Les and the Good Death

In our early years of dating, Les always said that if he ever got sick he would simply go for a walk in the woods. When he found MAiD, he likened it to his walk in the woods.

He was formally diagnosed with Alzheimer’s dementia in January 2019. He had just turned 68. Other than the dementia he was fit, he still liked to run, he was on no medications and had no previous illnesses. The diagnosis shook us both to the core. But it answered a lot of questions I had been putting down to old age, and to just Les.

That same month he filled out the Patient Request Record for MAiD.

Then his geriatrician said she thought he had good quality years ahead, so we put it aside — and she was right. He did well until October 2021, when he decided to stop all prescribed medication, because he said he wanted to die naturally. Something had clicked for him. Only in hindsight do I see that he was already preparing.

In November she told us that soon he would be in a nursing home, and that if he still wanted MAiD he had a small window.

She had told him to imagine being on a train with a STOP button beside him — and that with dementia, one day that button disappears.

That was my fear in the days before. I think if we had waited even a few days more, the button might have gone.

He asked me to look into it in early January. The doctor came on the Wednesday evening, said yes, and asked when he wanted it done. Les said as soon as possible. Friday, 7pm.

He had said before that he wanted just me there. A friend of mine told me to really try and get the children coming, or we would all regret it. All three came, some from quite a distance.

Twice before, he had said he wanted MAiD and backed down — I’m asking someone to kill me. He was not ready until he was ready.

The day before, he told me there were golden people around him, and that they comforted him. Les did not usually talk like this.

He told me about an ocean with bays. I asked about mine. Your bay is deep, there are many layers, you are still at the shallow end. I asked how to go deeper. He said to throw the anchor away — that the anchor anchors everything, fear, love, all of it. I asked when people throw it away. It has to be at the very end.

He died knowing that. He threw his anchor away and went deeper into the bay.

I was a retired ER nurse. I have worked a thousand traumatic deaths. The way Les died was a godsend.

I write this because most people have never heard of MAiD. Since he died, many have called me to ask. Even my vet had not heard of it.

That is one of Les’s legacies.