In 1998, my father was dying of cancer. He had been a physician for over 60 years and had some pretty definite ideas on his end-of-life issues.
He was NOT about to die in the hospital he helped grow from a 5 room house run by Benedictine nuns to a sprawling 600 bed, state of the art facility. He would die at home, with my mother and I to care for him. He believed that, even though I had let him down by becoming a VETERINARIAN'S nurse, I could handle his medical needs per hospice orders. This included injections. I never gave them correctly, according to him. Didn't stick him fast enough, was I Mengele reincarnated? "God dammit, Margaret Rose",he would yell. Until the day I told him as soon as I gave his injection, I was leaving for Little Rock to have my name legally changed to GDMR, hurry up! He laughed for the first time in months.