Infection upon infection became the lot of my father. Antibiotics were no longer able to counteract a growing deficiency of his respiratory system. Worse ... My father was dying from lack of oxygen.
At the hospital in Marseille, the surgeon proposed a risky operation of the right lung. I accepted. It was surgery or losing him. The operation was successful and the surgeon, in his wisdom, decided not to harass my father with aggressive chemotherapy. He was 82.
Cancer progressed slowly, as is often the case with the elderly. My father appropriated it with a broad smile and ensured the day to day monitoring with his practitioner.
Four years followed. Years of renewed dialogue, explanations, reconciliation, years of spiritual renewal ardently sought. Brightly coloured years, but also gray and black when the end slowly and painfully approached. He suffered much, but refused to take tranquilizers.
My father had to be cared for at home, he wanted to live his last weeks as naturally as possible.
And in fact, he was mobile almost to the last day, at home.
My father had the privilege of having the reins of his life until the end, assisted in his daily needs of course!
This is what I wish fervently to anyone with a disability, aging or a disease.