When the time comes, we should take palliative care take charge and learn to let go.
A year ago, when I walked into the Intensive Care Unit and saw my father wailing and roiling in pain, all I wanted to do was run, somewhere far, where his cries wouldn’t reach me.
My 84-year-old father, my best friend, was enduring raw, intrusive medical procedures against his own wish. All skin and bones, he looked defenceless and at the mercy of doctors, his arms tied up, vulnerable, and agonised.
My father, the only person who could love me even when I wasn’t lovable; the one who taught me the rules of living simply, the one who told me my first stories during our evening walks, with whom I felt protected walking in the world.
The sight of him stripped of any sense of comfort or dignity on that hospital bed was unbearable…
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