Rights of Passage

A story by Bev's daughter-in-law

Bev was a fervent supporter of the right to end your own life peacefully and was proud to live in the first state to legalize physician-assisted suicide. The last check she wrote, the day before she died, was to Oregon’s Death with Dignity Foundation. “When the time comes,” she said, “There’s no sense in dragging it out.”

But the truth was, she never stopped fighting for life. It was like the terminal diagnosis propelled her into high gear. That first year, she scheduled her chemo around a surge of travels. Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, Hawaii, and the Caribbean. By the second year, she only bothered with the wig on special occasions, and if she got too hot singing in the church choir, she’d whip it off and use it as a fan. When she became too weak to walk, she bought a three-wheeled scooter over the Internet and used it and the bus system to get around town. During the third year, Kate and I brought her meals daily, but she still managed to swim laps at the pool three times a week. She used Ride Source to get to doctor’s appointments, lunch dates with friends, to church and the opera. The shaky voice on her answering machine said, “I’m out doing fun things…”

Long after the writing on the wall was clear to the rest of us, she jousted death with quixotic effort. Pressed on with one chemo cocktail after another until finally the doctor said, “There’s nothing more I can do.”

Begrudgingly, Bev let Hospice set up a hospital bed in her living room. That would have been a good time, I suppose, to fill out the Right to Die forms, but she held onto hope. She could still take Ride Source to the opera and go swimming with an aide. It was never too late for a miracle.

It wasn’t until her last doctor’s visit that she finally accepted her fate. Bev lay shivering under a warmed blanket, powder-white skin draped like silk from her bones. Her face had adopted unfamiliar features: a sharp, ridged nose that looked nothing like her own, her hallmark apple cheeks now eclipsed hollows. It scared me to see her like that, such a change just from yesterday. Kate gulped back tears and touched her mother’s shoulder. Bev gave a weak smile in return, eyes that glinted with a sad secret.

The doctor rubbed Bev’s leg through the blanket. “We’re down to the last week. Maybe two.” For a minute, Bev looked like she might argue; then tears dripped down the sides of her bald head. Only then did she give in. She gave Kate’s hand a pat, reached for mine, and nodded. Okay, then. And she went home to die.

It was too late now for assisted suicide. The forms take three weeks to process. But if she regretted not having made arrangements earlier, she didn’t say so. She set about dying with the same no-nonsense determination she’d applied to living. She called her closest friends, paid her final bills, and made sure the cats would have good homes. Forty-eight hours later, she was gone.

That last day was not easy. Kate, Marc and I were alone with her. Her breathing gargled with the fluid slowly filling her lungs. I leaned in close. “Are you scared?” I whispered. She opened her eyes in a quick startle, then closed them again with a smile, rolling her head no. Her hand lifted off the bed, wavering in the air until I met it with my own.

The Hospice nurse had left ample morphine, with strict instructions on how often to use it. It was enough, I suppose, to ease her over. None of us spoke of it, but if Bev gave any indication that she wanted me to, I think I would have helped her on.

Thankfully, she soon fell into a deep sleep that I hoped lifted her from her body’s struggle. Kate cried. I both prayed for and dreaded the end, wanting her free from this, us free from this, and still wanting her here. I’d already forgiven myself for the flurries of impatient thoughts and wishes, petty gripes cullied over these years of giving care, but they flew back at me now, slapped me with an overpowering ache. I knew then just how much I was going to miss her.

I felt so helpless, able only to sit and watch. If she’d filled out the papers like she’d talked about, she could have done this on her own terms, with her own timing. We could have spared her this. But honestly, as much as she valued her right to choose, I’m not sure she would have asked, in the end, to hasten things. She was a tough bird, courageous as they come. And proud, I imagine, to be making this journey without help. I’m fine. I could almost hear her. I can do it.

As it turned out, the timing was her own after all. She hung on until her grandsons arrived, as I had promised they would. “The boys are here now,” I said. Red-eyed, we circled the bed. “We’re all here. You can go.” One last, deep breath, and she was still.

Jennifer Meyer