I was 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 went down to the ER to speak with Dr. White. He advised me to go hold my father hand…] I hold my father’s 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 the situation he is in now I will be tempted to order CPR when his heart stops. I know CPR entails ventilation. It would be ill advised to condemn him to spend the rest of his life on a vent with no chance of recovery 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 Talis (prayer shawl) over my father’s lap and make a blessing on his Tflillin (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! 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 someone to come in at once. Again they reply that someone will be in. I am now in total disbelief at what is happening. His heart has clearly not stopped and I fear we’ve passed the threshold for certain brain damage. I’m expecting someone to come through the door any moment. 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 in asking if I want further treatment. I say no. A moment later Elaine again returns and starts explaining DNR to me. I tell her that I need to speak to Dr. Weiner at once. 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 hallway phone.

I go out and approach him, sticking my arm out to get his attention. He glances up at me and quickly averts his gaze, looking down at his shoes as he is talking. I am a foot away, saying “excuse me!” and he ignores me. I go back into the room and tell the nurse and Nomeda that the doctor won’t get off the phone to talk to me. I ask Nomeda to let me know as soon as he is off the phone. Five minutes later she comes back and says he’s still out there. I have Nomeda hold my father’s hand as I go back out. Dr. Weiner is still on the phone and I approach him once again and stick my hand in front of his face. He still doesn’t acknowledge, looking purposefully downward. Again I am only about a foot away. I can hear the conversation he is having: “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 go back into the room and again tell Nomeda and Elaine that the doctor won’t talk to me. Nomeda goes back outside. Moments later she returns and says that Dr. Weiner is now in the next room seeing a patient. I tell Elaine to please get him in. She comes back in a few minutes and says Dr. Weiner has now left the floor. I ask to see any other pulmonologist quickly. I ask 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 a doctor. I told them what happened and that I needed to speak to a pulmonologist – any pulmonologist. Chaplin Susan Mitchell comes in and I relate everything to her. They 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.”