I've lost track of how many times Uncle John has fallen this week. It's like his brain knows it's fast losing the ability to move-so he leaps up constantly, then falls, like a sparrow beating itself against a pane of glass. Finally hospice decided he must be in pain and ordered a pain killer. Of course, the resulting inactivity will likely do him in.
That's what sucks about caregiving-trying to figure out if it's best for my loved one to bash his brains out on a sink or slip slowly away in sleep. What are the benefits of each to him? What is the aftermath to those who are left behind, some along the same path as he? What nightmares will remain to haunt THEIR final days?
And then there is this. In the beginning, when he was still in California, he asked for assistance to die because he feared becoming what he is now. I explained to him then that while I agreed with the concept, I could not endanger my own future or the people who depend on me, to help him with that. So, every blow he takes I feel I have allowed to happen, and in some sense, I have.
I guess the moral of the story is if you are going to want to do yourself in, do it while you can, don't ask me to do it for you. Ok, that makes me smile, and it feels good to smile, so I'm going to leave it at that.