It's hard to let go at the end of a life
Rebecca Steinberger, Staff Columnist
Issue date: 9/7/05 Section: Opinion
Making decisions on behalf of someone who is dying is a challenging issue, even with the best intentions. Experiencing the death of a family member is one of many tragedies you know you must face, but it's still horrible. Sometimes it's easier to accept if the dying person is elderly - it's easier to say goodbye to someone who is nearing the end of a full life - but the actual death is often traumatic.
At 4 a.m. one Sunday this summer, a phone call came informing my mother that her father and stepmother had been in a severe car accident in New York, and had been hospitalized. Unable to leave Los Angeles immediately, we all spent a sleepless night at home. On Monday night, my mom took the last flight to New York and stayed with her parents for a week until their conditions stabilized. She then returned, and our family went on a brief vacation.
But soon enough we were awakened by another call from New York, which brought the news that my grandfather's vital signs were falling and he might not make it through the night. We hurriedly returned home, and I unpacked my vacation clothes from my suitcase in order to repack it for an immediate flight to New York. Three weeks prior, my mother had made the trip by herself - I didn't want her to go alone this time.
As I packed my suitcase, I felt a dire need to include a black outfit so that I would be prepared for the worst. Fortunately, I didn't have to wear black on this trip, but what I experienced was challenging, nonetheless.
As we approached my grandfather's hospital room in the surgical intensive care unit, my mother asked me several times if I was "ready." I told her I wasn't, but I knew we had to do it anyway - slowly, we walked in. I can't truly articulate how I felt at the moment when my eyes met those of my grandfather, who stared up at me, unable to say a word because of his respirator. The worst part was this was the first time we had seen each other in 13 years. As he tried to move his lips and get some words out, all I could think of was how frustrating and painful it must have been for him: strapped in bed with a broken neck, broken ribs, bleeding in his head and unable to speak. He was hooked up to an artificial ventilator and blood circulator, and even his hands had to be strapped down so he wouldn't inadvertently upset the tubing and equipment.
And there I stood, standing at the side of his bed as he squeezed my hand and stared at me with a look on his face like he was sorry I had to see him this way.
My grandfather's wife, my stepgrandmother, kept pushing his doctors for every treatment possible in an attempt to give him another chance. As they worked on him, I experienced the fear I'm sure many people have - a sickening anxiety that builds within when you know the time to say goodbye is coming. The doctors and nurses were all extraordinary people and tried everything possible to keep him alive - a struggle that continues at the time of this writing.
I had to return to San Diego for the start of the semester, but so many disturbing thoughts came back with me: I recall the morning of the accident when my mother was planning a family trip to New York so we could visit him. I have the image of watching my stepgrandmother holding the hand of her stricken husband - the love of her life - crying with fear and guilt. I can still see my mom's face, knowing how she hates to helplessly watch her father suffer, but has no authority to make decisions regarding his care. The whole experience reminded me of the overblown Terri Schiavo case last year and reinforced my belief that it's of utmost importance for everyone to have a living will in place.
I've never known my grandfather as well as I'd have liked, but I still love him. To sit and watch him lay helplessly in bed left me speechless. I kept wishing, at the very least, we could have a normal conversation.
Although death is the final goodbye, we must realize the importance of letting go. For every great beginning there is always an end.
-Rebecca Steinberger is a pre-journalism sophomore.
-This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec. Send e-mail to letters@thedailyaztec.com. Anonymous letters will not be printed - include your full name, major and year in school.
At 4 a.m. one Sunday this summer, a phone call came informing my mother that her father and stepmother had been in a severe car accident in New York, and had been hospitalized. Unable to leave Los Angeles immediately, we all spent a sleepless night at home. On Monday night, my mom took the last flight to New York and stayed with her parents for a week until their conditions stabilized. She then returned, and our family went on a brief vacation.
But soon enough we were awakened by another call from New York, which brought the news that my grandfather's vital signs were falling and he might not make it through the night. We hurriedly returned home, and I unpacked my vacation clothes from my suitcase in order to repack it for an immediate flight to New York. Three weeks prior, my mother had made the trip by herself - I didn't want her to go alone this time.
As I packed my suitcase, I felt a dire need to include a black outfit so that I would be prepared for the worst. Fortunately, I didn't have to wear black on this trip, but what I experienced was challenging, nonetheless.
As we approached my grandfather's hospital room in the surgical intensive care unit, my mother asked me several times if I was "ready." I told her I wasn't, but I knew we had to do it anyway - slowly, we walked in. I can't truly articulate how I felt at the moment when my eyes met those of my grandfather, who stared up at me, unable to say a word because of his respirator. The worst part was this was the first time we had seen each other in 13 years. As he tried to move his lips and get some words out, all I could think of was how frustrating and painful it must have been for him: strapped in bed with a broken neck, broken ribs, bleeding in his head and unable to speak. He was hooked up to an artificial ventilator and blood circulator, and even his hands had to be strapped down so he wouldn't inadvertently upset the tubing and equipment.
And there I stood, standing at the side of his bed as he squeezed my hand and stared at me with a look on his face like he was sorry I had to see him this way.
My grandfather's wife, my stepgrandmother, kept pushing his doctors for every treatment possible in an attempt to give him another chance. As they worked on him, I experienced the fear I'm sure many people have - a sickening anxiety that builds within when you know the time to say goodbye is coming. The doctors and nurses were all extraordinary people and tried everything possible to keep him alive - a struggle that continues at the time of this writing.
I had to return to San Diego for the start of the semester, but so many disturbing thoughts came back with me: I recall the morning of the accident when my mother was planning a family trip to New York so we could visit him. I have the image of watching my stepgrandmother holding the hand of her stricken husband - the love of her life - crying with fear and guilt. I can still see my mom's face, knowing how she hates to helplessly watch her father suffer, but has no authority to make decisions regarding his care. The whole experience reminded me of the overblown Terri Schiavo case last year and reinforced my belief that it's of utmost importance for everyone to have a living will in place.
I've never known my grandfather as well as I'd have liked, but I still love him. To sit and watch him lay helplessly in bed left me speechless. I kept wishing, at the very least, we could have a normal conversation.
Although death is the final goodbye, we must realize the importance of letting go. For every great beginning there is always an end.
-Rebecca Steinberger is a pre-journalism sophomore.
-This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec. Send e-mail to letters@thedailyaztec.com. Anonymous letters will not be printed - include your full name, major and year in school.
