Jan 28, 2026
One of the real privileges of the work we do is that, from time to time, someone reaches out to share a deeply personal story—often about why having the option of medical assistance in dying (MAiD) mattered to them or to someone they love. These stories are never offered lightly, and they are always received with care.
Today, we have the honour of sharing one of those stories.
This is an account of lived experience with MAiD, shared with openness and trust. Being entrusted with such a personal and difficult story is something we do not take for granted. We are grateful to this reader for asking us to share their experience with our audience. They wish to remain anonymous.
From the author:
* I wrote this piece as a tribute to my partner, to the courage and integrity he showed by taking control of how he would end his life, with dignity and generosity. I and so many others are grateful for the choice he had and for the advocacy of those working to ensure that option remains available for those who wish it. I am also grateful for the supports available before, during and after the often difficult MAID journey.
Last Chapter
My partner and I have shared our lives for sixty-one years. We’ve shared joy, sadness, jealousy, ecstasy; pride at accomplishments, disappointment at missteps, both as individuals and as partners. All of that and more. I can no longer slide my wedding ring over arthritic fingers but I take the vow it represents seriously, the pledge we made at our beginning, in sickness and in health. When he was still able to be cared for at home, I’d taken to sleeping on the couch. When he’d wake hallucinating from the drugs, he’d struggle to sit up, not knowing his whereabouts. I’d sit beside him on the hospital bed we’d rented till the terror settled. On one of our last nights together, we’d cried, the knowing cupped between our clasped hands, holding tight to our mutual, wordless sorrow. Home was soon going to look different for both of us. He would be giving up the precious little independence left him. I would have to relinquish him to the care of strangers.
His reality, his home, is now a generic room in a Long-Term Care Facility. Old Folks Home, Rest Home seemed kinder designations. The wards are now called neighbourhoods. The changes are superficial, don’t go deep enough. Draperies, walls are nondescript beige. The door is wheelchair-wide. Big screen TV perches on top of a bureau, chirps most of the day. Corner closet holds remnants of his former wardrobe, convenience replaces preference, style. Window opens a fraction to let outside in, brushes up against shrubbery. A skinny table holds phone, I-pad, pen, notebook, tissues. The bed dominates. A tall pole attaches to floor and ceiling to assist with transfers. An easy chair angles to catch the light. A splash of colour, a poster, highlights a cherished memory in rich reds, gold – represents accomplishment, serves as tangible proof that he is indeed the same man who took part in the wondrous event it commemorates.
For the most part, we’re thankful that he is tended by dedicated professionals who perform difficult, thankless work. Residents, staff, caregivers, we all share a deep sadness at what must suffice as home for the vastly diminished versions of men and women who live out their final weeks, years here. It’s a far cry from those facilities that tout an idyllic end-of-life, promise an elegant, gated lifestyle — all-inclusive gourmet meals, stimulating activities, the well-deserved finale one is entitled to, saved for. This one comes with locked doors, one-size-fits-all regimens, run-of-the-mill meals. Corridors reek of soiled bedding, personal garments are gathered pell-mell, fed into industrial disinfecting machines where the hottest of waters, the harshest of cleansers cannot eliminate the sad reality of incapacity. Favourite shirts get assigned willy-nilly, labels, names get detached, everything mismatched. I try not to avert my eyes from the faces that have become familiars, the bewilderment behind the emotionless façades, the postures of silent acceptance, the restless wanderers who stand patiently at wrought-iron gates, waiting for a chance to escape.
My partner wakes every morning to shrinkage, subtraction of what used to be an active, fulfilled existence. My efforts are reduced to a continuous vigil to uphold the decency of another. It’s not about self-sacrifice, servitude. It’s about fealty, an old-fashioned word which implies fidelity to something, to someone, but as a loving choice rather than an obligation.
… If I had my druthers, I’d steal him from this place and throw out all his pills and I’d drive him into the bush and live with him there and love him back to health. I’d sensed the anguish inked into those lines from David Bergen’s novel, Leaving Tomorrow; how they articulated the paucity of options that can accompany illness, incapacity; how druthers might never be factors in how lives play out. The helplessness, the utter despair crouching between those lines had settled in with us, wasn’t going anywhere soon. Loving my partner back to health, back to wholeness was not an option but love had been a factor in an option we did have. Because of the efforts, the foresight, the conviction of many caring others, legislation now allows medically assisted death. It was possible to have a say in shaping what the last chapter of our story might look like.
The wet heft of grief. Some days the crying won’t stop. Home to an empty house, silent nights brimful of empty. Dinner alone an after-thought, dishes left undone. Companionable nightly news spills apocalyptic events interspersed with trivia – traffic turmoil, a foiled misdeed caught on camera. Laudable to counter somber with light.
Relief is ever-illusive for him. A window looks beyond boxed-in, frames fragments of each fleet season, slow-spools from budding green to whitest winter. Seasons promised more before the body’s betrayal. Hammer and nails and muscle once crafted a home. Skilled hands thrummed and fashioned drab earth, glazed the world in flaming colour, leaned into fire, unflinching.
With weather warming, it’s possible to wheel him out to the courtyard. Pleasant enough, buds leafing lime-green, purple and yellow and pink patches of sprouting bulbs, fountain’s burble a backdrop to our silence. Paired pigeons roost nearby, life-long mates. They murmur us back to before. We resurrect memories, shape and polish them like worn keepsakes, like those sturdy silver charms that clasp onto solid bracelets, lasting links made to withstand breakage, jangle memory.
He calls every morning, a reassuring ring, nine-thirtyish. Together, we plan how to slice the day, what portion will be his, mine, ours to spend together. If he’s had a bad night, he’ll rest. The morning will be mine. Shall I garden, write, pay attention to household chores? A walk seems frivolous when he can’t.
At the beach today, tired of my own company. Tall eel grass, flat expanse of beach, showy mountains still snow-capped. A few tourists stroll the boardwalk. A woman sitting in the car next to me nods hello, munches lunch. A work van pulls in, passenger-side. The driver reclines his seat, tucks a nap into a busy day. I walk some, find a log. Sit to contemplate the moody expanse. The sea whispers, no rage today. A lone crow warns of someone approaching. A man wants the time of day. I lend him ten minutes. He spills lonely, overflows uncertainty, options, impending decisions. Knots to untie, future unlaced. Time for us to face reality, options, impending decisions. .
We request an evaluation to confirm both of our suspicions. There is certainty in a diagnosis of early dementia. Borrowed time. Time left to arrive at deeper understanding of all that will be lost; to imagine a fraction of what a partner must feel as a much-loved world slips away.
My partner has decided. My silence speaks acquiescence. A date is set. The weight of certainty is stone-heavy, yet we are lighter. The waiting is hard. There is solace in sunshine; in the to and fro of tide’s infinite motion; in bracingly aromatic coffee delivered by steadfast friends who support this journey’s ending. Final goodbyes, moving tributes. I want to hoard the remainder of him for myself.
Day two – Solitary nights prove endless for the helpless. Night staff occupied elsewhere, no one to bring that extra blanket to ward off morning’s chill, no response to a call bell when a water bottle rolls just out of reach, when discomfort needs re-arranged. We hire private help. She has sat vigils, has accompanied death before. Our minds rest easy.
Day one – She’s left offerings – a tiny bouquet of fresh flowers in brilliant hues; a fluted clam shell scrubbed white, filled with an abundance of precisely-folded paper cranes; a votive candle that sits beside a small carved bird – feather-weight wood lovingly sanded smooth by some careful craftsman. The bird is purposeful, comes with a note explaining how it is shaped to fit in the crook of a hand, in the protected hollow between thumb and forefinger. The strength, the courage that will ebb from his body will be captured in that tiny permeable wooden bird, the holder’s essence preserved, gifted to loved ones.
10:00 am – We linger in the sun. It warms his weary body, soothes our sore hearts. He is visibly shutting down, gathering strength to accomplish this last empowering act. Cultivating courage. In another time, courage used to mean heart.
1:00 pm – He’s resting. I curl in beside him in the narrow bed, inscribe his body on mine, steep in enough of his essence, enough togetherness to last the rest of a lifetime. I am reluctant to leave even for a minute but must steel home briefly.
5:00pm – He eats a simple meal, in his room. He’s chosen not to say goodbye to his table-mates, does not want to create unnecessary confusion, confront their quizzical looks. Will the residents even notice his absence at breakfast? Ghosts of former selves come and go with seeming indifference here.
6:00pm – Our nightly ritual is gentler, deliberately slower – teeth brushed, face and hands tenderly washed, the worn-soft nightshirt. Family gathers. Some far-aways connect with technology, sorrowing remotely. We have been told what to prepare for.
6:30pm – The nurse arrives. She asks if he knows why she has come. He nods a yes. She asks again if he knows what will happen when the procedure is over. He says he will die. Finality verbalized, assented to. She prepares intravenous lines. Two, in case one should fail. She is gentle, mindful.
7:00 pm – The doctor arrives. We know him well. He has travelled with us on this journey, has asked the same questions with each visit, monitored the diminishing quality of a life. There is paper work, final assent, a signature. We are asked to step out of the room. My partner is left alone, given a last opportunity to refuse his decision. What will he say? What would I say if it were me? No one but he can decide.
7:05 pm – I place the small wooden bird in the crook of his right hand. He grips it tightly. I cradle his left in both of mine. We speak our love with our eyes. Do we even say goodbye? He closes them. Forever. It is over too quickly. I gently disengage my hand. Heartfelt thanks to the doctor, the nurse, grateful for their sacred complicity. Reality is illusive, just out of reach.