MAiD + 5 Years: How Fragile We Are — Reflections from friends and family
Five years ago today, my husband, Jack, died with medical assistance (MAiD).
Yesterday, I told you the results of my survey of friends and family members’ awareness and opinions about MAiD. You can read that here. Today, I’m honoured to recount some of the memories of Jack and his death they’ve graciously shared with me.
Stories of last visits with Jack
One of the results of telling a story over and over again in different forms and to different audiences is that the memories crystallize. At least they have for me. By asking some key people in Jack’s life about their last memories of him, I learned things I’d forgotten.
I asked people to tell me about the last time they saw Jack. I heard stories of seeing him in his hospital bed in our basement, a subdued version of his former self: “quiet, small, skinny” was one description. Another remarked on the braided grey goatee he proudly sported in his final months.
Two of my friends recalled their last visits with Jack involved bringing food to tempt his flagging palate. One searched out a borscht recipe and was delighted when Jack sucked it back quickly, clearly relishing it. She was pleased she had made him happy with Polish food. She and her husband left realizing: “life, at its most basic and most good, was quickly leaving him.”
Another friend remembers she was in the car with Jack and her husband, who had become a good friend of Jack’s. They bantered in the car and then Jack and her husband had cigarettes together in our backyard. “And it was OK,” she concluded.
Jack was not a big fan of talking about his death, even when he knew it was imminent. My friend Barb said: “I think not needing to discuss it was Jack-like.” One of my respondents, my sister Cathy, reports that in her last conversation with Jack, she steered the conversation to death. It was eight weeks before he died, and despite the illness having ravaged his body, Jack had just hoisted a full-sized wine cooler onto his back and loaded it into their SUV. Three of us stood back with breath held, knowing to intervene would have offended and annoyed him. My sister and Jack chatted while her husband and I further organized their load. Jack reportedly said that if he was wrong about there being no afterlife - he was firmly atheist by then - then he would send her a sign from beyond. She hasn’t yet received one.
Another friend, Tom, told me he was to have seen Jack one day in the weeks before his death, but Jack declined the visit because he didn’t feel well enough. That memory was jarring, since he didn’t remember Jack ever turning down a social opportunity prior. It jarred me too for the same reason.
Others told me stories of happier times, like when we swam in the pool at my niece and her wife’s house four months before his death. I remember that day too - everyone was cautious about him because, well, CANCER. But then he got hold of a water gun and started a full-on attack on us all. Suddenly cancer was eclipsed by Jack’s impish side. I love that memory and I love that others have it too.
Memories of MAiD Day: the friends
While Jack was preparing to die, I called on a handful of close friends to be on deck next door to support me, anticipating a difficult evening after he’d died. In fact, to be honest, it wasn’t as hard as I’d expected. Despite my disorientation and exhaustion, we laughed and ate and drank while I let the enormity of the three years I’d just experienced and the remarkable event I’d just witnessed seep into my pores.
For them, though, to be so close and yet so far from the action must have been extraordinary.
My neighbour, Janice, reported lighting a candle at the time she knew Jack was dying while she awaited my text to invite her over. She’d walked with me nightly during the precious hours when someone else - typically a PSW - was in the house with Jack. There was nothing Janice hadn’t known, whether she wanted to or not! Nightly walk-therapy should be prescribed to every caregiver.
Jack’s death-date unfortunately coincided with my friend Liz’s birthday, something she downplayed that year in Jack’s honour and to support me. When she learned of Jack’s decision she felt a small shock, but only a small one because I’d been ruminating about it for awhile with her, and in her words: “you’re always on the cutting edge of things - why not death?!?” She went on to say she wondered if the considerable grieving I did prior to his death helped her to prepare and grieve too. Her physical proximity to Jack that night has made her feel calmer about death.
My niece was also onsite. I’d asked her to come and to stay the week with me, knowing her quiet and practical approach would be exactly what I needed as I switched gears from caregiving into funeral logistics mode. Laura was the lone person on the main level of the house while we celebrated Jack’s life with him in the basement. She remembers thinking how happy everyone sounded a couple of hours before the doctor arrived, as jazz and laughter wafted up the basement stairs - really lovely.
Memories of MAiD Day: the family
Jack considered carefully who should be with him when he died. He wanted his four children and was delighted when his older sons were able to join us from Europe, despite the short notice and having just been here for their sister’s wedding. He also requested I invite his uncle, his sister, his niece, and his son-in-law. A few weeks ago, when I asked them for their memories of that day, I knew I might stir up pain so I did so with caution. I am very grateful to have received replies from three of his kids and his uncle.
I asked them each to think about the moment they learned of Jack’s decision. Like many of our broader circle, his daughter, Alexa, reported feeling relief for his sake. Of anyone other than me, she’d been with us the most so she had seen a significant decline after her wedding five weeks earlier. Her relief, however, was tinged with a sense that as a Catholic: “this went against everything I have ever been taught to believe and in the same breath was everything I was taught to believe: it is YOUR right to choose what happens to YOUR body.”
One son, Nick, travelled from Ireland for Jack’s death day. He referred to MAiD as a futuristic idea but not one he opposed. When he landed in Dublin two days after the celebration of Jack’s life, he was surprised to find an Irish talk-radio program on the topic of euthanasia to listen to on his two hour drive back to Galway City. Weird coincidence in a country where MAiD is unlikely to ever be legal.
Jack’s other son, Bartek, arrived from Poland. He commented that upon learning of his father’s decision, he knew Jack must really have been against the wall, given his great love of life, people, his work, and his dogs.
All reported no hesitation whatsoever about being present at the time of death. Nick noted that as someone who doesn’t believe in the afterlife, it was his last chance to speak to his father. Jack’s 95 year old uncle, Stanley, let me know how proud he was to have been asked to attend Jack’s death, just as he’d attended our wedding 30 months earlier.
When asked about MAiD day, November 19, 2018, they all remembered Jack engaging in remarkably normal activities and conversations in the hours leading up to his 6 pm appointment. Alexa’s video of him smoking two hours before he died is precious to her because, for her, a lit cigarette in his hand made him who he was. Nick remembers he railed on about Polish politics; he went on to say how Jack would be pleased with the recent overturning of the rightwing Polish party that was in power since before Jack died. I, too, often think about how Jack would react to various changes in the world in the last five years.
We listened to music, and Alexa recalls the playlist included “Fragile,” recorded by Stevie Wonder and Sting. It’s her go-to when she wants to remember her dad. I’d forgotten but have now added it to my playlist.
Bartek remembers at the very end, Jack saying, “So, do we do this or what?” which I hadn’t remembered but seems very likely indeed! And Alexa remembers him waving goodbye, calmly and easily as if he was leaving a party.
I’ll let Alexa have the last word here since I think she said it best: “Having been part of this experience has allowed me to have insight on how this process can be its own special version of both a celebration and a loss. I was grateful for the opportunity to be present to celebrate, laugh, cry, and enjoy the company of my dad one last time, just as he would want it.”
I thank those who helped me write this by sharing their memories. I hope these accounts help others who might be anticipating something similar.
Now go listen to Stevie Wonder by clicking here.
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