Dec 28, 2009 
Did I participate in a death panel? Did I collude with an assisted suicide? Let’s see: we decided whether a man should extend life or prepare for death; we chose to discontinue life-extending medications and treatment; we vowed to forgo any interventions designed to prolong life, with potentially effective options at hand; we opted for a treatment plan with only comfort in mind. In six weeks he died.
The “we” was a circle of seven: my mom and dad, my three siblings and myself, and, a representative from Hospice. The “man” was my dad, whose physical and mental health was in steady decline, though his capacity to hear, think and reason, weigh and decide were clearly in place. Though six of us, the Friend family, “decided,” the only vote that counted was our father’s. Among the “potentially effective options” was a deeply invasive exploratory surgical procedure that may have, but would likely have not have, the doctors reported, been helpful. Indeed, if it were successful, an even more invasive surgical procedure would logically follow, an assault our dad’s 94 year old body would surely not tolerate.
The “we” also included Hospice – a team of physicians, nurses, aides, social workers, counselors and clergy – and our parents’ health care insurance carrier. All players on the “death panel” were in place, part of a process designed to be win/win – the best possible outcome for each and all. The health insurance company, which covered all expenses for hospice, including a year of follow-up care for my dad’s survivors, “won” in terms of potentially costly extraordinary medical interventions being eliminated. The hospice care organization “won” in terms of its services and its large staff, experts in assisting the dying and their families, being funded. The family “won” in that a sensitive and supportive context for our father’s dying was in place. And my father “won” as he had the departure from early life he longed for.
Six weeks later, on All Saints’ Day no less, our father drew his last breath. Could days have been added to his life? Quite possibly. Might he have died in intensive care, tubes extending from his body, after hours and days of anguish for him and us? Quite possibly. Might he have had months, even years, tied upright in a wheel chair drooling on his tee shirt and staring blankly into space, holding my hand but completely unaware who I was? Quite possibly.
I have tried to make it crystal clear – in official and notarized documents, in instructions to my sons, in a reminder to advise any caregivers in any setting of my wishes – that I want a death panel convened as quickly as possible when my time comes.
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