23-Death panels Part 1

Death panels, advanced directives, a dream, and a miracle

Part 1: The Document and the Dream

A man who earned his reputation for integrity, my father was an honest and just lawyer. Over the final decades of his practice, judges didn’t bother verifying sources cited in his briefs; they were infallible. Shady lawyers fill legal briefs with questionable quotes and bogus interpretations of precedence in order to sway lazy judges. He was not interested in winning as much as using the law as a tool for justice.

My father was a hero to the common man. Decades ago, he argued a habeas corpus suit before the State Supreme Court. The result? His client was freed from years of solitary confinement in a horrific dungeon with a sewage pipe set in the dirt floor to fill his needs. His letters to my father were written on the only thing he had: toilet paper. This poor man was being held indefinitely for getting caught stealing. How is that possible? In that day, his sentence of robbery was five years to “less than life.” To quote the ruling: “It may be conceded that more appropriate words might have been used by the sentencing judge to impose an indeterminate sentence as required by the statute.” In fact, his limbo was in limbo. In order to protect the state from further lawsuits, he was transferred beyond its boundaries. Ultimately, the best outcome was that the dilapidated, archaic, nineteenth-century, state prison he was rotting in was subsequently decommission and is now a museum; no one would ever again endure his torturous existence because my father used the language of the law to speak for him.

Dad helped the 'lest of these' time and time again. But when the moment of truth came, when his own life hung in the balance, the legal documents he prepared failed to protect him and left me unable to care for him. We had to rely on fate because it turned out, his durable power of attorney was not durable enough.

For fifteen years, I cared for my father, hand and foot, night and day. Not once in my life did I dream of his death, until four days before he died. The dream was simple: I was standing next to his hospital bed and asked, “Do you want to go?” I knew he’d been refusing the comfort of death for a long time on my behalf and was exhausted by the effort. My selfish need for him whittled away his essence, leaving only this delicate husk, inhabited by this beautiful soul. “Will you be okay?” he asked. “I’ll be fine,” I answered. In reality, the only thing I feared was his death. In reality, I didn’t know how I’d survive without him. But in my dream, I felt ready. “Okay,” he said, sat back, and passed away in one motion. With a pleasant smile on my face and the warmth of closure in my heart, I left the hospital with friends by my side.

Years of childhood illness meant suffering through long nights, filled with nightmares. I often opened my eyes to find myself in my father's arms where I'd shared these disturbing narratives with him. He did more than calm my mind and body, he listened and validated my crazy tales with kind words and unfailing interest. But when I awoke from the vision of his death, I was too disturbed to mention it. No, it was too painful, too massive. However the next morning, the first thing I did was tell him every detail.

“I hope it doesn’t mean anything,” he said. I agreed.

The following day he was in the hospital. The following day he died. If it were not for this dream, I would have been caught wholly flat-footed. Just a few weeks earlier after a brief urinary tract infection, the doctors gave him a clean bill of health. I had every reason to believe he was far from imminent danger. It wasn't so much that the timing caught us unaware but that what happened after he took his last breath caught us unprepared.

Though my father and I believed we'd taken care of every contingency, a 'Death Panel' would've helped, would've informed him of recent changes to the law. Knowing the truth would've made that power of attorney truly durable.