I am back around 4:30 am. As I get out of the elevator on the 6th floor I see one of the respiratory techs from late last night. He tells me my father was fine all night. I go into the room to find him completely naked, shivering. His heart rate is 140 and his RR is in the 40’s. His nurse comes in and tells me she has him uncovered to try to break the fever. “I know it looks cruel but it is for his benefit. We’ll cover him soon.”

I go down to the ER to speak with Dr. White for moral support, and he tells me to hold my father’s hand. I return to the room to take his hand and don’t let go. At 7:30 am Nomeda walks in. She stays at my father’s feet. My father’s face looks hollow, sunken in. His pillowcase is wet from sweat. I call for a respiratory tech to see if they can suction my father. The tech tells me that there is nothing to suction, the secretions are too deep down in the lungs.

I recall telling myself that precisely because I caused my father to be in this situation, I will be tempted to order CPR when his heart stops. From what I know, CPR entails ventilation and it would be ill advised to condemn him to spend the rest of his life on a ventilator with no chance of recovery, just to lessen my guilt. That would be the worst thing I could do and I should fight the temptation no matter how strong.

I spread a Tallis (prayer shawl) over my father’s lap and make a blessing on his Tefillin (phylacteries). I bring them to his lips and say, “You’re going to have one more Mitzvah” (fulfill one more commandment).

Suddenly at exactly 8:50 am my father’s breathing seems to collapse. The respiration rate drops from the 40s to single digits. The heart rate goes down to 89. My father is gasping for air. I will never forget the sound. His pulse O2 is now in the lower 70s. I am frozen in place, thinking his heart is going to stop. If this is Hashem’s will I accept it. Nomeda asks me if she should go out and call for a nurse. I tell her not to leave me. I press the call button and tell them my father is having trouble breathing. Please come quickly! A voice responds “we’ll be in right away.”

My father’s left eye is tearing and the right eye lower lid is curling up and pink. I am holding his hand and pressing the call button again asking for help. Again they reply that someone is coming. I am now in total disbelief at what is transpiring. His heart has clearly not stopped and I fear we’ve passed the threshold for certain brain damage. I’m expecting someone to burst through the door any moment; they see the telemetry and hear the alarm at the nurses station. Will they offer to intubate him now or is it too late? Why didn’t I run into the hallway the minute this happened?

At 9:50 am, exactly one hour later, x-ray comes in for a picture. I say to the two technicians “look at him!” They go back out and a moment later I hear Denise’s voice in the hallway: “He’s refusing an xray? Ok, just remove the entry from the computer; we’re not playing games today.” I am astonished at those words and I fear my father is now in a situation with no way out. “Unbelievable,” I’m thinking to myself as I’m holding his hand, keeping my eyes closed and praying.

I look up and Dr. Weiner is at the bedside, our positions exactly reversed from the night before. It is precisely 10:00 am. He asks simply, “What do you want me to do?” (What kind of a question is that? I told him what to do last night!)

At once I understand that games are indeed being played and that the medical personnel around me simply didn’t want to treat my father. Dr. Weiner refused my pleas last night when I was alone, but he is now asking for my guidance in the light-of-day to cover himself as people surround him and after my father has been deprived of oxygen for over an hour! “I want you to please leave the room,” I tell him. My thoughts at that moment are that he is not worthy of being in the same room as my father.

Dr. Weiner quickly escorts everyone out. “The son wishes to be alone with his father.” Within a minute Denise and my father’s nurse Elaine come back in asking if I want further treatment. I say no, as I ask myself: what kind of treatment have they been giving him? A moment later Elaine again returns and starts explaining DNR to me. I tell her “Wait, I never finished talking to Dr. Weiner. We did not have a conversation about what happened to my father and what options are still available now. I need to talk to him!” She runs out and quickly comes back to tell me that he is just outside the room on the phone in the hallway.

I go out and approach him, sticking my arm out to get his attention. He glances up but quickly averts his gaze, looking down at his shoes as he continues talking. Standing just a foot away, I say, “excuse me!” but he completely ignores me. I return to the room and tell the nurse and Nomeda that the doctor refuses to get off the phone. I ask Nomeda to stand outside and let me know the moment he hangs up. Five minutes later she returns to tell me he is still on the phone.

While Nomeda holds my father’s hand, I go back out. I approach Dr. Weiner once again and wave my hand right in front of his face. He still won’t acknowledge, purposefully staring downward. Again I am only a foot away. This time I can hear his conversation: “He says he’s not HIV positive but I don’t believe him. If I don’t hear anything by tomorrow I’ll just admit him.”

I run back into the room half in shock, telling Nomeda and Elaine that the doctor still won’t talk to me. Nomeda goes out again to check. Moments later she returns to tell me that Dr. Weiner is now in the next room seeing another patient. I implore Elaine to go and get him and she walks out, returning a few minutes later with the news that Dr. Weiner has now left the floor. Desperate, I ask to see any other pulmonologist immediately. I demand that Dr. Weiner be paged.

Caroline Williams comes into the room along with a lady who identified herself as being with management. She later tells me that she’s also a doctor. I explain to them exactly what happened and reiterate that I need to speak to a pulmonologist—any pulmonologist. Chaplain Susan Mitchell comes in next, and I relate the whole ordeal to her. They all appear to be trying to honor my request to speak to a pulmonologist, but it never happens.

Elaine asks me if I would like my father to receive morphine for his pain. This is the first moment I become fully aware that my father may have been choking all this time and could be in indescribable agony. It takes over 30 minutes for them to get it. “Where is the morphine?” I keep asking.

My father’s new nurse, Jim, introduces himself. Another lady comes in to explain the hospice program. They will move my father to a facility where he will be given medication for pain but no life-prolonging treatment. I ask the lady how long my father will be in this condition. She says it can last for many days. I marvel at the ignorance, each staffer practicing her specialty and all of them clueless. Can’t they tell by looking at him that he is near death? Yet the system grinds on.

Dr. Shamim visits sometime after noon and examines my father. He says the breathing is very shallow and it won’t be much longer. He expresses his condolences. I recall repeating to the people in the room more than once that I needed to speak to Dr. Weiner when he was on the phone and he wouldn’t talk to me. The lady who identified herself as being from management explained to me that doctors have a habit of focusing intensely on whatever medical conversation they are having. He probably didn’t even notice me. Susan Mitchell remarks on how I was very attached to my father and this was just a “tough case” from the start. It is as though she is summing things up to herself.

At 1:40 pm my father’s breathing stopped and the heart monitor alarmed and went to zero. Only Nomeda was in the room with me at that time. She came over and hugged me as I held onto my father’s hand. Soon Jim came in, listened with his stethoscope and said “I believe he has passed.”

He left the room and some 15 minutes later charge nurse Denise walks in and asks if I would like them to inject chemicals to try to revive my father. I just look straight into her eyes in silence – still holding my father’s hand. She repeats the question and I just stare at her. She turns to Nomeda and asks “does he understand me?” Nomeda says yes and walks Denise to the door. I recall thinking to myself: “I don’t believe any of this. Nobody else will either.”