The silver lining was never more obvious to me than while watching last night’s 60 Minutes story on end of life decisions. The piece centered around assisted suicide and whether it should be legal or not. Throughout the report I could not help but think of my Mom, who at too young an age was compelled to make similar decisions on behalf of the man who held her heart.

Thankfully, cancer made most of the decisions about Dad’s care. By the time he was diagnosed, it was too late for any cure. There was only time for hope. I called to see what she thought of the 60 Minutes piece and her immediate response was to reiterate her instructions about her own care. No extraordinary measures.

I asked if she knew what Dad would have wanted in his own case. The stupidity of the question occurred to me just as the last word was uttered. My mom was in her mid-30s and my father was just 41 when he suffered a stroke that was cancer’s calling card.

“We were too young to be discussing those kinds of things,” she said. They were.

But, she added, if he knew what he had become, he would have gone outside and shot himself. That was not only her belief. My uncle Mike, who shared with Dad more than a name. They had similar senses of humor and both adored my mom. What would have pained my father was not so much the loss of independence, but being dependent.

The tumors which had grown throughout his brain had minimized my father. He had no long-term memory and stolen his ability to express anything. Even pain. My mom delivered a daily dosage of painkillers to him, but did not know if they were needed. They were doing no harm, so why not, she told me.

After we talked, I brought out a picture of my dad and grandmother taken the Christmas before he died. What was striking about the picture was not what it showed, but what was missing. There was no life in the blue eyes. There was no Dad in his eyes. Similarly, there was no hope in my grandmother’s eyes. There seemed to be a recognition of what was coming, a tortured awareness that she was losing hold of her only son, her youngest child.

In that photo, I also saw the silver lining. I remember very little about that Christmas. I remember my cat Funky ran away that winter. I remember Bill the hospice nurse, not being able to visit Dad when he was in the hospital and being rushed out of the room when he had seizures. But I never realized he was dying. I could not see that the man up to whom I cuddled on the bed was not really my Dad anymore.

Unlike my mom and brother, I do not remember. For that silver lining forever will I be grateful.