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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
“You’re approved for MAID,” the doctor said.
It was mid March and I was both jubilant and relieved. At last I had an exit strategy from the chronic pain and faltering mobility of spinal stenosis that have haunted my last 12 years.
But today, six months later, I look back with doubt and terror at the formidable task I’ve taken on. Am I sad or glad?
“When” seems to be paramount. Family and friends want to know the date. I have no date, but I hate winter so much I think it must be before snow flies.
How will it happen? Where will happen? Who will be there?
As I begin to answer these questions I see the bottle of good French Champagne in the fridge that should be involved, because as the weeks roll by I start to see my death as a celebration of my life. I accomplished a lot, brought up four children and launched them into successful adulthood.
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I lost my son David when he was only 52, the same age his father was when he died. But his children are already heading out for adventure. I pulled myself and the kids out of the very confused and painful death of their father.
I travelled to get a taste of how other people live. I made and designed my own clothes for years and turned my skill with a needle and thread into a 20-year period as a successful fibre and textile artist. I took up acrylics when arthritis hit my sewing hand.
I had a successful career in advertising, back when it was fun to work in advertising.
I had my own weekly column in The Globe and Mail in the 1970s where I wrote about life with little kids and other things that mattered to me for four years.
What’s to be sad about?
Why should I be glum? I hired a death doula who insists that I put my latest paintings on show and she signs me up for a studio tour in October. Can I wait till October? I get 12 pieces ready to hang and print up labels which I give to her for safekeeping. Just in case…
I begin to plan the day. What will we eat – the three children and me? Why not a favourite lunch of cheeses, salad and a warm baguette? Red wine of course, but how do I introduce the champagne without going to my maker sloshed? Does it matter if I’m sloshed? (Note to self, ask doctor if it matters.) What will I wear?
Throughout the last six months I have visited the lawyer, the financial advisors and the accountant with my eldest who is my executor. There’s a book of notes. Where is the second key for the safety deposit box? Found! I’ve been to the bank to empty it of unnecessary papers and stuff. A few bits of jewellery remain. Three $5 bills I saved when the new design came out with red ensign instead of the maple leaf design on the flag. Thought it might be worth more than $5. It’s not.
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When does the car need its next servicing? Who should she notify? Who gets my grandmother’s sculpture of Buddha, the big mirror, the 12-foot hooked rug of a street scene in St. John’s, the leather rocker we bought in Camden Market in London, the red lady’s chair, the Oriental carpets?
I’ve written my obit – well, of course – I made my living as a writer.
I’ve been to the funeral home and prepaid expenses – not for a funeral. I want a celebration with balloons and sparklers. If I had the guts I’d have it now while I can be there, but the thought of friends saying goodbye horrifies me. And too many of my closest friends are already dead.
I just sent big cheques to each child and David’s widow. What fun when they called blown away by the possibilities suddenly open to them. One will open her own investment account, one will see retirement as a distinct possibility, one will, I hope, pay off debts and open a tax-free savings account and one will have the money to send her boys to the universities of their choice.
The next thing I must do is call the doctor and set a date. My feet go cold. Can I actually do this? Everyone says to me, “You can always change your mind.” That remark somehow diminishes all I’ve done and makes a flighty thing of my decision.
Am I concerned about who I will meet when I die? No! If I do I hope my legs will work and my back will stop hurting. And wherever I end up there will be no Depends.
If I’m offered a chance to come back and see what’s happened will I take it? No! I don’t want to see what our southern neighbours’ leadership does to the world. My head may be heading for the sand, but I’ll soon have taken it out and be sitting on cloud nine killing a bottle of Champagne.
Robin Laws-Field lives in Kingston.
