Why do we do it—this fight to stay alive, regardless? What’s the purpose? At our ‘advanced’ age, especially, and with nothing to give to the future except perhaps as experimental lab rats, why are we doing this? Realistically speaking, we mean nothing useful to anyone anymore, no one needs us and that is a good thing—a life lived to ensure we leave no holes when we no longer do … live, that is.

We have nothing to add to the Living; many of us seniors no longer pay taxes, and sure, we are still consumers, but of what? Small amounts of dwindling world resources and oxygen, and other people’s energies to ensure that we are not being a danger to ourselves or to anyone else.

A danger? How? By collapsing behind a snowblower, or fainting in front of a lawnmower, or falling down a set of stairs (think of all those liability suits). Our children don’t need us and neither do their children. We are the proverbial pain in the arse of the nuanced and new. We refuse to conform and we have nothing to give to the world at large except rusty, unwanted and outdated opinions.

We have outlived our usefulness and then it’s time to leave. But do we want to? No. Why not? What keeps us attached to this self-destructing planet and its brainless, self-anointed superior species?

Where does this come from? A place of mental exhaustion while watching a loved one struggling with the side effects of myriad meds to prolong his life—well, more to ensure his quality of life until he leaves this plane. But what quality was there, anyway? How do we define ‘quality’? And, in fact, why life at all?

Sure, we have each other (only because we refuse to give ourselves up to the grim reaper), sunsets are gorgeous, the wind whips merrily, thunderstorms are grand and the four-legged creatures are a delight. But so the fuck what?

A trip down crazy street

Our trip down crazy street began in March this year with these words: Stage 4 renal carcinoma that has metastasized to his lungs and brain—terminal.

“Do you understand what that means?”

Duh. Which part? The part that is about his brain being messed up, or the terminal bit? Yes, we understood, very well.

The fact that he had hours, maybe days to live was also impressed on us—well, me, as he had no idea what was going on.

“Would you like us to get hold of a priest or any other religious creature?”

Hell, no.

Did we accept this with equanimity? Sort of. I went home and sobbed my heart out for a while. The furry creatures were confused at this dyed-in-the-wool stoic having a meltdown of monumental proportions.

Then it was time to make plans. All those things we had said we needed to do but hadn’t: wills, powers of attorney, living will … the little things that will never happen or will maybe happen eventually. Well, here they were now. However, there was a small problem with all these things—he couldn’t write anymore, let alone understand anything, so where to from here?

We were inundated with oncologists and radiologists and therapists, a social worker, a palliative doctor, a nutritionist (Nutritionist? He’s Dying, what on Earth does he want with a nutritionist? You gotta be kidding me!)

One very tall Asian oncologist made the most sense: We need to get him out of here, away from all the bacteria and germs in hospital. Whatever treatment is done can be done from home. And she stuck him on steroids. The improvement was almost immediate and wonderful. He practiced writing and doing his signature (it was an absolute mess in the beginning, but improved).

I found powers of attorney, final wills and living wills online and we filled them in and signed them, had them witnessed and then did the delivery to the various institutions bit. Mine together with his. Why? If this could happen to a man who had been healthy his whole life with no symptoms until a month before, who says it couldn’t happen to me? We got the family involved, too, for one very important reason—MAID (medical assistance in dying).

Dying with dignity in Canada

We have both, for many years, been staunch supporters of Dying with Dignity. There are those who buy lottery tickets, but I donate to Dying with Dignity as there is one sure thing, and that is that we are going to die. How we do so is up to us. At least it should be.

We had no say in being born (counter to all the reincarnated humans who believe we choose our parents before birth). Our lives, until we were old enough to take control, were in the hands of whichever authoritarian was in power on the day, and now? Now it is time to die—or very soon, anyway, if the medical officials are to be believed—so what to do?

And this is where we are so thankful for Canada and its legislation. Yes, we can have medical assistance in dying. How? It isn’t just something simple. We were taken through the whole process, and it is quite copious.

You must have a medical problem that has a prognosis of imminent death. Terminal cancer will do. Then there are forms to fill in, interviews with two separate doctors, approvals, and government pre-approval that will only be given if you have a medical condition with a zero-survival prognosis. At any point—right up to seconds before the medication that will end your life is given to you—you can change your mind. Nothing is set in stone. This was constantly drummed into us—you have the choice, only you.

Something else that is drummed into you is that you must be of sound mind to sign the documents. Many people leave this until it is too late. We watched the man in the bed next door die an agonizing death because he had waited too long. We listened to the doctors who came to consult with him and I was livid. Their stupid murmuring platitudes and apologies while this man was begging to be taken off this planet, away from his pain and misery.

MAID forms signed and distributed, living wills, DNR signed and stowed somewhere safely, and now. Now, let’s try and get on with living. The oncologists have been astounding, as have the nurses, the radiologists and the pharmacies. You name it, we’ve got them. And all forms of modern tech are being applied with astounding effects.

The CyberKnife was used on the brain metastases, and it was successful. The tumours have almost disappeared or are greatly diminished. Side effect? Well, some of the surrounding tissue did get zapped, too, and with this being the brain, there is some fallout. Again, with it being the brain, it has tremendous plasticity and can create new pathways. We just need to discover which pathways have been muddied over—a daily adventure. He is on immunotherapy—pills and IV—with its subsequent side effects, some of which are horrendous. He is doing well.

Defining wellness

How do I even begin to define ‘well’? I look back to the Ides of March and compare. He was ‘out of it,’ dying, family called to say goodbye. Now he is alive and doing things. Nothing quite like before.

He is not allowed to drive, so I do all the steering and no backseat driving is allowed! He enjoys the sunsets and listens to the birds, although he has forgotten many of the species. This is the guy who could name them all: birds, trees, flowers, creatures. His hands sometimes shake too much to hold a pen, but that is improving. We do jigsaws, crosswords and colouring, and he is getting his strength back.

Much has been lost, but it is still attainable—if we think it’s important, that is. Oh, except cars. He can still name any car model that he sees. My birthday? Phhht! What’s my middle name? Ummm. Some ancient jalopy makes its appearance? “That’s a ….. made by …. there were only …. made …. bla bla bla.”

So much that meant a lot now means nothing. Every day is … a gift? And this is where I don’t know. I live every day with death. I listen to every breath, watch each mouthful, every change in temperature, every feeling, every action. I am overprotective; I sometimes become a screaming harridan and don’t like myself. I nag, cajole, cuddle, clean, worry, shed some tears, and wait and watch.

What for? I don’t know. What I do know is we have gone from “hours, maybe days” to “let’s see what the next two years tell us.”

Death without suffering

While this all sounds wonderful—and it is—it is also a living nightmare. Living in the shadow of this sword of Damocles was not something we could ever have predicted. Yes, we are all going to die. This we know. It’s one absolute in life, but we toddle down our daily paths, obliviously smelling the roses and picking the fruit, because that death thing is somewhere in the future. Until it isn’t.

And, I have no problem with dying. My problem is in allowing suffering—of any kind, for any living creature. We keep animals alive long after they would have naturally died in the wild, and we do the same with humans. Why? They are suffering terribly. Why do we keep them in this state? It isn’t for them; it is for us because we don’t want to let them go. How selfish we are. And that is something I have had to come to terms with every day, every minute since March.

I don’t want him to die, but he is going to. When? I don’t know. But one thing is for sure, he is not going to suffer. When things get too much for him and he wants to go, I will be there to hold his hand and he will die with the same dignity with which he has lived all his life.

For now? I have become more philosophical. I spend numerous hours twiddling my thought-thumbs. I do not hope, I am loath to hope as hope has this wonderful way of slapping you in the teeth with a wet sock. We talk, pretend things are ‘normal’ because, in a way, they are—just a different ‘normal.’

Those things we had planned? Forget them. Little footsteps, little outings, making little things mean a lot, and also remembering not to let ‘the little things’ cloud our days.

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images: Depositphotos

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