When is death… death-y enough?
Content Warning:
This post contains discussions of cancer and frank discussion of death
According to his death certificate, my father Jans died due to complications of cancer on November 23, 2019, a little after 3:00 am MST. It is the official record, duly filed for all interested parties.
But, it turns out that there is a bit of subjectivity to when death is… death-y enough.
The afternoon of November 22nd, my aunt FaceTimed me. Despite intense O2 therapy, my Dad’s pulse oxygen was dropping, fast. This call would be the last time I saw his body moving somewhat volitionally. I told him I was on my way. Breathlessly, he said “OK”, but to this day I am not sure he was there enough to understand what was going on.
(Was this when he died?)
By the time I arrived at his home that evening, there were no more words from my Dad. He did not look around the room, with confusion or clarity. His O2 levels had been below 80 percent for hours — he was brain dead. Dad’s autonomic nervous system was still working, evidenced by a death rattle — his body’s final, halting defiance of the cancer.
(Was this when he died?)
At about 2:30 am, I took a walk with my sister in the neighborhood we grew up in. Our mom elected to stay behind, sitting vigil, head laid next to her husband, holding his hand. Trudging up and down those dry desert blocks, my sister and I visited a drainage basin our family called the Green Lot — our childhood ‘park’. We cried, together, silently, in the dark. And then, suddenly, we both knew it was time to walk back home. It took us about 8 minutes to get there.
(Was this when he died?)
Arriving home, we found our mother sitting up in her chair next to dad’s hospice bed. Our Aunt sat on the other side of Dad’s bed. There was no more rattle.
Mom spoke: “He waited for you two to leave, so he could.”
I asked: “When?”
She replied: “About 10 minutes ago.”
My sister and I sat down with our Mother and Aunt, taking in our new shared forever.
(Was this when he died?)
We all sat with Jans for a while; we talked with each other, and with him. After a little while, I composed myself; the hospice service needed to be notified. And then, I remembered: I’d have to give them details for the death certificate.
So: when did he die?
After conferring with my sister and mother, we decided that the moment was probably when sis and I ‘felt’ it. The timing coincided with mom’s account — which was given without any prompting.
Thus, Jans Tingen’s death certificate lists a time slightly after 3 am on November 23rd, 2019. Yet I cannot let this official data point, one *I spoke into reality*, confine memory or meaning.
And so, when looking back — I let his death breathe, from the afternoon of the 22nd to the wee hours of the 23rd.
There is great power in this perspective; for if even the final hours of death can be a process — imagine what our lives can be!
I miss you, Dad ❤ Thank you for everything.
Per our agreement, here is my one “Jans Joke” per post about you:
“Dad, I just started reading this book about anti-gravity.”
“Oh yeah? How is it, Ian?”
“Oh man — it’s great! In fact, I find it impossible to put down.”
Intersection 9 