- thoitietviet.edu.vn

January 20th, 2000, The Netherlands

Believe it or not, nobody objected. Not one of us stood up in the bedroom and said, “Don’t kill him.” Neither did anybody else in the house for that matter, the cleaning lady, the unobtrusive nurse. We all accepted my father’s fate with eyes wide open and mouths shut.

Imagine us grateful, if you can.

It was logical that the undertaker never made a fuss. He was accustomed to death and more, made a living from it. For him to say, “Don’t kill him” would be counterproductive. The minister would have objected, surely, if we had invited him that day. But the minister had only been welcome the previous day or the day before that—in the end I lost track. The man of God had come into the bedroom to bless my father’s second marriage, which hadn’t taken place in a church. My father’s second wife, a lapsed Catholic, hoped that the blessing would console (save? validate?) her after her husband’s death. And perhaps it did. Who knows what thoughts hold back the dark?

On a different day, before or after the blessing, my father picked out his coffin. Nobody objected to this either. An emaciated, bed-ridden man, fifty-three years old, flipping through folders, demanding prices. Strange, yes. Unjust, of course. But we accepted the situation, because taking control of his death sparked something inside my father we thought had long died. Now we saw he was not beaten. Not yet or not anymore. There was a niche, however small, in which he could be in charge, making decisions.

As we planned the brief future together, we tried to match his manner by remaining light-hearted and rational. There would be a small-scale cremation and a large-scale memorial party. We would have balloons and mimosas! (But not with fresh orange juice or real champagne for that would be a waste of money.)

“All these sweet people,” my father said, “what a shame I can’t be there.”

Without too much effort, I could see my own mouth in his.

Naturally, our victory was short-lived. At the hour of truth, nerves ran every which way, but they ran invisibly. As nothingness approached, we kept our cool. We waited like Blue Helmets, peacekeeping soldiers, searching for meaning in the absurd. We wanted to fight but where were our weapons?

I remember sighing under the weight of missing words.

The doctor arrived on time. She put her black bag on a wicker chair and explained the process calmly. First this, then that. We nodded like apt pupils. Two types of drugs through intravenous injections. Sleepiness. Breathing would cease and eventually the heart. Objections did not exist; they were wiped off our planet along with our hopes for his survival. Did anyone offer the doctor a cup of tea?

We took our places. The wife pulled up a stool and claimed her husband’s head. She would share the head and the left hand with their twelve-year-old son. I formally requested my father’s right hand and climbed on top of the marital bed. My brother made do with a foot. As did my grandmother. She would object years later, softly and confused, though not about the foot. When her son was already ill, she had lost her daughter to cancer in the U.S. She had witnessed the slow, bitter demise from wakefulness into morphine coma. Was her son’s speed date with death any better?

Yes, grandma, I would tell her, it was better. He was in pain, physically and mentally, and he wanted out. Not wanting to be cared for like a baby. Not wanting to be rushed to a hospital for an emergency. Not wanting death to carry him off when we weren’t there. And we were there, remember? Wanting what he wanted. We could have objected, I suppose, we could have said, “Don’t kill him” but we knew he would have died anyway. Our objection would not have changed the inevitability of his death. Only the hour.

With all of us in place, holding his limbs, stroking his hair, the doctor asked my father a question in a gentle yet clear voice, the voice of an angel. “Are you ready?”

We are free to choose yet not free to avoid choice.

Yes, he was ready. But wait. Don’t forget the glasses. He took them off and put them on the side table. It was the last thing he did before he said he loved us. The glasses were smudged. They would not need to be cleaned.

Time slowed, stood still, took up again, and having lost its relevance now, it was anyone’s guess how much of it went by. Let’s say: the moment lasted a while.

Did we look at each other or at the instruments the doctor took out of her bag? Did we stare into the dying man’s eyes to witness his fall into timelessness? After my father closed his eyes, I kept mine on the artery in his neck, and watched how it pulsed and pulsed, slower now, and weaker, but with a discernible beat, until his heart finally stopped.

Again, nobody objected.

We sat there quietly, in grief and gratitude, as though killing someone was the last gift you could grant that person in life, and of course it was.

This essay was first published by Tin House in 2016.

Every year around January 20th, I think of my father and the last gift he received.

I’m Claire Polders, a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Read about my books and more on my website www.clairepolders.com.

Desk Journeys aka Reading Recommendations

Below are a few books I recommended in one of my first newsletters: Bonding with the Dead in Japan.

I had few subscribers then, so let me share these books on grief with you again:

Heartwood: The Art of Living with the End in Mind by Barbara Becker. The author speaks from both personal and professional experience when she writes, “Sometimes, as the great masters have taught, we have to die before we die if we want to truly live.” It’s a beautiful book on how to prepare for death even when we still enjoy our health.
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. Didion walks a path between her known life and her unknown insanity, imagining messages in order to survive. She needs to keep the hope alive that death is reversible. A painful yet gorgeous read.
Levels of Life by Julian Barnes. One of my favorite British novelists writes about his life after losing his wife: “This is what those who haven’t crossed the tropic of grief often fail to understand: the fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesn’t mean that they do not exist.”
La Chambre Claire / Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography by Roland Barthes. The book’s subtitle could also have been: Reflections on mourning and coping with our own mortality. Barthes makes a lyrical case for how photography renders loss visible and how the spectator is in direct relationship with the subject through touching details. It’s an ode to photography and a eulogy for his mother, although some speculate it was a eulogy for himself: Barthes died unexpectedly soon after the publication of La Chambre Claire.
Last but certainly not least: I recommend all poems by Emily Dickinson, for whom the border between life and death was porous enough to cross at will.

If you buy a book through a link in this newsletter, you support me and indie bookstores at no extra cost to you. You can browse all the books I recommend here.

Author News

As a writer of flash fiction—with Woman of the Hour as my first published collection—I contributed a pro tip to Flash Fiction Writing Tips: Penned by Masterful Flash Writers From Around the Globe curated by Karen Schauber.

“The book is a guide to crafting great flash fiction featuring the wisdom of 300 writers who have mastered the flash form. Curated over a five-year period, this Treasury of 300 ‘Flash Fiction Writing Tips’ brings together global perspectives and honed expertise from exceptional flash writers around the world. It is designed to meet writers at every stage of their craft.”

Other authors who contributed their expertise are Kathy Fish, Etgar Keret, Stuart Dybek, Sarah Freligh, Dinty W Moore, Sara Lippmann, Grant Faulkner, Randall Brown, Tommy Dean, Nod Ghosh, Meg Pokrass, Kim Chinquee, and many more.

Order the book here

Wanted: Homes in Europe

Daniel and I are still looking for housesitting and subletting opportunities in Europe. For the summer of 2026, we’re mostly interested in the Netherlands, France, and Italy. If you’re away for a week or more and would like us to take care of your place, please contact us! We don’t smoke, won’t bring pets, and are respectful of your property. References upon request.

Email Claire Now

Related Essays

If you enjoyed this post, you might also be interested in reading:

Time to Say Goodbye

Daniel and I have arrived in southern Patagonia, hiking in the mountains around Fitz Roy. The scenery is as breathtaking as we were led to believe. I’m making a lot of notes that will eventually become an essay. For now I have this:

All my best,

Claire

P.S. What is your experience with loss and grief?