My father wanted a noble death

When I was a young man, my father told me that he didn’t want to die in pain or in agony. Didn’t want to fade away in a cloud of narcotics, a mist of scattered memories.

He pointed to a pillow and said I would know what to do. Over the years, it became a bit of a running joke. Whenever he wasn’t feeling well, I’d look over at a cushion or a pillow and ask if it was time. He’d laugh and shake his head. I’d laugh too.

He stopped laughing after his first stroke. He struggled to walk, to sit, to eat. It’s as if his life collapsed on itself. Laughter gave way to tears. He would sob inconsolably for no discernible reason. Gasping, heaving for breath as tears spilled. Drowning in sadness.

When I saw him in bed in the hospice, he seemed lost, confused, frightened. There was another bed in his room. Unoccupied, neatly made, a freshly ironed pillow case on the pillow.

I caught his eye and glanced over at the pillow with a smile. My father’s eyes widened, horrified.

His mouth clenched tight as he shook his head. I was only joking.

I wasn’t going to kill him. I swear.