If you ask me when my father died, I answer with a specific date: July 26, 1990. But if you ask me when I lost my father, my answer is far less specific: 1985 or 1986. I don’t get the second question very often, but when I do get it, the answer often results in head-scratching. I know full well that under most circumstances the second question is a rephrase of the first, but in my case the most accurate answers are different; and pretending they’re the same is a game I play only in the most superficial of circumstances.

I’m not being histrionic or seeking pity when I answer the questions differently. As far as I am concerned it is a statement of fact. Between late 1985/early 1986 and July 1990, my father’s physical health disintegrated. His kidneys completely shut down and he ended up on dialysis for a year and a half before getting a transplant. He lost so much of his vision that his driver’s license was revoked. One leg was amputated in three different stages. It has never been confirmed, but there is observational evidence of vascular collapse and even tissue death in his brain. His heart became compromised and eventually could no longer keep functioning.

Dad was only in the hospital for a week before his death, but it took him years to die.

A bit of quick mental arithmetic will tell anyone reading this that I was fifteen when he finally did die. He’d been sick for so long that I was not as devastated as a child who loses a parent suddenly and without warning; but there was a different emotional trap that came into play instead. My strongest and most immediate reaction to the news of his death was relief. There was grief and sadness and everything else associated with the death of a loved one, but underlying it all was a feeling that “it’s all over.” It took me years to stop feeling guilty, to realize that my relief didn’t mean I didn’t love him. Quite the contrary, in fact. Make no mistake: I miss my father every single day, and I do feel cheated since I never had the opportunity to have an adult relationship with my father. But even so, I am relieved that he didn’t suffer any longer than he did. Five years was horrible. Some diabetics – for that is what he had – linger for twenty or more once the final decline begins.

The effects of my father’s illness and death have lasted far longer than five years. They’re still quite evident today and I dare say they will be for several more decades. But the fifteen years since his death have given my family a chance to find equilibrium and develop ways of coping that never would have been remotely possible before he died. I didn’t want my father to die. But I’m glad he did. I’m glad he didn’t suffer any longer, and I’m glad my family got the chance to start healing. Goodness knows we needed it. Diabetes is a cruel, cruel disease and I wouldn’t wish its effects on my worst enemy – or his or her family.

Catholic theology teaches that, while death should not be actively sought, it also should not be avoided “at all costs.” In addition to the life-after-death issue, this particular theological point also developed in response to the very real effects of dying vs. death on the families of the deceased. While it is absolutely unacceptable to deliberately kill, that fact does not change the fact that, quite often, fighting death does much more damage than simply allowing it to happen. Physician-assisted suicide and euthanasia are not necessary to achieve a “death with dignity,” and there is nothing in Catholic theology that precludes the choice to discontinue life-sustaining measures…including food and water. (To be fair, there’s nothing in Catholic theology that precludes the choice not to discontinue them, either.)

My own experiences with dying and death bear out the truth behind the Catholic viewpoint. Even though I’m still a young adult, I don’t fear death. I do fear dying and will avoid it…but even now, at the young age of thirty, I’ve left written directives that strictly limit the amount of time life-sustaining measures (including artificial nutrition and hydration) can be continued. I saw what five years of fighting – even when it’s not “at all costs” – did to my family. I will not allow it to happen again involving me, and I executed both a Health Care Power of Attorney and a Living Will in my mid-twenties.

Those same experiences cause me to have tremendous mixed feelings when considering both Terri Schiavo and the Holy Father. In both cases, the fighting against death has crossed into the “at all costs” stage. As a survivor and as a Catholic, I don’t understand this. (Okay, I’ll grant the Pope is still a long way from dying but pushing himself like he did yesterday is not going to accomplish anything but pain.) There is a vast middle ground between seeking death and fearing death; and the consistent teaching of the Church through the centuries favors that middle ground – with good reason, as exemplified by my experiences and those of countless others! Can anyone truly argue, no matter which side they support, that the Terri Schiavo case isn’t heart-rending? Can anyone truly look at the Pope and not feel some measure of sympathy for the sheer amount of pain and suffering upon him?

At this point Terri Schiavo’s case has become so hopelessly convoluted and mired between the two parties that the possibility of the actual truth coming out is almost nil. (I won’t bar miracles.) Further, I am far from the only person who has questioned the wisdom of the Holy Father in stubbornly hanging on to a position he clearly cannot physically handle. By saying “it’s time,” I’m not at all denigrating either Terri or the Pope. I’m saying that, as human beings, they deserve more dignity than to die by inches. Sometimes, the only choice is to just let go and accept the inevitable…and of all things, death is surely the most inevitable. Unfortunately, in Terri’s case it’s too late; no matter how she dies, no matter when she dies – even if the tube is reinserted – her dignity has already been taken. I fear that it could be getting closer to that same point for the Holy Father.

As someone who watched someone die by inches until the very end, I know that it may very well be better to just let go. Barring a miracle, that’s the only way peace will ever return to either Terri’s or the Holy Father’s lives. Both of them deserve it after going through the horrors of the past several years. If that means I’m “wishing they would die,” so be it. For me it’s the only compassionate choice.