Two weeks before my father died he made a last request:  Beer.  It caught me by surprise; I had been busy preparing his nightly dose of crushed meds in applesauce. 

"What did you say, dad?" I said, while gently shoving trazadone/klonopin/ativan/ laced applesauce into one corner of his mouth. He repeated, "I don't want this.  I want a beer.” Then he spit the applesauce meds out onto the floor.  He was a lot like a camel that way towards the end. You had to be agile and prepared to dart out of spitting distance.

 Beer? I contemplated the idea. Could he possibly be serious? He had not had anything to eat or drink for almost a week at this point. I was more than thrilled at the thought of being able to fulfill any request that might make him actually happy for a moment. At the same time I was also quite sure that by the time I sent my boyfriend, Mike, scurrying across the street to the neighbor’s to grab whatever beer she had on hand, my  father would've soon forgotten he even asked for it. 

Mike returned with a Bud Light Lime of all things.  Who knew such a thing existed?  

I tried to give dad a sip, but soon found he was too weak to suck it up to his mouth through the straw hospice had recommended.  Linda, the craigslist caregiver, stood by as usual on her death watch supervising me to make sure the beer did not contain a fatal amount of say, Nembutal, and shook her head, hands on hips, sneering.

Her own job security was Linda’s first priority. This made me question my decision to hire her off craigslist for the small fee of $10,000 a month, under the table, but what’s a girl to do with a twelve hour window to find a 24 hour caregiver?  I recalled that she never did give me the promised references. Instead she relied on her Mrs. Doubtfire-like demeanor to fool me, initially.  Now it was too late to replace her and she knew it.  

 At this point her job consisted of nothing more than turning my father over once or twice a day to prevent bedsores and keeping an eye on me to make sure I didn’t purposely put him out of his misery.  She was going to milk this as long as she could and that meant keeping close tabs on the morphine. She didn’t want me anywhere near that bottle which she guared guarded faithfully like a dutiful pit bull.  She was a Christian after all, and God would want her to keep my father alive, even if against his will. 

"Not like that, Mike! She bellowed. Just give it to him in a cup, like this," she shoved a plastic cup between his chapped lips and poured a few sips, most of which dribbled off to the side down his chin and under his Michigan State T-shirt, giving him a chill and causing him to choke as he inhaled the lime beer into his lungs. Not much fun for him, as far as having a beer goes anyway. 

Not exactly happy hour. 

Mike and I exchanged knowing glances willing her to disappear back to her knitting, or needlepoint, or whatever it was she did, but of course, she stayed, feet planted firmly in place as Mike gave him another sip. Then came the usual response: “This stuff tastes like SHIT!  What is this?  Who gave me this?" Follow the familiar, sinking feeling again of never being able to do anything right, anything that could possibly lead to even one small moment of satisfaction.  We failed yet again.  My dying father could not even enjoy a damn beer. 

I have never been a beer fan myself.  I’d much prefer a scotch on the rocks.  If you are looking for a buzz why not get right to the point?  But being slightly thirsty and rather curious, I decided to try a sip myself.  Low and behold, it actually WAS horrible.  It tasted, literally, like artificial chemical lime water.  Seriously.  No wonder dad hated it.  It sucked.  I still wonder what would've happened had we given him an actual good beer...like Becks or Heineken, or something normal men drink.  Maybe he would’ve felt less sick for a minute.  Maybe he would’ve gotten out of bed and slapped us high fives.  

But, that was doubtful.  He probably would've hated it either way.

 I spent the rest of the night surfing the internet learning more about Nembutal and how once you give it to a person they simply fall asleep and die within 10 minutes with no suffering at all.  I read about death tourism to Mexico and Switzerland.  I read about people that offered to sell you doses over the internet.  I read about manslaughter, and right to life, and the legalities of the Death with Dignity Act...I read and read and read until nearly midnight, wishing I could help my father fulfill what he really wanted, a permanent end to dementia’s toll taking.