By Rose Simpson
If you’re really lucky, you will have five good friends over your lifetime.
I lost one of the Famous Five recently. Her name was Brenda and she died of inoperable lung cancer after being an unrepentant smoker for decades. Brenda was diagnosed more than a year ago and it was only a few weeks ago that I found out she was dying.
She messaged me on Facebook, saying she heard I had colon cancer, but guess what? She only had a few weeks to live.
I was shocked. It was true we hadn’t kept in touch after she moved to the country. In fact, we hadn’t seen each other or spoken for more than a decade. After I moved out of the neighborhood we had shared, we lost touch. I invited her to reunions and other events, but she never showed. I supposed she had simply moved on with her life.
It happens.
To hear about her impending death from her in this manner, in the middle of my own health crisis, shook me to my core. Why didn’t she tell me sooner? I could have helped her or held her hand. “I didn’t want anybody to know,” she told me matter-of-factly.
Our first meeting following her news was at the Ottawa General Hospital in a place the hospital calls “the gym.” It was, in fact, an occupational therapy room that had been converted into tiny compartments, separated by curtains, and minded by a couple of nice nurses. This was the place the hospital used for terminally ill patients who come in for the occasional top-up of medication and blood products.
Brenda looked great thanks to a transfusion and some new meds that the doctors prescribed for her. She was rake thin and bald under a jaunty pink cap, her tiny frame covered by a bulky sweater.
“Have you seen this?” she asked and pointed to her foot which was absent the big toe. “Blood clot.”
“When did that happen?”
“Oh, a couple of years ago.”
Why did I not know this?
Well, as the Beatles would say, life is what happens when you’re making other plans.
We spent three hours catching up. It was like old times. I told her about my cancer, she told me about hers. We gossiped and laughed and then I gave her a ride to the place where she was now living in the city.
“Can we stop on Lynda Lane for a few minutes?” she asked. “I really need a smoke.”
“Sure,” I said. “Have two.”
Over the next few weeks, I got to spend time with my old friend, driving her back and forth to the General. I was so happy to be able to talk about the old days. The last time I saw Brenda was three weeks ago, on one of our usual visits to the General. She had decided to forego any further treatment because it made her feel sick. She was having problems breathing, sleeping and eating.
No matter, Brenda said. She had made plans to end her life using medical assistance in dying (MAID). She had already met with the doctor and his team who would give her the drink that would end her life.
“Rose, he was so handsome,” she grinned. “I’m happy to know he’s the last face I’ll ever see.”
She also told me that she had arranged to have her body sent to the Pilon Family Funeral Home and Chapel in Arnprior. Instead of cremation, she had decided on aquamation, a water process.
“It’s cheaper and it’s good for the environment,” she explained. “I like that.”
We waved goodbye and I told her I’d come see her after our vacation.
She smiled warmly and told me she’d see me soon.
She took the shot when I was sunning my stupid self on the deck. Her niece called me on her behalf, saying she had a nice glass of wine beforehand and was still joking until the very end.
There was no text or call from her, offering me a fond farewell. No chance for me to thank her for all she did for me. I was upset, but not mad.
Brenda always did things on her own terms, and nothing had changed.
She lived, she loved, she laughed, she left.
Farewell, old friend.
