Journey of the End of a Lifetime: Today’s The Day

by Joanna Smith on Jul 23, 2016

How does it feel for P.S. to wake us this morning knowing that today is the last day of her life? She knows the day she will die.
People have been writing and asking me to talk more about my personal reactions as I help P.S. and her doctor create this event? ending? closure? for her. I’m not even sure what to call it.
I have intentionally kept my personal thoughts to a minimum because this is about P.S., not me, but P.S. told me it would be ok to teach others about her experience, so I will, both in my classes at UC/Berkeley and in my training program for advocates. so part of that is about me–here goes.
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Our dog jumped up on our bed at 6 a.m. this morning to wake us (“time to eat; time to walk”). I opened my eyes: today’s the day. I have been eating a lot of ice cream this past week! Somehow that has been calming. I have been gardening because the earth has felt good for my soul; I have walked the dog and meditated–all to help me focus on living while she is dying. I think a lot about how I wish this were a possible choice for people with dementia–but I know it is not. There is a part of me that doesn’t believe this is happening, while it is clearly happening. And I see the need to keep good boundaries in place so I can think and plan and reassure P.S. and her family that everything is in place. A tinge of anxiety, mostly very calm right now…..

What would you do if you knew it was the last day of your life? With certainty? That’s the odd part about this for me. I have watched many people die, either at home or in the hospital, but this is different. In those cases, we were waiting without knowing: with P.S., we know.
For me, this morning is a time to be calm and do the kinds of things that are relaxing for me so I can focus completely on P.S.and her family when I’m there. She has requested that the physician and I be the only two people in the room when she actually takes the medication. Once she is asleep (which will happen very quickly), she would then like her family to come in and out of the room, sit with her, hold her hand. We have a wonderful nurse and social worker from hospice who will be present in the house (they cannot be in the room when P.S. takes the medication–again, a different discussion), talking about what they see as P.S. dies, and helping the family understand the process. The physician and I will stay until she has died.
This is the day, and I hope it is a gentle death for P.S. She has thought and planned for this day, and now it is here.

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