“When I came to say goodnight, he’d say, ‘Put that pillow on my head'”

Hilde: ‘At 56, my father suffered a brain haemorrhage. Initially he was paralyzed on one side and after his rehabilitation he continued to have difficulty walking and his vision remained poor. He was very intelligent, and he remained so, but he could no longer work. The biggest problem after the brain haemorrhage was his character change. His emotions were magnified enormously, he laughed very loudly at jokes, he cried very quickly and he could become irrationally angry. Then he scolded my mother for rotten fish. She tried very hard to keep the relationship good, but it didn’t work out. She felt guilty leaving him, but all three of us kids supported her choice. My mother has always kept a good relationship with my father, she also continued to help him.

While I was on a skiing holiday with my family over spring break, my brother called to say that my mother had died in her sleep. She volunteered and she never missed it. The 90-year-old woman she was caring for had called her children that my mother hadn’t shown up. Her children knocked on the door and when my mother didn’t answer, they called 911. The police found her, she was dead in bed. My mother never had anything, she was a healthy, vital woman. It was a huge shock. I often dreamed after that that I had to say to her: ‘Yes, but you are dead.’ Because it came so unexpectedly to me, I thought she herself didn’t know yet.

A month and a half after my mother passed away, my father started complaining of headaches and pain in his leg. This was followed by the announcement that he no longer wanted to live. We didn’t know if we should take that seriously, but his death wish became more and more emphatic. I suggested that he come and live with us for a while. I thought the fun of a family would do him good. Every day good food and entitlement, he also appreciated that. When he played a game of bullying with the children in the evenings, there was no depressed man there. But the death wish remained. He repeated it every day: ‘I’m in too much pain, I can’t anymore.’ When I came to say goodnight, he’d say, “Push that pillow on my head.”

neurologist

He registered with the Expertise Center for Euthanasia. Before I could support him in that, I wanted to know what was causing that physical pain. Only when a doctor could say that this pain could not be helped would we help him, my sister, brother and I agreed with him. We didn’t want to be left feeling guilty. When he left me there was a place in the rehabilitation center of Winschoten. After several studies, it was said that a traumatic experience, such as the death of our mother, can cause physical pain in a patient who has suffered a brain haemorrhage. The neurologist tried to relieve the pain with medication, but there was no improvement.

Although they were very respectful at the euthanasia clinic, their final conclusion was that they couldn’t help him. He suffered unbearably, we did not pressure him and his desire to die was consistent. But they couldn’t make a good judgment whether it was hopeless. They said they might be able to help him in six months, but not yet. My father thought that would take too long. The euthanasia doctor explained that there were two other options: stop eating and drink or take the last-want pill.

My father called on Tuesday and said firmly, “I’m going to stop eating and drinking.” The three of us went straight to him. The doctor at the rehabilitation center was willing to guide him through the process of mortification. He didn’t want to go home anymore. We were still trying to discuss business; who else he wanted to see and whether he had any wishes for the funeral. He didn’t care anymore. He had made a decision and you could see that calm had come over him. He was happy, he was ready, this was what he really wanted. My sister made another attempt to have a conversation and asked if there were things in his life that he wished he had done differently. ‘I would have liked to exercise a bit more,’ he replied. Nothing significant came out. Nor was he interested in a last supper. He used to be a foodie, but now it all didn’t matter anymore. He immediately stopped eating and drinking that Tuesday, he had only one goal.

Spa red

The week passed very quietly. At one point my father called that he wanted to take the family for another ride. He wanted to go to the Punt van Reide, at the very top of Groningen, where he often used to cycle with my mother. On Sunday morning we were all there: my brother, my sister and I, with our families. My father had a lot of chats along the way. We took a photo where we are all in it, my father in a wheelchair cheerfully in the middle. Afterwards he wanted to have a drink somewhere, he felt like a spa red with a lemon. We reacted in shock: ‘Are you going to drink?’ ‘No’, he said with a laugh, ‘I’ll only take one sip.’ It was not loaded at all, he was very satisfied with it.

The next morning he was barely approachable. It was agreed that if the doctor saw that he was nearing his end, he would be put to sleep. At 4 pm the doctor came to administer palliative sedation. I sat on the bed at his foot and my sister sat by his arm next to the bed. I asked my sister, “If we put him on tube feeds now, could we bring him back to life?” My sister replied: ‘I think there is one point of no return is.’ She squeezed my father’s arm and said, “No, Dad, we’re not going to do that.” While we were laughing out loud, my father breathed for the last time. On the joke, very typical for a Brontsema, we thought.

In retrospect, I am very happy that he chose this way to die. He did it all by himself and in doing so he spared us. Moreover, I now know how valuable it is to be able to say goodbye. To be able to say, “I love you, just let it go, go.” He wasn’t alone. I also gave it to my mother so much. I really wanted to say goodbye to my mother, to thank her for everything she has done for me.’