u/JustSomeGuyInOregon

Obligatory this didn't happen today.

Nope, this happened on a Saturday almost 25 years ago.

My 2 YO daughter came to me, dressed in her favorite PJ's and bunny ears on her head, grabbed me by the hand and led me back to her room.

There she had set up her table my dad made and had plates and cups set out. My (really, her) dog, a big ol' rottweiler cross was sitting and wearing a tutu, her favorite doll was next, and I was told to sit down and join them.

So, I sat down to a fine tea (water) and biscuits (Goldfish crackers) event.

She told me all about her week, while handing crackers to the dog at intervals. I learned about her adventures, and what her doll had done.

Then we ran out of "tea."

My little girl jumped up like a good host and ran to get more. She came back seconds later and refilled my cup.

Except, I didn't hear the sink run. I mean, she had a step stool, so she could have reached it, but... instead I heard the toilet flush.

So I asked the hardest question ever.

"Sweetie, where did you get the water?"

"From the potty! I flushed so it is new!"

I went and cleaned the pot and cups, and got us fresh "tea", and carried on. But damn.

I don't want to talk about the crackers. The dog got the rest of those. I got us fresh snacks.

TL;DR: My kiddo made me drink toilet water, but it is still one of my favorite memories with her. Great morning. None of us had ill effects (including the dog).

1,000,000/10 company
1/10 refreshments

Still worth it.

This is just something I need to get out. Part of the whole therapy thing

I'm a Marine, a former firefighter, and someone in an aging family.

I sadly know better than most what death is really like.

It isn't like TV or the movies.

When people get close to the end, instinct kicks in. Desperate gasps for air, calling out for people, saying things, then convulsions, and sometimes silent tears.

The death rattle is real, unsettling, and still, in an odd way, comforting.

When I was a Marine, my friends were hurt and died. It wasn't pretty. It was bloody, chaotic, and emotional.

Yet, when I wrote the letters, I told them that their son / husband died instantly.

Nothing to be gained by sharing the reality of the screaming, blood and smoke. I felt that telling them it was over instantly was a comfort to them.

I've never asked if it was, because then I'd have to admit to the lie, and any comfort they had would have been shattered by reality.

This same practice carried over when I was a firefighter.

When someone died in an accident, or in a fire, we'd always say the same thing:
"They didn't suffer. They went peacefully, and we don't think they even knew what happened."

The reality was often far from this. In the case of a fire, we could hear them scream while we fought to rescue them, and when the cries stopped, we didn't. We kept going, as best we could.

Car accidents were the worst. We'd arrive at scene to people that were dead, but they didn't know it. They cried for help, but there was nothing we could do. The things they cried out to haunt me.

Just blood, screaming, smoke, and slow death.

But we told the families it was instant, or at least quick, and they did not suffer.

No point in the truth. It wouldn't save the dead, and would only torture the living.

So, I swallowed it. Along with my crew. It's what we did.

That's what I learned. That's what I was good at. I was the solemn man in a uniform/turnouts telling people that someone they loved died.

I did that for a lot of years.

Then I got older, and it was time for death to visit my family.

I stood watch over a lot of deathbeds, when my family just couldn't. I was used to it, so I volunteered. I knew it would be hard, but death was, at this point, something that I could do for them. They didn't need to see the reality of it.

I was there, alone, for my Grandmother when my aunts and uncles couldn't be.

I was there, alone, for my Aunts and Uncles when my cousins couldn't be.

Everytime, I said the same thing: "It was quiet and peaceful. They just went to sleep."

It never was. There was always something that told me death was near. Maybe last word, maybe squeezing my hand, but always the rattle.

Still, I stuck with my lines. They didn't suffer. It was fast. They aren't in pain anymore.

Then, this year, I broke.

My mom was sick. She had fought cancer for years, but it caught up to her.

Things went very sideways, and it was time to make a decision.

My dad couldn't. My sister and wife couldn't.

So, I had to say the words.

"Let's let her go. It is time."

My father said his goodbyes. My wife said her's. They went to the waiting room, and I stayed behind.

She was intubated, so rather than witness the tube coming out, I walked out and called the funeral home and set up arrangements.

When I got back, she was asleep, so I held her hand.

It didn't take long. After a few minutes, she squeezed my hand.

Then, a little while later she opened her eyes and looked around the room.

She called out for my dad, and squeezed my hand.

"I'm here, mom, dad is with wife."

She took a deep breath, then said her last words.

"Wait! No, no, no, no"

Then the rattle came.

Then then flatline.

Then the nurse telling me she was gone.

I took a few minutes, then I walked out to my father and wife and said what I has said too many times.

"It was quick, and she didn't suffer. She just went to sleep."

I can't tell them. The lie is better than the truth.

So, I'll carry this.

Until I pass "quickly, in my sleep. I won't have suffered."