My brother in law, Stefan, died peacefully at 11:30 pm on Thursday, February 21st, 2019.

The peaceful part was the most miraculous, as he hadn’t had a peaceful illness. Multiple health challenges competed for his attention. Impatience with the medical system, and with doctors in general, didn’t help. In short, he wasn’t the easiest patient on the planet.

Stef’s stepson was a true and utter godsend. Really. He accompanied Stefan and our beloved sister Abby through the long and often arduous process with steadfastness and compassion, giving as many gentle doses of reality as could be absorbed by them both as time went on.

None of us wanted Stef to die in hospital, any more than he did. Arrangements for a home death had just been initiated but in the end it was too late. He asked to be taken to the hospital and it wasn’t long before comfort care was deemed the most compassionate course of action.

We had no idea how close he was to death. Our assumption was that we would hold a lengthy vigil, and on Thursday evening I arrived to take my first shift. His other son was travelling from Vancouver on the late ferry and various family members were mobilizing to come and offer their support.

By the time I got to the hospital, the only aid being given was oxygen to help him breathe. The nurses were amazing—attentive and kind. As the evening went on, Stef had a couple of agitated episodes, the last one being the most remarkable. He sat bolt upright and was LOOKING, LOOKING, LOOKING right past me at something that had his complete and utter attention for a good many moments. After that he settled down, his breathing less laboured and more rhythmic.

I opened up the recliner, closed my eyes, and settled into the space we now shared. The lights were low and the room was serene, with only the occasional chorus of “Hey, Hey We’re The Monkees” coming from a TV set down the hall—reporting, I discovered later, that Peter Tork of Monkees fame had died.

We were both quiet for about an hour, and then I noticed that another level of quiet had descended. Stefan had stopped breathing. In disbelief, I called the nurses and they came to take his vitals. He must have passed only a minute or two earlier, leaving this planet with the ease of one last out-breath…

It’s the tenderness of the next day that I was struck by. How fragile we all felt. Like we needed to take extra special care just to stay safe on this planet that we’ve called home all these years, although it’s clearly not the ‘home’ we will go to when we pass. We gathered, this funny little band of extended family that were nearby, and did the age-old things that people do when loved ones die: We talked, we cried, we ate, we rested, and then we did all that a little more.

The suddenness of it took us all by surprise. The questions that never got asked—or got asked and were not answered—will never get answered now. Stefan wasn’t interested in talking about his own end-of-life wishes and there is no making that happen if someone isn’t willing. I do wish I’d tried a little harder, though. Even with all my interest in and familiarity with the subject matter, I wasn’t as straightforward as I would have liked to be.

It’s the finality of death that is so disorienting. In my family, after some kind of kerfuffle, we’ve often said, “Well, at least nobody died.” But every once in a while someone does die, and it’s a son of a bitch.

I’m comforted by the knowledge that in the end Stefan died a pretty good death. And I feel renewed commitment about the importance of speaking with the people I love about our collective end-of-life wishes. I encourage you to do the same. The key is to begin having these conversations well in advance of serious illness taking hold, and to keep having them, recording wishes and hopes, taking it in bite-size pieces. The Conversation Project has some very helpful resources in this realm.

Who are you overdue to have a conversation with about their death? Have you made your own end-of-life wishes known? Let me know, I’d love to hear…