Their daughter was in palliative care, and MAiD was supposed to be out of the question

Jane’s name has been changed to respect the privacy of her surviving family members. 

The death of a family member or friend is always a difficult event, but when Roderick and Louise lost their daughter to MAiD they needed help.

“How did this happen? Did we do enough? Was it my fault?” These questions defined the Ontario couple’s lives after their daughter died. With the help of a grief counsellor, the couple was able to work through the loss of their daughter and find healing.

For local Vancouverites dealing with the aftermath of a MAiD death of a loved one, the Archdiocese of Vancouver is offering Bereavement Support for Those Whose Loved Ones Have Chosen MAiD, a four-week support group starting June 13.

Poetry was one of the remedies prescribed by their grief counsellor, and the couple has produced a large collection of poems that will soon be published by the Euthanasia Prevention Coalition. They hope the soon-to-be-published poems will help others deal with a similar loss.

“If they divert even one person from considering MAiD, that will be significant,” Roderick told The B.C. Catholic.

Their daughter’s death had been inevitable. The cancer treatments they had sought across multiple countries had failed to cure her sarcoma, and she was in palliative care where her pain was supposed to be managed.

MAiD was supposed to be out of the question. “We thought when she went into palliative care, it was done, and there was nothing to worry about,” said Louise.

But Jane had a history of mental illness and had been taking medication for bipolar disorder. The medication was stopped upon entering the hospice.

Louise remembers advocating for Jane, but the doctor refused to mix the mental health meds with the medication being used to manage her pain. Apparently, there was a chance of cardiac arrest. The irony wasn’t lost on Roderick and Louise, considering what happened next.

“She didn’t like it there,” Louise remembers. “She wanted to go home” even though there was someone staying with her every day – no small feat during pandemic times. She started having psychotic episodes and significant existential and psychological anxiety.

Because of COVID, accessing home care was complicated, and even though Jane’s insurance would have covered in-home visits from a nurse, the service was unavailable. 

At one point Louise got a call from a priest who had spoken with their daughter. He informed Louise that Jane was considering MAiD and wanted to know if she would be present. Louise told him she would accompany Jane every step of the way, but she wouldn’t be in the room because it euthanasia was against her conscience. The priest told her that was something she needed to tell Jane.

It was a Friday when Roderick and Louise entered the hospice and were told that their daughter had “gone to the hospital.” Roderick remembers breaking down in tears. They knew what that meant. A friend had signed papers allowing for the procedure.

“It all happened over a weekend,” said Roderick. “I talked to her as long as she was conscious.”

While Roderick watched their daughter being injected with poison, Lousie was outside the room praying with the hospital chaplain. When it was over, she went into the room and placed some roses on Jane’s chest in the shape of a cross.

Roderick had taught creative writing for many years, and he was already writing poetry about Jane’s cancer, but it wasn’t until Louise wrote her first poem about watching their daughter die by MAiD that he began writing poems about the experience as well.

At one point Roderick was writing at least one poem a day, but the couple didn’t think to do anything with the poems until they attended a pro-life conference where they met Alex Schadenberg of the Euthanasia Prevention Coalition.

Louise approached him with the poems, and he told her the coalition would like to publish them to tell the often-ignored story of those who are left behind by MAiD. They also hope the poetry will encourage others who are grieving the loss of a loved one to MAiD to seek counselling and healing.

Following are two of the couple’s poems. 

The Liquid in the Tube

By Roderick

The doctor carried it in a syringe 

which she cradled like a baby. 

The others surrounded her 

as if to protect her, 

and the precious solution 

which was designed 

to kill my daughter. 

I recalled the lynch mobs 

and hanging parties 

in the old Westerns. 

There was always a leader 

and the followers. 

The doctor put the syringe 

into a portal near the plastic bag 

hanging on a post near the bed. 

She pushed in the solution, 

and it flowed down the tube, 

right past my left hand 

which was resting on the bed. 

I watched it go by, 

heading towards my daughter’s hand, 

silently, death drawn by gravity. 

My daughter was unaware,

as she was looking straight ahead, 

searching for Jesus. 

I knew it was on the way, 

she did not. 

There was no warning, 

only silence. 

The solution made no sound, 

like a snake in the grass. 

Then I saw the action of Grace 

in territory held largely by the Devil. 

My daughter asked: “Is He here yet?” 

And I felt like a father 

for the first time 

that day when I answered: 

“Yes, Jesus is with you!” 

The liquid in the tube 

did its work quickly, 

and her soul flew by me 

in three long breaths. 

The team left the room, 

probably wondering 

what they were serving 

in the cafeteria that night.

Timeline for an Execution 

By Louise

The provision [term for MAiD] is scheduled for 4:00 p.m. 

It is now 10:00 a.m. 

Security denies me entry. COVID-19 protocol. 

But I am here for a provision. 

Entry is granted. 

I am the mother, after all. 

At 10:30 a.m. I make my way 

to the Palliative Care Unit. 

Her room is at the end of a dark hallway, 

in a secluded area. 

I enter, and head straight for her bed. 

She recoiIs. 

“What time is it?” She asks. 

At noon, I try to tell her how much I love her. 

I am rebuked. 

“What time is it?” She asks. 

At 2:00 p.m. she allows me to feed her ice chips. 

The organ harvester enters 

to introduce himself as part of the team. 

He leaves. 

“What time is it?” She asks. 

At 3:00 p.m. her eyes have been shut 

for the last 30 minutes. 

She has not spoken.

I refrain from telling her how much I love her. 

I rise and say a simple “Adieu” as I exit the room. 

My conscience will not allow me to stay 

for this murderous execution. 

At 3:45 p.m. I am sitting outside the room 

and waiting. 

I can almost hear the sound of jackboots. 

A diminutive lady leads the execution squad.

At 4:00 p.m. the chaplain arrives. 

He sits down beside me. 

“I forgive them,” I tell him. 

We pray silently. 

“What time is it?” I ask. 

At 4:15 p.m. the provision is over. 

The nurse tells me that I can now go in 

“To do my thing.” 

I enter. 

My daughter is wearing the death mask. 

I retrieve two roses that have already 

been tossed in a waste bin. 

I place them in the form of a cross 

on her chest. 

I say a Hail Mary. 

A sword has pierced my heart.

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