This Is Assisted Dying by Stefanie Green

Author:Stefanie Green
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2022-03-29T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

EARLY THAT FALL, I MADE one of my regular visits to see my mother in Nova Scotia. Normally, I would go to see her at the assisted living facility where she had been residing for the past five years. This time, I arrived the night before, checked into my hotel, and showed up at nine-thirty a.m. with plans for us to go to the mall (my mother in a wheelchair) and then afterward out for lunch.

When I walked into her apartment, she tried to stand up to greet me. My mother wanted so badly to get out of that chair. She had always been stubborn—and insistent on her independence. I remember how long it took me to convince her to give up driving. I knew being able to get up on her own was likely a point of pride, but I was annoyed that she wouldn’t wait for me to help her. She braced herself with both hands on the armrests, took a breath, rocked once or twice, and then lifted, all to no avail. She got almost halfway up, paused, and fell back down into the seat. I came to her side and, without a word, offered the slightest bit of support under one arm. She easily rose to her feet. I heard a whispered “thank you” as she looked down, her speech slurred.

Ten years after my father’s death, it felt like my mother was now the one nearing the end. She was in her seventies, and her chronic neurologic condition was only getting worse. It seemed as if she had shrunk since I’d visited last: She was slightly more hunched, the tremor in her leg more obvious, the bobbing of her head more severe. It was hard for her to walk, harder still to change directions, actually dangerous to try to step backward. She could no longer write or perform certain manual tasks, she had trouble communicating verbally, and she was wholly reliant on caregivers to take her outside. I was bracing myself for the next stage—a slight increase in symptoms might mean she wouldn’t be able to safely swallow.

My relationship with my mother was nothing like the strained and distant one I’d had with my father, yet it had its own complexities. She was my primary caregiver throughout my childhood, the one who fed me, clothed me, took me to the doctor when I was sick, and tried to teach me the value of education. She provided a family for my brother and me, and I knew she loved us deeply. But between the divorce from my father, her remarriage to my stepfather, and the chaos that brought into our lives, I sometimes felt I had spent my formative years concerned for her happiness and well-being more than the other way around. I knew it wasn’t intentional on her part, but it was probably why, as an adult, I often felt conflicted when we were together, wanting to help but still feeling a bit like the wounded child inside.

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