“I can save you. I don’t understand what there is to think about!”
I can still hear his raised voice as I sit quietly beside my mother. My father sits equally quiet on her other side. The expert doctor explains she has two choices. Have her body slowly fail system by system as the cancer spreads or have her bladder removed and a fistula with a tube and bag for the rest of her life.
He acted so sure and abrupt. For him, it was a no-brainer. He genuinely seemed perplexed that she wasn’t excited about this ‘choice’. He seemed angry with her tears and hesitation.
I replay this scene in my mind. In my do-over, I tell her she doesn’t have to have the surgery.
In reality, when she asked me what I thought she should do, I told her I couldn’t make the decision for her. I think I told her I loved her, but I don’t think I ever told her I would support her with whatever she truly wanted.
I was quiet. I was scared. I could feel what was right for her, but I couldn’t speak it. I didn’t know how to verbally support her when her decision would likely mean a shorter life. I also didn’t feel my voice was strong enough to contradict the specialist who so clearly articulated what she should do.
He had the knowledge. I did not.
But, didn’t I? I knew my mom so much better than he did. I knew she didn’t want the surgery. A part of me knew she only moved forward with it because she felt she had to. She didn’t want to be ‘a failure’ and that’s what she thought she was since her vision for her life did not match that of the doctor’s.
We don’t want to lose those we love. We ourselves may not be ready to leave this world. But, how can we still think of death as a failure?
In the medical world it seems to mean we lost. In our lives, although we experience profound loss over our loved ones, it doesn’t mean they lost.
She did not want the surgery. It is so evident now. She was much more ready to accept her end than a series of highly invasive procedures, medications, and altered systems of living.
I wish I told her more directly that I would stand by whatever decision was best for her. If she decided to try every treatment – chemo, radiation, surgery, medication, then I would support it. I would also support her if she didn’t want any of that. I replay this frozen memory where she sat slumped on the couch and quietly said “I’d rather die.” In my do-over, I’m not frozen in fear and anguish. Instead, I am vocal and confident. I say, “It is okay if you do not want anymore. It is okay to accept the mortality that we all will face one day. You are not a failure for dying.”
Everyone has or should have the right to make their own life choices, even and especially, when it comes to dying.
Whatever treatments you choose or don’t choose, I say you are still strong, you are still brave, and you are still fighting for your life – the quality of it.