2015: The Year I Played God

I’ve always been intrigued by the hypothetical situation that puts you in front of a diabolical button (I’m guessing it would be red. All diabolical things are red) that when pushed gives you $1 million, but kills a random person. Sure you’re rich (well not by SF standards), but some poor person lost their life.

The reality is, that to end a life you have to push more than a single ominous button. You have to push 10.

In April my biological father (Barry) fell ill. His heart stopped briefly and his brain was starved of oxygen for possibly 20 minutes. Until about three years earlier I had talked to him exactly once since I was five. Our relationship was that we had no relationship. I rarely thought about him and never thought I should track him down so we could get to know each other.

I have a dad (officially my stepdad). Other than genes, he was nothing to me because he wasn’t around.

Then his mom (my grandmother) died. After that, he asked to be my friend on Facebook. I saw no harm in it. Our online chats were either mundane or awkward. He would post non sequitur comments on my status updates. Sometimes I would become so frustrated with his behavior I’d ignore him for weeks or months at a time. Sometimes he would just disappear only to resurface a few months later to bait me into another weird conversation.

In April (it may have been March) of this year received a call from a family member that he was sick and because I was his oldest child, I was his next of kin. I was in charge of his care. I didn’t even know him but I would decided if he should have surgeries. If he should be transferred to another hospital. If he could be visited by his girlfriend.

“Quality of life.” I’ve heard that phrase regularly over the past 12 months. It’s a constantly changing bar with which you have to determine if someone or something should continue to live.

Barry’s quality of life deteriorated. Drug and alcohol addiction had made sure that both his relationships and his internal organs were a mess.

He was in Missouri. I was in California. I spoke with multiple doctors from various hospitals on the phone. Nurses knew me by the sound of my voice. I had memorized the number to his hospital but had to look up his birthdate every time someone asked me about it. Every call was another piece of bad news piled upon the already dire situation.

There’s a voice a doctor uses to tell you it’s time to stop trying. That they’ve done all they could. It’s almost a whisper that’s a half octave lower than their usual speaking voice.

“Mr. Baldwin, we’ve done as much as we can… organs shutting down… in his state, surgery would… no brain activity… I’m sorry.”

It was the same voice pattern Hector the Cat’s vet used to tell me his latest tests showed he was losing his battle with kidney disease. It had been a year since the initial stage four prognosis. We gave him an extra year of hugs and laps to sit in. He had an entire year where he could knock items off tables, look at us, meow then scamper away.

The call about Barry’s passing didn’t hit me in the way a call about your father dying should. Instead, I was sad for his friends and family. He was a polarizing man, but he was loved all the same. Those people would grieve for him in a way I never would and I was to be the person that brought on that grief.

I made calls and used the same voice the doctor used. “Barry passed… I’m sorry… funeral…”

The call from the vet about Hector’s test results broke me. I was at work. I was lucky enough to have ducked into a meeting room. I knew things were getting worse. “Losing his battle… if he hides or stops eating… quality of life.”

There it was; quality of life. I spent most of that day weeping. Hector was my friend. For 10 years he would rush the front door meowing a greeting whenever I got home. He would sit with me and sleep in the bed with my wife and I. He acted like a kitten his entire life. He wanted to play and explore and tap you on the face with his paw at 4am because it would be cool if we hung out right now. He wanted to be everyone’s friend and do everything.

A few weeks later, over the course of three days, his health declined rapidly. He stopped eating. He started hiding from us. He stopped coming to the door when we got home.

I pushed 10 buttons for the second time in a year to make sure there would be no more suffering. A vet came to our house and he sat in my lap while they gave him the shot.

A few times I’ve come home and said his name, realized he wasn’t coming, and started balling. After those moments I think about the people that Barry touched. He had become a father figure to someone long after I had stopped thinking about him. In the final year of his life, he had done it again.

When he got sick, his girlfriend and her son prayed for him. They sat by him in the hospital. They held his hand. They loved him. They know I made sure he had the best care without them having to worry about that care. I hope letting them say goodbye without dealing with the legal and moral issues around his care was a gift.

I hope Hector knew that I did what I did because I knew his life would become horrible and painful if I tried to keep alive any longer.

And I hope I won’t have to push the buttons that precede sharing those choices for a while.