My father died of liver cancer. He was under the care of Hospice. They gave my father enough drugs (Morphine, benzodiazepines, ect.) in the beginning.

He lived two months pretty happy. He liked the effects of the drugs.

My father was a pretty hardcore drinker, but very functional throughout his life. He was also very conservative, and would never take an drug that wasen't legal. Growing up, every once in awhile, he would tell me, "I think I would like the effect of heroin, but I would never take it." My father could never seem to relax, kinda like myself, and my brother.

Even as a kid, I knew my father needed to switch up his drugs, but I knew there wasen't much of a choice. As the years went by, I asked him to see a psychiatrist. Of course he said no. "But dad, you have this great union insurance--just see if the Dr. has anything for you." He never went, and I don't know if any doctor would give him anything--other than a detox program. What the doctor didn't know is my father stopped drinking for two months in his thirties. He felt better, but it was obvious he was nervous. He went right back to drinking.

The problem is, I really think, my father needed a drug like clonezepam before he went into detox. Anyway, he never went.
My experience with Psychiatry is they gave me anti-anxiety medication, but it just was never enough. Years later, my doctor gave me a off-label drug that did the trick. I just wish the Dr. would have tried the harder drug years earlier.

Back to my father last two months. He was pretty functional, and liked the effects of the medication. In those two months, I thought my father would turn into a more compassionate person. He didn't. He spent his free time deciding who was going to get his money. My sister, and brother both tried to manipulate him, but my father seemed to like the attention? I stayed out of the drama--just because.

Well after two months, the drugs weren't enough. He needed more, but the hospice Dr. was way to prudent on the amounts. My father only saw the Dr. once, and every other communication was by phone. The hospice nurse arrived, I believe, a week before he died. We asked her for more drugs. She said, he just needs us around him. He was misserable that week. My greedy sister kept lessening his medication so he would wake up. He would wake up misserable. The nurse thought it was o.k.--like it was an act of love. I never told the nurse, but my sister wants him up to sign a trust. I got the feeling even if I told the nurse how manipulative my sister is, I don't think the nurse would have done anything. My sister has a way of gaining people's confidence quick. Never understood how people couldn't see through her?

My father was under medicated that final week. There was not enough meds on hand. My sister had the nurse under her spell. Plus, the nurse was projecting her own father's death over my father's. The nurse was always crying, and talking how difficult it was when her father died. I'm not questioning the nurse's emotions, and at first found them--honestly--I'm glad she cared enough to show emotion, but her crying made verything more stressful. My father didn't even know who this crying nurse was in the end. My biggest gripe is she let my sister cut back on his pain/anxiety medications.

The last three days of my father's life were hell. He would wake up frightened. He was always in intence pain. He was skin and bones. My sister once lifted the sheets and said, "In a way it's interesting? I said, "What?" She said, "Oh, the way the body breaks down." Yea--I was floored. While I knew she loved her father, I didn't say anything. Plus, I knew a death like my father's would be terrible.

My father's last words to me were, "Son--when will this end?". I didn't know what to say. I wanted to say, you need more medication, but didn't. He wasen't conscious enough for me to answer his last question.

He died two days later. All the family, and nurse were there. The nurse was saying all these new age beliefs, like
he knows his loved ones are here. He wants you to talk to him. My sister had her indifferent kids saying kids things into his ears. He was never fond of kids--even his grandkids, so their voices didn't sooth him. I don't even know if he knew who was trying to talk to him? He kinda rswatted them away from the bed.

The last two days where horrid. He wasen't conscious, but he felt pain. So much pain. Pain! He was back to full doses of medication, but it wasn't enough. I called the doctor, and said he needs more. The Doctor said any more, and he might die. I didn't argue. I was an emotional mess. I was just thinking what's wrong with dying at this point?

I left an hour before my father passed. The rest of the family was there. I just didn't want to see him die like this. I knew he wasen't responding to us, but still had that horrid pain. There's a part of me that feels guilty for not being there. I figured what's the point of watching my father in so much pain. I found the professionals really had no answers in my father's death.

I got home and had a few glasses of wine, and got a call an hour later. "He died." I told my sister I'm sorry. She called back a month later, and wondered why her mother, nor myself weren't calling her. I made up some excuse.

When my father died, It was so painful--I'm still not quite over it. It has been 11 years and 5 months. Even though we didn't get along; the way he died greatly affected my life. In a weird way, part of me died that day.

(I hate to say this, but when my time comes, I don't want to go the way my father did. If I'm well enough, and have the money I will go and buy drugs off the streets. I've never even bought drugs before, but I think if I have the energy I will try it? Maybe? If I'm still in CA, and we have a Right to Die bill that just passed. Sorry, I went on. The man who's writing these brave posts is hitting me hard. I'm glad he's bringing death out in the open though.)