And so, he went and did it, the bastard.

He upped and left me. Despite all his words, his hugs. His promises lie there in the dust next to my heart, broken.

And how do I feel about this, even now, just a few months later? Grief, yes. That comes and goes like inclement weather. But also, relief.

Relief that neither of us is suffering anymore.

Relief that he no longer has to fight.

Relief that I no longer have to stand guard over every breath, every pill, every falter.

Relief that I can go to sleep without listening for each change in movement, that I don’t have to cross every T, dot every I. I don’t have to be constantly, non–stop aware 24/7/365 of where he is, what he is doing, what project he has started wondering if it is something I will have to complete—that selfish part of selflessness.

Isn’t it strange, this human drive to cling to life no matter what? Even when our bodies betray us, when we are bone–tired, when there’s nothing left to give the future except perhaps our used–up cells for the medical students? We are old, past the point of usefulness, yet we claw at life with both hands. Why? Habit? Fear? Or love—for each other, of life itself?

A Wild Ride

Our trip down crazy street began in March 2023. “Stage 4 renal carcinoma. Spread to lungs and brain. Terminal.”

“Do you understand what that means?” the doctor asked.

Which part? The brain bit, or the terminal bit?

We understood very well.

We were told he had hours, maybe days. He didn’t even know what was happening. The very next question: “Would you like us to get a priest, or any other religious figure?” Absolutely not. But for a three–week cough that had driven me to the point of threatening to leave him if he didn’t go to the hospital, he had gone from asymptomatic to dying.

Seriously, WTF?

I went home and sobbed until the cats came running, utterly confused by this dyed–in–the–wool stoic having a meltdown of monumental proportions. With that done, I blew my nose and started making lists: Wills, Powers of Attorney, Living Wills, all the things we said we’d do “someday”. Now it was someday.

But he couldn’t write properly anymore. Couldn’t even hold a pen. His signature came out like a child’s scrawl. So where to from here? I needed him to be able to write so he could stick a decent semblance of his signature on some rather important documents.

Paper, Pills, and the Absurd

At the hospital, we were inundated: oncologists, radiologists, therapists of all ilk, a palliative doctor, a social worker, even a nutritionist. A nutritionist! For a man who was dying? FFS!

One tall, no–nonsense oncologist made the most sense: Let’s get him out of the hospital, away from germs. Steroids will help him think clearly again and we can start the treatments from home.

She was right. Within days he improved. He practised his signature until it became legible again—shaky at first, but recognizable. I buried myself in research. If you think living is hard, try dying. The forms alone could kill you. And we did them all: Wills, Advance Directives, Power of Attorney, DNR. We included the family too. We had to, because there was one decision that mattered most: MAID—Medical Assistance in Dying.

We had supported Dying with Dignity for years. Many buy lottery tickets in the hope of perhaps one day acquiring great wealth. I donated to that organization because we will all absolutely one day be acquiring death. That’s the one certainty in life—death. Shouldn’t we at least get some choice in the matter?

Canada gives that choice, but with some strings: two doctors, government approval, forms galore. You must be of sound mind to sign. And you can change your mind right up to seconds before the final solution. Many wait too long. We saw another patient beg for release, and was denied because he hadn’t signed in time. The doctors murmured platitudes while he writhed in agony. I wanted to throw a chair at them. We would not wait too long. We signed while he was still lucid. That part of the nightmare was at least settled.

Borrowed Time

And then, unexpectedly, time stretched. CyberKnife radiation zapped the brain tumours. Immunotherapy bought him months. The doctors who had predicted “days” now said “years, maybe.” He couldn’t drive anymore, so I did with strict rules about no backseat commentary. He sat in the passenger seat watching the skies, the changing seasons, the flowers, the birds. He’d forgotten most of their names, though once he could identify them all. What he never forgot were cars.

My birthday?

Phhht.

My middle name?

“You have a middle name?”

But the sight of a rusting jalopy would spark a flawless monologue: model, year, designer, manufacturer, production run.

We tried to stitch together a semblance of normal life. I looked for anything that would get his mind working again. He was a brilliant artist, played with colours, saw things in shades of whatever. I found crosswords, jigsaws, colouring books, acrylic paint pens. Bought new canvases, got him back to painting again, and it was interesting to see how his view of colour had just slightly changed. We did little outings, watched sunsets. Coffee on the porch birdwatching and identifying other creatures in our view.

And, to all and sundry, it looked exactly like living. But underneath, every moment was shadowed by the knowledge that Death was standing right there, scythe in hand, waiting. Living with the sword of Damocles dangling overhead is not living. It is waiting.

And I have no quarrel with death itself. My quarrel is, was, and always will be, with suffering. We keep animals alive long after they would have died in the wild. We do the same with people. Why? Not for them. For us. Because we cannot bear to let go. That selfishness was one of my daily battles right up there next to the battle with his cancer, battle with suffering, with medical science, aging, not knowing, not enough information, not enough time, not enough kindness, myself. My god!

The Decline

In February 2025, a CT scan showed a new brain tumour. In April, after another round of targeted radiation, things began to slide downhill. The man I knew—the mind I had fallen in love with—was a mess from the radiation. I kept telling him (and me) that it was temporary, that it would get better, but it began to fade. He became confused, restless, sometimes blank. Had some really odd delusions. He forgot the names of cars—our Mini became his dead brother’s Jeep; “what’s that big car for sale at the garage?” You mean the Hummer? He had new names for flowers, dragon flowers instead of daffodils. Although I still pretended that this was just a phase, it would get better, deep down I knew I was losing him. The focus of his painting changed, and he homed in on a solitary figure walking in the woods dwarfed by very tall trees, with rays of light beaming through to touch the figure.

But there were still glimmers of him: the sly humour, the sudden tenderness, the love, the silly pet-names.

Then his kidneys failed. They came to a sudden grinding halt, and he was rushed to Emergency, stuck on steroids and dialysis. He had an internal bleed and was taken to ICU, put on meds to maintain his falling blood pressure and steroids to counter his failing kidneys. Again, he rallied—to the point that he was about to be transferred back to the Cancer Ward when things went pear–shaped.

A CT scan showed there was a new abdominal bleed, and then his discomfort and pain started. The doctors called me aside. They laid out the options:

– They could isolate the bleed, fix it immediately, and prolong his life. But the moment the tube was removed, the bleeding would start again.

– Or they could take him off the blood pressure meds and steroids that were keeping him alive, increase the pain relief medication, and let him go.

I told them about his MAID approval, and about our agreement: No suffering. They looked at me and said,

“Well, he is suffering now.”

“He must be told,” I said.

“Would you like us to tell him?”

“No, I will. We have been in this together. I must do this.”

“Would you like us to come with you?”

“Yes, please.”

They came with me and stood at the end of his bed. I took his hand tightly and told him the truth the only way I know how—straight.

“My love, this is what is going on. You have a new bleed and here are the choices. They can fix it by putting in a tube, but if they remove the tube, it will start again. Or they can take you off all the meds keeping you alive and increase the pain meds—but you will die.”

He looked straight at me,

“I just want this to end.”

I held his hand and stroked his arm, and just kept saying,

“It’s okay, my love. It’s okay. You can go.”

He did.

It was what we had agreed: no suffering, and in two and a half years, he only had about forty minutes of pain.

The Fall

What remains is such a contradiction: grief and relief. I miss him with an ache that comes and goes. And yet I am relieved that he was spared the pain I have seen in others, that he died with the dignity he wanted, and that I could keep my promise to him.

When I think of his last minutes, holding his hand, stroking his face, watching the bleeps on the heart monitor flatline, letting everyone know “he’s gone”, I feel the deepest grief. But, remembering the way he had forgotten the names of cars, flowers, birds, things he knew so well, how it had slowly come back, only to be completely ripped away again two years later, I feel profound relief. Relief that he died when there was still a twinkle left of the man I had fallen in love with years ago. Relief that I had almost three years to say goodbye.

He was one of the kindest, most courageous, most exasperatingly funny men I have ever known. He was an artist, a lover of adventure, a lover of life itself, and a hopeless romantic.

He was the love of my life.

His body was donated to the Anatomy Department of the University of Ottawa. He became one of the “Silent Teachers” for future doctors. Even in death I put him to work, and he continues to give. I can almost hear him chuckling at the thought.

That is the paradox I live with: love held close and dear in the act of letting go.

Oh, there will always be the ‘I wish’ and the ‘if only’—I wish I had been kinder, more patient, more loving, more understanding. I wish I had advocated more, been more aware. If only I had known …

But self–blame is an autobahn into an abyss of madness.

A little piece of magic died in 2025.