Doing Everything

I never knew what death was like until I watched my father die. He had Lou Gehrig's disease. I learned about the meanness of this condition only as I saw what it did to him. Until he developed amyotrophic lateral sclerosis at 84 years of age, my father worked full time as a physician and was a robust man with a large belly and an exuberant smile. After he got sick, he became immobile, despondent, and dependent on others. He had difficulty swallowing and, terrified of choking, restricted his diet to soft foods. He lost 100 pounds.

Toward the end of the summer, my mother phoned urgently to tell me that my father's condition had deteriorated. She said that he had suddenly lost the power of speech and refused food and water. I took the first flight out the next morning and speeded from the airport in a rental car. When I arrived at my family's home and saw my father, I was sure that he would die soon. He was in a hospital bed in the living room. He did not respond to my voice. His breathing was rapid and his gaze opaque. I went to the kitchen where my mother sat. She looked anxiously at me. I was now the physician, no longer just the son.

“He's very sick,” I said. “What do you want to do?”

“What can I do?” she said. Her eyes were tense, and the tremor that was usually confined to her left hand seemed to seize her whole body.

“We can go to the hospital.”

“He hates the ambulance. The sirens scare him. Suppose we don't go?”

“He'll die today.”

“So soon?” she said. Her voice was strained. My father was 86 years old and had been miserably sick for 2 years. His …