Toward the end, apparently lawsuit-conscious, I was asked every day if I had changed my mind. I was 44 when my father died in a nursing home near my house. I was sitting in a chair by his bed when I heard his breathing change from labored to shallow, and watched his chest rise and fall and stay flat, only to rise again slightly, and then fall once again for the final time. I stood up, knees shaking, and put my face next to his on the pillow and my left arm around his chest and shoulder. His chest felt like bones of a sparrow.
Clinical death means the heartbeat and breathing have stopped.
Biological death is permanent brain death due to lack of oxygen. This death is final. I do not regret that decision as I do the times I walked, looked away, or, allowed fear to paralyze me. And whether I want the responsibility or not, sometimes it is mine by sheer circumstances. Only once have I looked life and death straight in the eye and consciously made a decision .