‘Death Has No Grace’
Valerie Snipes watched her 73-year-old father, Rudolf Shuetz, die of cancer. Snipes, a Spokane resident, believes in assisted death and was willing to help her father die, but her family objected. Today, we present a journal account she kept of those wrenching days of last April.
April 7
I am sitting at the bedroom door, listening to his quiet breathing. It’s still pretty regular and fairly deep. I look at him and wonder: “Where are you now, are you getting ready for that step?”
He just got up and I walked in. He’s so totally embarrassed about his daughter helping him to urinate. I sat him on the side of the bed and gave him the urine bottle. The poor man, he’s as helpless as a child.
April 8
He woke up very disoriented, says he wants to go now with a lot of emphasis, refuses all meds and drink. Gets angry when encouraged to drink; breathing is rapid and irregular due to stress.
I explained to mother: “Let him go. He has a right to die. He wants to hurry now.” She is angry; she is not ready to let him go. I try to tell her that he has a right to die when he chooses. He is tired; this is the last great battle he’ll be fighting.
April 9
My reality is changing. I feel like my whole life is contained within these four walls. I sometimes wonder what would I do for an animal if it were like dad and just crawled into a corner and wanted to die?
First impulse is to just leave it alone and let it die in peace. Then I think: “No, I would not let it suffer needlessly. I owe it a kind and painless death. I would (and have) put animals to sleep and out of their misery many times.”
Dad is sleeping. I think he still has some work to do before he leaves us forever.
8:49 p.m., same day
I pulled off his old morphine patch, cleaned the area and stuck another one on. He’s just so happy to be pain-free.
He said: “How will I die? Will I just fall asleep and not wake up?” Mother answered: “Yes” and he replied: “Oh, that’s so nice, I am not afraid of that, I’ll just sleep, that’s not so hard!” Imagine, he must be so afraid.
April 10, 4:10 a.m.
Dad could not get back up out of the toilet chair. We were almost unable to get him back into bed. He’s dying, almost incoherent. He’s panicked. He keeps calling out for mother but doesn’t recognize her. His breathing is very irregular. He can barely talk.
It’s like taking care of an infant who has to be watched all the time. My ears have become so sensitized I hear every move he makes.
Mother is in pain, sitting there with him, holding his hand, quietly talking and looking out the window. What a picture, the two of them and all the hours and the days and the years they lived together and shared and now it is all done. Sad!
April 11, 9:15 p.m.
He asked for help; unfortunately, he asked the wrong person. He asked to be overdosed. “How much would it take, what about the doctor, can we call him to do it?”
Mother told him not to ask that of her, that we’d all go to jail. My sister said she couldn’t do it and I respect her deep moral beliefs.
Mother and I got into an argument in the kitchen. I told her to let me overdose him. She absolutely won’t even let me near him and I cannot do it without her allowing me.
I ache inside. He just wants to die peacefully, is that so much to ask for?
I hate myself for not ignoring both of them and just pushing them aside, but I am also realistic enough to know that I need their permission and it will never happen. When my time comes I will make sure there won’t be any relatives around to interfere!
April 13, 12:40 p.m.
He’s very weak. He can barely sit up; his peripheral vision is pretty much gone, he sees only right in front of him. He’s had frequent hiccups since yesterday. When he woke up he recognized me. I sat with him and he grasped my hand. He still has an amazingly strong grip.
5:20 p.m., same day
He woke up around 4 p.m., needed to go, his feet are blue - another sign the end is near. We got him onto the toilet chair, his first bowel movement in weeks. He’s groaning in agonizing pain. This is not a pretty way to die. He’s vomiting. Everyone who smokes should take care of someone dying of lung cancer.
10:15 p.m., same day
He’s still on his commode. He’s so afraid he’ll mess something and yet he’s completely out of it. Death has no grace or dignity!
April 14, 11:50 a.m.
He’s awake and using the commode, he’s weaker than ever and very bashful again so I know he’s lucid. His modesty has never stopped and it is so terribly hard on him to allow his daughters to take care of him in all his private functions. We try to accommodate him as best we can but as he gets weaker, he needs more and more help.
April 15, 6 a.m.
It was supposed to be pain free; it’s not. My sister’s been up with him since 5 a.m. He’s having terrible stomach pains; the morphine is not doing it. He was wearing three patches at one time and it did not do anything for the pain. Apparently his liver cancer is now causing a good deal of the trouble.
April 16, 5:05 a.m.
Looks like dad is finally winning the battle. His lungs are filling up with fluid; he’s gurgling. I am glad he didn’t know how bad it was going to get. The brain tumors scrambled his mind; the liver tumors are causing him tremendous pain, and he is drowning in his own mucus. What a lousy way to die. 6:25 a.m., same day
He’s still moaning in pain and gurgling something fierce. Please let it be today! We cleaned him up and changed the sheets under him. He’s just like an infant, has to be moved, cleaned and diapered. I don’t think I am ever going to forget the sight or sound of him - nor the smell.
I am tired.
1:30 p.m., same day
I hear him moaning, meds are just not doing it anymore.
2:45 p.m., same day
Called the doctor again to come over.
3:20 p.m., same day
The doctor gave him another shot. It seems to take more to knock him out than it takes to anesthetize an elephant.
April 17, 6:30 a.m.
Dad has slipped into a coma, his hands have stopped searching, his breathing is rapid and shallow. Not much longer.
1:45 p.m., same day
Dad just died.
3 p.m., same day
My sister and I keep hugging each other; we’re dancing with each other in the living room. I have such a feeling of well being! I am so elated, he’s made it, he’s won the battle. It is so wonderful; he’s in a better place. Artville illustration