pint of raspberry sorbet. She looked at our family, who had already spoken all the words we wanted to say to each other before she and the chorus arrived. “Are you ready?”
When Dad nodded, she handed him the bottle with a short straw inside. Then Kathy gave me the sorbet and a spoon. I watched with admiration as Dad sipped the entire concoction in less than a minute, as required. After he put down the empty bottle, I handed him the sorbet, which would mask the bitter taste. He ate several spoonfuls, put down the container, leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
Deathbed scenes in movies always show a person lying down. But we needed to keep Dad in an upright position for at least 20 minutes to reduce the risk of regurgitation. Mom and I each took hold of his hands and waited for him to lose consciousness. His hand was icy, not because of death, but because of the sorbet container.
Dad opened his eyes and turned toward me. “It burns a bit,” he said in a soft voice. I don’t think anyone else heard him before he closed his eyes and fell unconscious.
Merriam Webster defines courage as “mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.” My Dad’s courage came from choosing to stop persevering and to welcome—instead of fear—death. It arrived 30 minutes later.
I picked up a champagne glass and clinked it with his chorus of witnesses in the kitchen: “To Dad.” I sipped the mimosa and celebrated Dad’s life, which amounted to much more than his last sip.
This snapshot essay is part of our series entitled “Courageous Acts.”
Kelsey Cleveland's nonfiction writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Creative Nonfiction, Hippocampus Magazine, Smith Alumnae Quarterly, Press Pause, Monologging and The Ekphrastic Review. She lives and writes outside of Portland, Oregon.