“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“I’mthinkinghowtonotprolongtheprocessofdying.
This—this food prolongs the process.”
My mom didn’t like hearing this.
“We’rehappytakingcareofyou,Ram,”shesaid.“We
love you.”
He shook his head.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” my sister said.
“Yes. It’s hard.”
“Ifyoucouldsleepthroughit,isthatwhatyou’dprefer?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
“Youdon’twanttobeawake,awareofus,withuslike
this?” my mother asked.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. We waited.
“I don’t want to experience this,” he said.
Thesufferingmyfatherexperiencedinhisfinaldaywas
not exactly physical. Themedicine did a good job of
preventing pain.When he surfacedperiodically, atthe
tideofconsciousness,hewouldsmileatourvoices.But
thenhe’dbefullyashoreandrealizethatitwasnotover.
He’drealizethatalltheanxietiesofenduringthathe’d
hopedwouldbegonewerestillthere:theproblemswith
hisbody, yes,but moredifficultforhimtheproblems
with his mind—the confusion, the worries about his
unfinished work, about Mom, about how he’d be