As we age, we need directives

My dad would have turned 100 years old tomorrow. Out of respect for him, and because my siblings look for any excuse to get together, we are all assembling at my sister’s house in St. Paul for a birthday party.

There’s a total of seven Radosevich siblings, plus all my cousins and their families, so there will be quite a few relatives in her backyard. It will be noisy.

A few years before Dad passed away, my parents asked me to help them with their health care directives, sometimes called “living wills.”

Now, I’d drafted dozens of these while working for David Lindgren at the old Newby law office, so I had a pretty good idea what was about to happen. And my parents did not disappoint.

First, I asked my parents to fill out the seven- page form that spells out what their wishes are for typical end-of-life issues, such as pain relief, organ donation, and other health care directions.

My parents choose each other to act as their agent, in case they could not communicate their wishes to their doctors themselves. That’s pretty typical.

Then, they started to explain their goals, fears, religious beliefs, and concerns about their medical treatment. Again, their wishes were fairly typical- by the time you’ve been married for 45 years, it’s pretty normal to share those general beliefs.

And here is where they split ways. My mother carefully explained her wishes: she wanted to be kept relatively pain-free; she would like the doctors to keep her alive as long as she had a reasonable chance of survival, and was willing to use modern medical technology, such as a breathing tube or other medical machines, as long as it made sense. If her chances of recovery were slim to none, she wanted to go peacefully and in as little pain as reasonably possible.

Dad was different. He made bold statements: “No machines. Do not resuscitate. No breathing tubes. No machines. When it’s my time to die, I want to die. With dignity.”

I’ve noticed over the years that women typically have careful, thoughtful answers to these questions, and men often make bold statements like my father did.

I tell you this because of what happened a year or so later. Dad’s heart stopped working while looking at the stock reports on TV. Mom happened to be walking down the hallway and noticed he was ... essentially ... dead.

Mom thought fast. She went to the phone, dialed 911, and then went to comfort her dying husband. Moments later, first responders arrived. Dad was rushed to the hospital, transferred to Duluth, put on a breathing tube and eventually had an implantable defibrillator installed. Basically, Mom ignored Dad’s written wishes in his directive.

A few months later, I was visiting my folks in Two Harbors, when Dad mentioned, casually, “Say, Pete, maybe we could make a few adjustments to those papers we filled out. Maybe we have it say ‘a little medical attention might be OK.’” So, we prepared a new health care directive that mirrored Mom’s a little more.

I tell you this story to remember two things: first, everyone should have a directive. Second, remember that you’re not trying to impress anyone with your bravery when filling it out. Careful, thoughtful planning should go into your health care directive, just like my dad did ... the second time.

Pete Radosevich is the publisher of the Pine Knot News community newspaper and an attorney in Esko who hosts the talk show Harry’s Gang on CAT-7. He can be reached at [email protected].