Saying adieu to Bert
Personal project
A personal project, where I documented the last days of my stepdad Bert.
22-12-2022
Three months ago my stepdad Bert was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer: CUP - carcinoma of unknown primary. Meaning metastatic cancer cells are found in the body, but it is unknown where the disease started, and thus difficult or impossible to treat.
Many tests, scans and biopsies followed but all with no result. He seemed relatively okay, and we were hopeful he’d have a couple more months or even a year to live. He was scheduled to start chemo last week. But all of a sudden, his stomach and intestinal system completely stopped working. And there was nothing the doctors could do about that. He will pass away in a couple of days.
As soon as he heard that, he wanted to come home from the hospital. To spend his last days surrounded by love, saying a final goodbye to family and friends. Watching him do that with such grace, strength and acceptance is a beautiful and humbling experience.
23-12-2022
Bert doesn’t look like he’s dying. It’s almost like he can just get up off the bed and start walking. He really can’t though. His body has become frail - he hasn’t eaten in 13 days and lives off a couple of sips of water and ice pops. But his mind is still sharp, despite the morphine and fentanyl.
He still jokes around and he seems content with it all. “Sure, I’d like to live longer, but I’ve had a great life”, he says. “Enough with the crying, let’s get you something to drink. Snacks, anyone?”
27-12-2022
Death comes as a surprise, even when it’s expected. It creeps up slowly, but it happens suddenly. Bert passed away in the night of Christmas Eve - his favourite holiday.
Two days before, I offered to stay the night. “Completely unnecessary”, said a still optimistic Bert. I did, anyway. And in the middle of the night, my mom woke me up. He wasn’t doing well, had a hard time breathing and was in a lot of pain. I called an emergency doctor who gave him some morphine and dormicum - an anesthetic - so he could sleep.
The next day we arranged a pump that continually administers a mixture of those medications - a standard end of life procedure. But the dose was too low, and because of bureaucratic bullshit (“His gp is on vacation.. It’s the weekend.. It’s Christmas..”) we couldn’t get it higher.
That last day he was in pain, restless, anxious. Sweating, cold, confused. He just wanted to sleep, he just wanted to die. It was difficult to watch him struggle like that and kind of a stark contrast with the happy and peaceful days before.
When I went to bed that night, it was now Christmas Eve, I ‘prayed’ he’d pass soon. That he wouldn’t have to endure another day like that. Two hours later, just before 2.00 am, the night nurse woke my mom and me up. It was time.
Bert briefly opened his eyes, mom gave him a kiss, I stroked his hand, and he left. Finally found the peace he had been looking for all day.
06-01-2023
We spoke about death frequently. Bert didn’t fear it, he was matter of fact about it, made jokes about it. When the doctors asked him: “Mr. Morren, do you smoke?” He laughed and answered: “only after I’m cremated.”
He wasn’t very spiritual about it either. He said: “I’ll literally go up in smoke, and that’s it, there’s nothing after this.” It didn’t make sense to him to think about what’s after this, it’s much better to concern yourself with what’s happening here, now.
Because, he reasoned, if you look at how incredibly beautiful nature is, how intelligent the human body, and how loving the relationships that we form with each other - isn’t heaven already here on Earth?
I myself am pretty ‘spiritual’, don’t feel like death is a permanent ending. I think in our essence, we’re all just energy. And according to the laws of physics, energy cannot be destroyed. It can only transform.
So to me, Bert isn’t really gone. He has just taken another form. As beautiful memories, floating consciousness, stardust.. or maybe even into another life.
