‘Your hands are cold’, he said.
‘I know’, I replied. ‘Yours are always warm.’
I rubbed my palms together, hoping to restore circulation. A few minutes later, he said it again.
‘Your hands are cold.’
The microwave beeped. Within seconds, a warm wheat bag was eased under our hands. Peter, Ken’s son, stepped back to rejoin my son and daughter.
We were here, gathered around Ken’s daybed in our living space, to farewell him. When the medical team of three entered the house earlier, none of us had met before. That was of no account – we were bound together by deep values, bolstered by mutual trust.
Ken and I had often discussed what his inevitable end might look like. Which vital organ would the melanoma finally bring to ground? How bad would his pain become? How would he know when he’d had enough, when he was ready to let go of his life? How long would I be able to keep on, without respite, as his primary carer? And where would he die – at home, in a hospital, or a hospice?
The melanoma fatally invaded Ken’s bones, especially the spine, ribs and pelvic structures. It struck at the bone marrow, rendering it increasingly less able to continue its life-sustaining functions. Ken’s weakness and fatigue grew interminably, taking over the whole of him.
Early one Sunday morning, he fell backwards at the entrance to his room. The paramedics got him to his feet and back in bed. Although no injuries were found, his decline was rapid. Peter flew in from Brisbane the next day, and with the finest of his professional skills, cared for his father without pause.
During the days and nights that followed, we all made the emotional journey to that place of ‘enough is enough’. Suffering excruciating pain with every movement, confined to the upstairs bedroom, needing care 24 hours a day, Ken’s options were narrowing. He knew he was on borrowed time; we all did. Our questions were being answered irrefutably, one by one.
Ken’s overarching goal was to be pain-free. His preference had always been to die at home, if possible, with those he cared about and who wished to be with him.
All these gifts were given him, and he was grateful.
What a privilege he extended to those around his bedside that afternoon, to bring him something unique from each one of us. For me, to care for him until the end, honouring my commitment to him. For our blended family, to deepen bonds forged through enabling his goodbye.
And we learned, through witnessing Ken’s agency and his courage, what ‘a good death’ can be.
Sincere thanks for the compassion and professionalism of the Hunter New England Voluntary Assisted Dying Support Team.
Vale Kenneth John Horsfall 11 March 1945 – 27 September 2024
14 Responses
A beautiful photograph of Ken, Ruth.
How blessed you all were that day. You had the opportunity to be close, supportive and kind, to farewell Ken in the way of his choosing. He could not have known, until that day, what power your little gathering gave and received.
Sharing this with us extends the blessing of that day and the span of his life.
Thank you for your generosity.
Wishing you continuing strength from the contemplation of those days. Sending love to you, dear Ruth.
Thank you so much, Cecile.
Thanks for sharing this experience of a journey we all must face. A gift has been exchanged.
Thank you Merv.
Thanks Ruth for sharing such a special experience and the passing of your special love , Ken . What a privilege for you all to share those positives and memories and to allow Ken to pass so peacefully. Beauty takes many forms and it seems that Ken’s passing was one of those .
much love as you move into the next phase
Jan
Thank you so much, Jan.
So sorry to hear about Ken, Ruth. You always said that he was excellent at planning and that has carried through right to his end. It’s surely a good thing to be able to make so many choices about one’s final months and weeks and having you all surrounding him at that time must have felt very special. Thank you for telling us about it. Xx
Thank you Vicki.
Dear Ruth
What a beautiful account of those last precious minutes with Ken. Loved the cold hands, your warm hands and the wheat bag. How you let us know of the well held things and the things that were out of your hands, that lead to his good death.
I gather from the strength and beauty of your shared words that your tiredness is abating and you are finding moments just for yourself in this new life of yours. Thinking of you and the sadness that will often be your new companion.
Much love
Debxxx
Thank you so much Deb.
Hi again Ruth…your mention of ‘warm hands’ reminded me of an article I read recently of 2 Brazilian nurses, who, during the COVID epidemic, filled latex gloves with warm water and tied them off like balloons then placed them on the hands of the people dying. It was like holding a loved ones hands and gave them great comfort ( as we are all aware, no-one could have visitors at that time). Apparently it made a huge difference to the patients’ vitals. It became a hit all over the world. A loving and kind thought became a global phenomenon. I hope someone is keeping your hands warm with loving gestures. xx
Dear Leonie, that is a fascinating story! Thank you for the warmth you send.
I am so sorry Ruth. I have been thinking of you quite a bit lately and hope you are going okay. What a lovely man. You can tell by his photo.
Love
Debbie
Thank you so much, Debbie.