Sunday, April 1, 2012
Stephanie described the coming of the inevitable (pardon my short-grass storyteller editing):
“Over the course of the following night he decided to end his battle. Once he could speak again, the thing he rasped was ‘I want to be dead.’ I went home at 9:30 pm. At 1 am the resident called me to come back because Paul was refusing care. When I arrived, he was talking to a pastoral counselor, a 55-ish woman named Beth with a great non-sappy, humorous style, who was probing his rationality and sincerity, both of which struck her as strong. He and I began an hour-long verbal tennis match, as Beth termed it. I must emphasize his utter rationality and determination. He said he can’t keep going as a hospital patient, he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover enough to leave. ‘I’m not afraid of death,’ he said. ‘I want to die. I need to die.’
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“About 4 pm he was unconscious and settled in for the journey toward the big sleep.The nurses all understand and support his intentions. Paul passed at about 10:30. His nurse called to say he was ‘transitioning,’ and I might want to come now. But he had died shortly before I arrived. That’s OK, though—I had spent 45 minutes with him this afternoon, and he only woke up slightly at one point to ask, ‘Am I gone yet?’ I said, ‘No, my dear, but feel free to go.’�
My older brother, Unca Alan west, said upon hearing the news: “I do not think I ever met Uncle Paul, but I found the account of his passing instructive, a tale for our times, a tale of quiet, every-day, down-home bravery. Fine last words.�
Nostalgia now settles in.
