Jodi Lewchuk lives and writes in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Her deeply personal storytelling and self-portraits explore the vulnerability, and bravery, of the human heart.

MAiD Dispatches: Impossible Journey

MAiD Dispatches: Impossible Journey

It catches me off-guard. I’m about to start packing my car when it hits. A violent dry heave bends me in half, hands on knees, and I look down the flight of my entryway stairs as I choke and sputter and gasp. I’m wearing black faux leather jeans and a boxy mustard-coloured sweater with my mom’s ruby ruffled-edge scarf wound around my neck. In other words, I’m not exactly dressed for vomiting.

But nothing comes out. I realize the sudden-onset retching is simply my body reacting to the potent mix of emotions — sadness, fear, love, anxiety, tenderness — all smashing into each other as they race around inside me at this moment of no return. I am about to load two suitcases, a tote bag, and two boxes into my rental car. I will soon be on the road to my hometown for an extended stay, where my mother, who is declining rapidly in the grip of a rare neurodegenerative disease, will have her wishes for MAiD carried out.

I keep saying to everyone that it is incredibly surreal to know the exact day you will lose a loved one. I think of how many phrases we have in the English language that tell us to live life fully every day because “you just never know” when time might be up. Except in this case we do. It’s a day that will come before she can no longer swallow or transfer from bed to wheelchair. She’s already lost independence, mobility, the ability to speak. My mom has my full support, and the rest of the family’s. None of us wants her to suffer anymore.

But that unanimity doesn’t tell me what the final weeks ahead look like. What’s the blueprint for these circumstances? I’ve realized there isn’t one, really. So I’ve told my mom what I’ve told everyone else: I get this time to spend every day with her, showing her how much she is loved. We’re going to look at photos, listen to music, watch movies, eat together — and likely butt heads about all the things we usually butt heads about. (My mom, typing: Jo, put this tablet on the charger. Me: Mom, it’s at 67%; it’s fine. Mom: Put it on the charger. Me: It’s hard on the battery when you charge too frequently. Mom: Put it on the charger.)

I bought a new journal yesterday. It’s midnight blue, with a velvety fabric cover. I like how it feels in my hands. I’ve not been able to write anything of consequence this year, and I’ve resisted writing the details of my mom’s deterioration — not concretizing them has made them less painful. But I was seized by a deep certainty yesterday that it is vital to make these precious days ahead indelible, in ink. 

I want to remember.

MAiD Dispatches: Everything and Nothing

MAiD Dispatches: Everything and Nothing

Rest Assured

Rest Assured