Just planning ahead. Please register for my celebration of life party. It may not happen for a couple of years yet, but let’s all be ready.
I really hope to see you then and there. It’s going to be one hell of a party. As people register, I’ll start developing the program and lining up the performances. At the moment I’m planning on about three days of party, to allow friends from time zones in China and Australia a chance to drop in to say hello….uh…goodbye.
Monday last week my mystery ailment knocked me flat and sent me to emergency for a whole battery of tests, everything but a test for Covid. Tuesday I woke up feeling infinitely better. Wednesday I felt almost back to normal. And then yesterday, Friday, it came roaring back. Not as bad as it was on Monday, but bad enough. It hurts to take a deep breath. I struggle to walk up stairs and must pause to catch my breath at the top. I’m beginning to think this might actually be Covid 19, taking the piss because I had no fever and no cough. Whatever, it’s a bummer again. I’m shortly going back to bed, or as shortly as my 6’2 frame will allow.
My recent Facebook posts have garnered a whole shit ton of supportive and loving comments. Here’s one from Moira, another one of my amazing friends, an incredible artist who does a sketch every single day. You should check her out here: http://www.moiracarlson.com
Dear Zale,
I have been following your comments on Facebook about your plans for your death (and celebration thereof). I feel like I am ducking and avoiding by saying nothing but that presumes that I have something to say. Preferably something terribly wise or at least cogent. Sorry about that.
Death is a damn tricky concept. Our culture doesn’t deal with it well. Neither do I. I can give you platitudes about how you are loved and have people around you who care deeply about you and how that is the luckiest thing in this world. But it sounds like a platitude. It is a platitude.
Platitude: “A trite, meaningless, or prosaic statement, often used as a thought-terminating cliche, aimed at quelling social, emotional, or cognitive unease.” -from Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge. Oh yes, lots of cognitive unease.
So it is a platitude. But it is also true. And you are so very lucky that it is true. The older I get, the more I realize that what is really important is love. The damn Beatles were right.
One of the things you said on Facebook was that you were “not spiritual”. I have to disagree but perhaps it is really a matter of definition. I don’t think of “spiritual” as the same thing as believing in a god (certainly not the old gent in the white robes). I think of “spiritual” as having life force, having spirit, being attuned to the beauty and liveliness of this world. So in those terms, yes, you are spiritual.
I remember sitting and holding my father’s hand as he died. The moment it happened was so utterly clear to me. It was digital. One minute he was there and the next minute he wasn’t. The difference was spirit. At that moment his body became like a beloved old set of clothes, now too worn and perhaps fitting too tightly so that it needed to be discarded. I have no idea if, at that point, he was off on his next adventure or if that really was the end. Again, the older I get the more mysterious and unknowable the world becomes. Thank goodness.
I have nothing intelligent to say about how you choose to celebrate your passing. As far as I can see it is entirely your own business. So the whole point of this letter is just to say that I do care and that I am listening and that I value our friendship. Thank you for being you. In my very selfish way I have appreciated having you in my life and I will remember you when you are gone.
love,
Moira
And my long winded reply:
Dear Moira:
Thank you for this thoughtful and empathetic message. By now I’m probably repeating myself with the things I have said about death and dying. I have given it so much thought since my most recent diagnosis, talked about it, blogged about it, repeated the same clever and flippant phrases, and allowed it to consume far too much of my consciousness. So if you have read my words on this somewhere before, my apologies.
I used to agree with Woody Allen who said (paraphrased or misquoted probably): I don’t mind dying. I just don’t want to be here when it happens.
I used to think that I wanted to be walking in the park without my tinfoil hat and garbage can lid when a meteor hits me on the back of the head and I’m just instantly gone. My own fault in that I didn’t take sensible precautions and didn’t see it coming. I used to think it would be nice to go to sleep some night feeling relaxed and happy with everything and just forget to breathe or forget to tell my heart to beat and just not wake up.
I have two examples of what I considered good deaths: A man I once knew, an actual rocket scientist working on the Space Shuttle, finished his breakfast, walked over to the picture window, spread his arms wide and said “What a beautiful day.” Then he fell over backwards and was dead before he hit the floor. What a way to go.
My Uncle David in England, a long retired headmaster of a boys school with a hobby of photographing flowers, former intelligence officer with MI5, avowed communist and, I’m convinced, a counter spy responsible for the fall of the Soviet Union, rode his big Honda motorcycle home for tea at the age of ninety two. He sat down at the table, quite content with his world and his life, took a sip of his tea, and died. Well played, Uncle David.
That is the way I used to think I wanted to die. Let death take me while I was enjoying life, big surprise, except of course I wouldn’t be there to be surprised. I have changed my mind about that. This past year has been one of the most interesting and exciting and terrifying and heartwarming times of my life. I clearly see death coming, and I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. It started with what Ruth calls “Our crying tour.” during which we visited my closest friends to give them the news. My friends are the most talented and accomplished people I could ever hope to meet. Their universal reaction was almost enough to quiet that persistent voice in my head that tells me I’m a useless skin bag of crap and nobody could ever love me.
Take our visit to Rod Szasz and his Chinese wife, Chao as an example. As a couple, they deserve a whole biography to describe how amazing they are. On giving them the news, Rod rushed out of the room and came back with a very expensive bottle of scotch, poured us drinks, and told me to take the bottle home with me. (I declined, and told him I’d be back to drink it with him.) His daughter, Akela, is currently studying medicine in Scotland and Rod was planning a visit. “I’m taking you to Scotland,” he announced. I protested that I couldn’t put him to that expense. But then their other daughter, Kipling, came into the kitchen where we were talking, took one look at everybody’s expression and demanded to know what was going on.
Kipling and I have been fiddle buddies for years. That has fallen off recently because she prefers reading music and studying classical violin and doesn’t care that much for fiddle music. She’s a very reserved young woman, not much given to expressing emotions, and I’ve never been sure she does more than tolerate me. But when I gave her the news she broke down. She came and hugged me, sobbing. After she calmed down, we got out our fiddles and played a couple of pieces we both know. I realized that there is nobody I’d rather pass my violin along to than her. It’s a high end instrument and surely worth a trip to Scotland. So I told Rod I’d accept his offer. The next day, Kipling ran in the Cancer run wearing a card that said “I’m running for Zale.”
Rod and Kipling and Ruth and I all went off to Scotland to visit and travel with Akela during her Christmas break. Kipling and I played “Over the Sea to Skye” on the Island of Sky. We played “Calum’s Road” on Calum’s Road. We played “Hut on Staffin Island” in Staffin. We played “Neil Gow’s Lament for the Death of his Second Wife” in Dorin Castle. We played “Flowers of Edinburgh” in an Edinburgh cemetery. It was truly a trip of a lifetime and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
I was a little embarrassed when the oncologist told me to chill out. He said that my death is unlikely to happen all that soon, and I would probably live to die of something else. So far he’s been correct, though I don’t trust his optimism. The thing about this damned disease is that it turns me into a hypochondriac. Every little ache and pain of old age is a sign of the impending end. This past Monday was the most extreme example. I have no idea what hit me, but it hit me hard. I really felt like my time was coming soon, and I’d better get ready for it. So I pushed though with finalizing my application for Medical Assistance in Dying, MAID, and got serious about plans for my exit event. After all the tests in ER, the ECG, the x ray, the blood work, the ultrasound, the CAT scan, the doctors were unable to find any cause for my pain, but I have no doubt that the pain was real. It wasn’t a panic attack, or psychosomatic. Whatever it was, I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling infinitely better, and now I feel a weak and shaky normal. Go figure. Anyway, it motivated me to work out some details with Ruth, to give her passwords and usernames and other information I will be unable to supply after I’m gone. MAID is in place and ready to be activated, so no waiting period will be required. Today we’ll go to the bank and make sure Ruth has her name on all accounts.
I have seen examples of the kinds of death I don’t want to have. My mother lingered for weeks in and out of delirium, hand fed, hand cleaned, uncomfortable no matter what medical marvels the drugs provided. Horrible to watch, and totally pointless. Years ago I traveled from Toronto to New York to visit an actor I had worked with in hospice. Again, I couldn’t see the point to his suffering. Truly horrible.
As for looking to professional help: I just read an article about a football player who tried to blow his brains out by putting a nine millimeter pistol to his temple and pulling the trigger. I could make jokes about an athlete not having or needing brains, but he perforated his head with only the loss of one eye. Years ago I talked to a paramedic who arrived on the scene seconds after a man had put a double barreled shotgun under his chin and pulled both triggers. Ten days later he walked out of the hospital, minus his lower jaw and nose. How cruel was that. So I’m grateful for MAID. When I decide to go, it will be good to have predictable and experienced medical help. Failing to kill myself would be so embarrassing, eh.
Also, if there’s going to be a celebration of life, our new, emotionally defanged, term for memorial service or wake, I want to be there. It’ll be fun. I hope you and Barry will attend.
Thanks again for your message, Moira. Love and hugs to both of you.
Zale
One last thing worth mentioning. Another friend who prefers to remain anonymous sent me an unsolicited $2000 saying it was to “grease the wheels”. I can’t pretend I don’t have good uses for the money, much as I hate to accept it. That’s going to buy us the wide screen TV for my celebration of life rather than us having to rent one. Wheel greased.
Ah, my wonderful, amazing, talented and beautiful friends. I am overwhelmed with love and gratitude for all of you.
Now, if you are reading these posts, isn’t it time you gave me a comment. Anything. Just anything that will let me know I’m not screaming into the void. That would be so appreciated. Criticize my writing. You know you want to.
UPDATE: I’ve just learned that leaving a comment is not as intuitive as I thought. To leave a comment you have to go to the bottom of the post and click on reply. It will ask you for your name and email, but promise not to publish your email. Also, if you want to use a fake name and fake email, it will still accept it. The thing is, your comment won’t show up until I approve it. Once I have approved it, all subsequent comments made with the same name and email address will show up without moderation. Thanks to John Gooding for helping me figure this out.
MAID is one of those super easy to remember acronyms. It stands for Medical Assistance in Dying. When I first heard about it I was incensed at the bureaucratic roadblocks in place before I could have access to this service. Specifically I was pissed at the idea that I would have to give ten days advanced notice before a doctor could be summoned to put me in park and turn off my ignition. It’s not that I’m against planning. But the thought of setting a date ten days in the future and having to wait through the ten days did not appeal to me. I’m an impulsive person. I want to make up my mind when it’s time to leave the party and just go.
And of course I’m perfectly capable of going out sideways (as my dear father was fond of calling it) without anybody’s help. A tank of nitrogen from the welding supply place and a plastic bag would do the trick nicely. But that still left the possibility of failure. Nothing would embarrass me more than failing to kill myself.
I once talked to a paramedic who arrived on the scene mere seconds after a man put both barrels of a double barrel shotgun under his chin and pulled both triggers. Ten days later he walked out of the hospital, minus his face. They saved his life. The shotgun pellets were deflected by the shape of his skull during the process of sweeping off his jaw, lips, and nose. Now, to me that sounds like a very serious suicide attempt, and the cruelty of saving his life is truly monstrous.
I read about a man who shot himself in the head with a pistol, and then walked around for a while, visiting a variety of locations, thoroughly confusing the police investigators, before succumbing to his injury. That also sounds like a serious attempt, followed by a whole lot of no fun.
So medical assistance is a very attractive option, if they will just cut the red tape and let me do things my own way. And now it turned out they will.
When I mentioned my concerns to my wonderful palliative care team, they told me that the ten day waiting period begins with putting in an application. Once that happens, and ten days elapses, a request for help finding the exit can be made at any time, and can proceed immediately. Well, that’s more like it. I made an appointment with our family doctor to get the process started.
I was told that a face to face appointment was required, and that took well over a month to achieve in these times of Covid19. I went in expecting my doctor to print out some forms and ask me some questions and then the clock would start on the ten days. But when I arrived at my doctor’s office, it turned out that the system had been adjusted and he wasn’t hip to the changes. There are now only two doctors in Nanaimo who do assessment. I was given the name of one of them, Dr. F______, and a phone number. I called. She asked me to go online to download the application form, fill it in, get it signed by two witnesses and myself all at the same time, and get it back to her. That happened in a day. Two of our best friends signed the form for me, I scanned it, and emailed it off. The next day Dr. F________ called to set up a time for a video interview. That happened last night. Now the form she has filled out goes to another doctor who will also get in touch with me to set up a video interview. But the ten days clock is now ticking.
I really enjoyed my conversation with Dr. F_________. It turned out the main point of the interview was to determine whether I qualified for MAID, i.e. do I have a terminal illness and do I not have a mental disorder and do I seem to be making rational decisions. As near as I can tell I passed this qualifying lap with flying colours. I told Dr. F_______ that I really appreciate her willingness to do this kind of service, and that I feel a distinct affinity for her as a person. I told her that if hers is the last face I’m ever going to see, I’m okay with that. She smiled, and seemed to take that as a compliment. I asked her if she would be willing to arrive dressed as death and carrying a scythe. She seemed to think that could be possible. She has attended some wild end of life parties at funeral homes in the past. I have the scythe hanging on my shed wall in the back yard. I might make a cardboard blade for it, just to make sure nobody get hurt.
Years ago when Doctor Kevorkian was trying to goad the government into charging him with murder so he could present the case for medical assistance in dying, I watched him terminate the live of a man with ALS. That was a disturbing video. It was all so quick and clinical. The man was asked whether he wanted to die, replied that he did, and Kevorkian injected him with drugs that would accomplish that result. There was no emotion on display by anybody. It wasn’t an attractive ad for medical assistance in dying, but it did get Kevorkian arrested, tried for murder, and jailed. So it served it’s purpose.
Now Canada has made medical assistance in dying legal, if certain rules are followed. The catch is that I will have to be able to give conscious and enthusiastic consent right up to the last minute. I can’t be unconscious, or unable to communicate. I won’t be able to write out instructions for my wife in the event that I have a stroke, or lose the ability to speak. This means I will have to set a date and be ready to go when that date arrives. I’m getting used to that idea.
Co-incidentally, my son Casey phone me the night of the call from Dr. F______. Casey is a paramedic. He has seen what happens if people miss the opportunity to die when they want to, and he doesn’t want to see it happen to his father. So he is totally on board with the MAID program. We talked about my interest in having a green burial, and Casey suggested that I could be buried in a green way on his beautiful property up in Salmo. He also said he would be honoured to be a witness to my death. That all prompted the following letter:
Subject: my current thinking about my inevitable demise.
Dear Casey:
Thanks for that phone call last night, and for your invitation to have a green burial on your property. I had my first interview with Dr. Marcia F______, one of the two doctors in Nanaimo who are doing assessments and taking registrations for the MAID program. That brought up a whole bunch of issues and things for me to think about, so now it’s four in the morning, I can’t sleep, and I wanted to write a some of this stuff down.
First I want to say that you can’t say fuck off to the authorities and just bury me on your property. They would make you disinter me and replant me in a certified cemetery and, even with a long and expensive court battle, they would succeed in making that happen. I love the idea of you establishing a family plot on your property. Rather than taking up your time, I’ll do the research and find out what it will take to get you certified as a small cemetery.
My thoughts on my death have evolved a lot since my diagnosis. I used to think that I didn’t want to see death coming, that I wanted to be walking in the park without my tinfoil hat and garbage can lid and get hit by a meteor and instantly gone. But as I get into the conversations with you and with friends, I realize that I wouldn’t miss this time and experience for anything. Already I’ve had the magical trip to Scotland with Rod and Ruth and Rod’s daughter, Kipling. Who knows what other delights await me. Ruth wants us to plan our endings, and I’m all for that.
I also used to think that I didn’t want to make any kind of a fuss. I thought I wanted to make a “French exit” from the party, one where you slip quietly away without anybody noticing that you are leaving until they realize that you are gone. I’m now changing my mind on that too, and now thinking that saying goodbye to everybody could be a nice thing to do. So here’s the sequence of events as I fantasize it happening:
When I feel that the time is right, I want to set a date for a celebration of my life party. I’d like it to happen here in Nanaimo, with invitations sent to everybody I have ever known, possibly in the Wellington Hall a block from our house if it looks like there will be more people coming than would fit comfortably in our house and yard. I would like a banner in evidence someplace stating: “This is not about you.” I’d like it to be a wild and joyful party, with plenty of booze and smokables and food, though I’d like to discourage people from actually getting drunk or stoned. Just enough to lower inhibitions and set a party mood. (I may change my mind about this and make it a dry party. The last thing I want to have to deal with is a bunch of emotional drunks.) I’d like mostly live music and an open mic for people to take a turn saying whatever they want to say to me, good or bad. I’d like to MC the event myself. I’d like the party to start early, say about four in the afternoon, and go until eleven in the evening.
At some point, probably around eight o’clock, Dr. F________ will arrive. She thinks she’d be okay with coming in costume dressed as Death and carrying her medical equipment and a scythe (which I can provide). I’d like her to be welcomed warmly by everybody there, and given maybe half an hour or so to meet people and enjoy the party. Then she and I, along with Ruth and you and a select group of family and friends, will slip away and go to our home. There I would like time to have a shower and a shave and lie down on our bed with everybody gathered around me as Dr. F_______ puts the IV’s into my arms. I think she said that the process takes about ten minutes and is much like going under anesthetics for an operation. That being the case, I’d like to relax and listen to Philip Dyson play Scott Joplin’s “Solace” as I slip from consciousness. At the moment I think I’d like to have all of this video taped, but that may change after discussions with Ruth and others. Maybe it would be better to keep it private and intimate.
Once I’m dead, I would like my body to be transported to Salmo to your property for a green burial. I’m going to investigate the permissions required for this to happen. And from this point everything is out of my hands and control. So whatever happens will be up to you, Ruth, Laara, and possibly other relatives who want to be involved.
You need to make sure that your family is okay with all of this. That’s a lot for your kids to deal with, and from Kiri’s reaction to the mere mention of palliative care I’d guess there will be some emotions to process.
So that’s it for tonight. Once again I want to make it clear that I’m hoping for at least one more hunting season with my friend Rod, and as many going into the future as my health allows. So this is all long range planning.
Any questions?
Much love
Dad
Since writing this letter I have investigated getting permission for a green burial on Casey’s property. It turns out to be something that I can’t do, and he doesn’t have time to do. So that part of the plan is up int he air. I also realized that by the time I’m ready for a visit from Dr. F________, I will probably be too sick to MC a party, and probably too sick to want to experience a party. So who knows how much of this fantasy will come to pass in the end. But it is an interesting fantasy, eh.
I’m sure there will be more to say about all of this later. If you have any feelings or opinions about what I have written, in this or any other post, please take a few minutes and add a comment. I get the feeling I’m screaming into the void here, but I do know that some people stumble on my blog and read it. It this is you, please leave a comment.
All comments gratefully received.
I’m still dealing with the fact that I am terminal. This condition comes with all kinds of thoughts and considerations, but mostly questions. I can tell that I’m in decline. That’s obvious. But how long do I have? And how will I know when my time is really running out? Exactly how terminal am I? After all, we are all terminal, eh.
The doctors are unbearably optimistic. It feels like they are in denial, or like they don’t want me to get upset and do something premature, like offing myself. But it seems obvious to me that a time will come when I will want to head for the exit door. When the party is over, I will to want to leave quietly, skipping the indignities and pain of a long and lingering circling of the drain.
I chose this image for circling the drain from a Google image search. Most of the images available showed the screen of the drain blocking larger chunks from going down. But this one conveys the real horror of the expression: There’s nothing to catch me when the inevitable happens and I’m sucked down into that black hole of oblivion.
I was quite annoyed when I read that, according to the rules of MAID (Medical Assistance in Dying), ten days notice is required before I could have a doctor’s help in doing myself in. You mean, I would have to pick a date ten days in advance of a visit from Dr. Kevorkian? Then I would have to lie around waiting for his arrival? This would be hard to take. I don’t want some bureaucrats dictating how and when I exit this planet. I just want them to get the fuck out of my way. So please, just give me the pills or the syringe and walk away.
And then, once the ten day cooling off period had passed, I would be required to sign my name to a consent form? What if I can’t do that? What if, during the ten days, I have slipped into an intermittent coma? What if I become a brain locked in an unresponsive body, unable to speak or move or hold a pen?
Yesterday I learned that my understanding was flawed. I was discussing my situation with the palliative care treatment doctor, Doctor Katherine King, a kindly maternal woman who checks in on me once a month and never gives me any argument about renewing my opioid prescription. I was explaining that my fear is of being blind sided by a sudden loss of capacity or cognitive ability which would prevent me from giving consent. I know that my situation can change overnight. A stroke. A fall. A further loss of function. And suddenly it’s obvious that my life is not worth living. At that point I want to just go. I don’t want to have to make an application and wait ten days, hoping that when the ten days are up I will still be able to give consent.
Dr. King, or maybe it was the angel who was on the conference call, Angela J. Lorenz RN BSN CHPCN(C)Palliative Care Coordinator, Island Health ((Angela, Such an appropriate name.) informed me that this isn’t the way it works. The ten days notice is from the point when I make an application to be on the program. Ten days after that there is no waiting period. I will be able to just call the doctor and exit, assuming the doctor will make a house call.
So it’s more like buying a gun with the intention of shooting myself and having to go through a waiting period before I can take possession. Once the waiting period is over and I have the gun, I can put it to my head and pull the trigger whenever I’m ready.
That’s a comfort. Now if I can just talk them into giving me the medication and leaving it with me, to use when and if… But this isn’t going to happen.
Of course, what I really want is to give my sister or my wife written instructions to send me off as soon as I’m unable to communicate. Then I could stop worrying about losing control. But this is not allowed under the present rules.
Hopefully this will change as the public becomes more accepting of our right to terminate and the damned Catholics stop raising objections. For now, ability to confirm consent is required up to the point just before the medication is given that will put this amazing body into park and turn off the ignition.
It’s another beautiful Fall day. The squirrel is back at the bird feeder that I hung on the clothes line. For now there’s still a lot to enjoy about being alive. I’m just making contingency plans, eh.