Two Worlds

When a life comes to an end

My mother-in-law passed away this past Sunday after three years of declining health and being bedridden. She suffered from diabetes, corticobasal degeneration (CBD)—a neurological disorder similar to Parkinson’s—along with hypothyroidism and kidney failure. Her left hand had become permanently clenched due to the CBD, and tremors shook her arms and legs. Like me, living with multiple chronic conditions, she was taking more than 15 medications daily just to function.

She was hospitalized for roughly two weeks after developing sepsis from a bladder infection. While in the hospital, she also developed aspiration pneumonia—when food or liquid accidentally enters the lungs instead of the stomach. Due to her neurological complications, swallowing had become increasingly complex. Even though she was put on pureed foods, she ate and drank very little.

I visited her five times during those two weeks and witnessed suffering of a kind I’ve rarely seen outside of war films or disaster documentaries. Despite being in a hospital setting, she was in constant pain and extreme discomfort. The Tylenol and Dilaudid they gave her barely scratched the surface. They were microdosing her on Dilaudid—something I strongly disagreed with. She needed more significant pain relief. I know this because I take Dilaudid daily for my own pain management. More than once, I went to the nurses’ station and requested an additional dose for her.

Before her hospitalization, she had developed bedsores from being immobile. These were initially treated but were overlooked when she was transferred to the neurological unit, where they worsened significantly. By the time she was sent home—a mistake in my opinion—the sores had improved, and the infection was under control. But she lasted only three days at home before needing to be readmitted. She returned on Wednesday and was moved to palliative care on Thursday. There, she finally received effective pain management: a continuous IV drip of Fentanyl. The bedsores, however, remained severe. My wife witnessed her mother bleeding during wound care—an image that traumatized her deeply.

On Saturday morning, Phyllis made the brave and heartbreaking decision to be sedated and allowed to die in a medically induced coma. She passed away the following day.

I visited her every day in her final week. I’d leave the comfort of my new condo, get into my car, drive into the city, park in the hospital’s underground garage, sit with her for four to six hours, then return home—repeating the process each day. Her husband and daughter, however, remained by her side around the clock. They slept in chairs, catching only brief moments of rest. My father-in-law stood by her bedside for hours, holding her hand as she cried out in pain. “Hurry up, help!” she would plead, even as the three of us stood right there. We adjusted her pillows, her arms, her legs—turned her from side to side—trying to ease her discomfort, only to repeat the process 20 minutes later. I have never seen a human being endure that level of agony.

Every day, I transitioned between two worlds: the hospital and the outside. Inside, the air was heavy with suffering; outside, people walked freely, blissfully unaware of the torment happening just a few floors above them. The contrast was jarring. I’d exit the hospital garage and suddenly be free—to get gas, grab groceries, or listen to music while driving home, my mind wandering to better times. You begin to reflect on when life made more sense, when you were young and healthy. But now, the world feels increasingly unstable—AI and automation rising, wars looming, superpowers vying for dominance. It’s as if the entire planet is on fire.

When worlds don't collide

And yet, amid global chaos, I was most struck by the chasm between those living in pain and those who aren't even aware such suffering exists. Millions go about their lives, oblivious to the people trapped in bodies that no longer work, lying in beds they cannot leave. I know both worlds—I’ve been hospitalized myself for serious surgeries. I’ve called out for nurses, waited for pain meds, stared at the ceiling, immobilized. And I know what it feels like to be discharged—to return to "normal" life.

This latest experience reaffirmed a painful truth: life happens in parallel streams. At any given moment, someone is falling in love, grieving, graduating, undergoing surgery, dancing, giving birth, going to war, reading a book, being elected, becoming ill, losing everything, or simply walking on a beach. Life unfolds in a million directions, often unseen by one another. We live beside each other, but rarely within each other’s worlds—until something forces us to look.

I once had a dream life—a steady freelance career, a beautiful home, a loving wife, a young child, pets, a backyard pool, a hot tub, even a rock band on the side. But in 2016, I became seriously ill. With illness came loss. Bit by bit, I began losing everything I had built. Eventually, I lost it all. I lost myself. And for years, I’ve been grieving that loss.

Only recently—perhaps in the last year—have I begun to make peace with it. Not entirely, and never completely, but enough to accept my new reality. Despite everything, I still have privileges many others do not: I can eat, walk, work, drive, see, hear, and—most importantly—be there for others. I’ve been lifted from the edge of despair more than once by a close friend who saw me drowning and extended a hand.

Phyllis suffered for years before her body finally let go, freeing her spirit to go somewhere. A place we hope exists, though we cannot prove it. Phyllis G. Chapman passed away on Sunday, June 22, 2025. Thank you, Phyllis, for the quiet strength with which you endured your pain, and for touching our lives with your love and generosity. You were the best mother-in-law a guy could have. We are all relieved that your suffering is over.

We do so much in life to avoid pain, but pain is inevitable. It’s part of the human condition. What we can do is try to offer comfort and dignity to those who suffer. And perhaps, most importantly, we can forgive those who have hurt us, just as we hope to be forgiven for our own mistakes.

I leave you with a verse from Sunday Bloody Sunday, one of U2’s most politically charged songs. It captures the heartbreak of conflict and suffering, and it resonates far beyond the battlefield:

And the battle's just begun
There's many lost, but tell me who has won?
The trenches dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart.

Written by Patrick Franc a.k.a. Your Friendly Neighbourhood Bionicman