Euphemisms aren't always wrong

I've always hated euphemisms for death like "passed away," but that's precisely what my friend T's 95-year-old father did last night. Remarkably (to me, at any rate), I was there when it happened, but it was so gentle and subtle a death, that neither of us noticed precisely when it happened. Actually, there may have been a reason for that. The flossy Union Square Cafe provides dinners at the hospice where he was being cared for. So T (who had asked me to keep her company) and I went to the "family room" to have a lovely meal of vegetables, rice and polenta while the nurse cleaned her father up. When we returned to the room, we noticed that his head was turned away from us but thought nothing of it. A few minutes later we went back to the family room for dessert (bread pudding with whipped cream and fresh strawberries). When we returned he was in the same position, but this time T had a feeling he wasn't breathing. And indeed, he wasn't. Unless it happened in one of the two 10-minute intervals when we were out of the room, his "passing" was so quiet, we were unaware of it. He "slipped away."

That seemingly peaceful end was preceded by a decidedly less peaceful 10 days of pain, agitation, delirium. When his doctor asked him if he was ready to "let go," he said, "No, I'm not ready. There's no room for me in heaven." Then two days ago, he stopped drinking, a sign that he was in "transition." 

Interestingly, "transition" is a word that's also used in childbirth. It refers to the frantically, nightmarishly painful period before the "pushing" phase begins. Like "labor," it is a word with a neutrality that belies its horror. In birth classes, we were told that labor is called "labor" because it's hard work. Such a lie! It's called "labor" because if they called it what it really is, women would never have sex—with men.

In the case of T's father, however, transition marked the end of his struggle and the beginning of his release. The euphemisms were apt.