Atul.” She wasin thehospital emergency room. “His
blood pressure is fifty. He’s still not waking up. His
oxygenislow.”Themedicalstaffgavehimnaloxone,a
narcotic-reversal agent, and if he had overdosed, that
shouldhavewokenhim.Butheremainedunresponsive.
AstatchestX-rayshowedpneumoniainhisrightlung.
Theygavehima face mask with 100 percent oxygen,
antibiotics,and fluids. But hisoxygen levelwould not
comeupabove 70 percent,anunsurvivablelevel.Now,
mymother said,theywereasking whethertheyshould
intubate him, put him on drips to support his blood
pressure, and movehim to the ICU.She didn’tknow
what to do.
As a person’send draws near,there comesa moment
whenresponsibilityshiftstosomeoneelsetodecidewhat
todo.Andwe’dmostlypreparedforthatmoment.We’d
hadthehardconversations.He’dalreadyspelledouthow
hewantedtheendofhisstorytobewritten.Hewanted
no ventilators and no suffering. He wanted to remain
home and with the people he loved.
Butthearrowofeventsrefusestofollowasteadycourse
andthatplayshavocwithasurrogate’smind.Onlythe
daybefore,itseemedhemighthaveweeks,evenmonths.
Nowshewassupposedtobelievethathoursmightbea
stretch? My mother’s heart was breaking, but as we
talked, she recognized thepathway we risked heading
down, and that the kind of life intensive care would
preserveforhimwasfarfromtheonehewanted.Endings
matter,notjustforthepersonbut,perhapsevenmore,for
the ones left behind. She decided to tell them not to
intubatehim.Icalledmysisterandcaughtherasshewas