26-Death panels part 4

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

by Jaxon Cohen

Part 4: An Alternative Interpretation

The day I told my father of the dream, I spent a lot of time thinking about its meaning. I knew it must be an allegory for something other than his actual death because my father simply could not die, not yet. He was special and resolved to live to one-hundred. Although I questioned the number, I felt his sheer determination would keep him around many more happy years. He had no signs of illness or any measurable changes in health. There was no empirical reason, either conscious or unconscious, to suggest death was knocking at the door.

Over the years, we traversed many physical and mental milestones of dysfunction and redefinition. But there'd always been one marker I dreaded more than all the others combined because it was the last marker of significance: the moment the son became the father and the father, the son. Over the final six months of his life, I unconsciously knew we'd past that point but could not admit it because doing so would mean his days were numbered and his goal was likely out of reach. It meant my hero was mortal and would die.

The ability to manage his care and our relationship deteriorated as he was increasingly unable to maintain responsibility for his side of the bargain. We disagreed and argued in ways we had not before. It became personal a few times and there was even a night we went to bed angry. From the moment of my birth to his death, my father and I loved each other very much and had an open-door relationship. I shared everything with him and he accepted me unconditionally, without punishment. Instead, he gave me advice and answered every question. For the most part, I still listen.

When I beheld this great friendship quickly falling apart under my watch, I finally faced my fears and we had a long talk. We even signed a paper. Remember, he was a lawyer. That piece of paper helped. It basically said I was in charge in the moment and he was bound to comply with his regiment. But he had recourse. If he disagreed with anything I asked of him, we would make a doctor's appointment, address the issue, and the doctor would have the final say. In essence, it said he had to trust me as I trusted him as a child.

For the rest of his short life, it worked like magic. Happily, we had a few precious days of peace and joy before his death. He was more conscious of his reliance on me and I no longer wavered in responsibility. I was in charge and took charge. At first, this was the most difficult thing for me to do because it meant I'd lost my father, as a father. There was a part of me that acknowledged the loneliness of admitting he was no longer my rock but instead, I must become his. The person who was my father was still in there but the ability for him to bear the responsibilities of fatherhood was long gone. He may not be able to think and converse like before, but he was still my best friend and for the most part, his personality was intact. As I found comfort in this new role, our problems disappeared.

When I put him to bed that night, I told him I'd thought about it and come to realize the dream was not about his actual death but instead about the death of our troubles. The moment I decided to step up to the plate and be the man, our lives became peaceful and harmonious. We both agreed: the dream was not to be taken literally but instead was a signpost of our progress and the marker of a new chapter. In that day's last moment, we had hope, a hope that would be dashed just twelve hours later.