Anne Portree

March 10, 1919 – November 29, 2019

My mother was a person of strong conviction. I like to think of her as a fearless warrior. She always seemed to know what she needed to do, from moving on with her life after suddenly losing my dad, the love of her life, at only 48 years old or having to go to business college after being a homemaker most of her adult life. She was also a realist who posted “The Serenity Prayer” on her fridge, which had been there for as long as I could remember.

Life was not easy for my Mum and yet she never seemed to feel sorry for herself. Those who knew her always commented on her beautiful smile, her dry sense of humour, and a huge capacity to love. When you were in her presence you always felt safe and loved. She made everyone feel they had come home.

Shortly after her 100^th birthday Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember already knowing inside what it was, yet when I heard the oncologist’s words, it still took the wind out of me. My first thoughts were, “This is unfair… she does not deserve this. We always thought it would be her heart. I prayed it would be her heart.” I felt angry at the universe for having to put her through the anticipated pain and suffering of cancer.

Prior to hearing the final diagnosis and treatment options, Mum was pretty much resigned to knowing she had cancer. We had already started to have what-if and end-of-life conversations, during which she was explicit in her desire to die at home. Her huge fear was to be in a hospital with “sick, unhappy people” and “over-worked, stressed-out nurses.” A hospitalization a few years prior had made her very aware of the general quality and access in health care. Understanding what Mum’s wishes were I mentioned MAID as an option, and immediately it seemed to remove all her fears.

As the oncologist discussed treatment possibilities and pain control, Mum interrupted him and said, “I have decided to speak to someone from MAID.”  That was the first time I heard her voice her decision and it was funny how I felt relief. The doctor was totally supportive of her wishes, as was our family doctor, my brother, sister and her grandchildren.

In July 2019 Mum was interviewed, along with my husband and myself, and was accepted into the MAID program in Manitoba. A date was not set at that time because Mum was still able to care for herself and was pain-free. Even with vision and mobility challenges, she still lived independently, cooked her own meals, entertained, and had a daily “wine time” with her dearest neighbour. Summer came, and time was precious. My brother and sister, as well as all her grandchildren, did not live in Winnipeg. Some family members living as far away as England visited, FaceTimed, called, or emailed. At one point, she told us about her stream of visitors, and said with wry humour, “They must think I’m dying!” Everyone knew about Mum’s MAID decision, but still there was no date set. Secretly I think a few of us still hoped Mum would pass in her sleep.

Fall came, then in early November Mum mentioned during one of our daily 6 p.m. phone calls that she wanted my husband and I to come over. “Bring burgers and fries – we need to set a date.” Up until this point, I had been so busy doing what needed to be done that I forgot Mum had terminal cancer. However, her saying we need to set a date brought me back to reality with a jolt. I felt my stomach drop and the floor open beneath me. “Now this is real,” I thought, as my head said one thing and my heart cracked open.

We came with burgers and fries. Mum was sitting at her kitchen table with a calendar in front of her. She had a calm, deliberate, and thoughtful look. Being ever so practical, she said, “We need to discuss a date, but we are so close to Christmas it’s a problem. Then there are the birthdays to worry about.” It was a surreal moment, but was so true to her being practical and logical. It was as if she was planning a vacation or a party. We assured her it was she who needed to set a date and that all of us would be OK no matter what. At the end of that evening we left for home with Mum needing to think more about it.

A few days later, on a Wednesday afternoon I got a phone call at my office. No hello, just, “I want it done on Friday.” Once again the floor felt like it had opened; a rush of adrenaline cursed through me. I managed to supress the surprise, the anxiety, and all the feelings I cannot name to this day. I had to be strong, so I walked across the street to MAID and let them know Mum’s wishes. At that point they were not sure if they could have a team available, however they assured me they would do their best. Within a few hours we were told that in less than 48 hours our mother, grandmother, and friend would no longer be with us.

Mum was adamant that no one should be told about her MAID date, including my brother, sister and their families. I called our palliative nurse to voice my dilemma of trying to honour my mother’s wishes while being open to my family. Angela, who felt it would be a mistake for my family not to know, asked if she could have a word with Mum alone, and so she did. On Thursday, the day before the procedure, Mum called her children and grandchildren to say goodbye. However, there was some confusion because of the way she explained it, calling it a trip to some, to others an appointment, so nobody knew what was really happening. At this point the procedure was being done in less than 24 hours and that certainly caught everyone off guard. (I think Mum wanted it that way so we didn’t have a lot of time to think.) Hence emails, texts, and phone calls were going back and forth all wanting clarification on what was going on! “No Mum is not travelling… ok maybe, yes, the MAID date is tomorrow morning. No, its not a maid that’s coming, it’s MAID.”

Crazy as it seems there was laughter amongst the confusion!

Thursday night Mum cooked a dinner for us (she wanted to use up what was in the fridge… seriously!). We had a great meal and then she wanted to go for a ride to look at my husband’s Christmas display of 28,000 outdoor lights. When we got back to Mum’s we looked at email messages and pictures of her beloved family on the iPad. There was a lot of love in the room, I remember, but also an energy I cannot explain. A calmness, a sacredness, a knowing. I remember feeling a lot of gratitude that our precious mother, who was always there to prop us up, was able to say goodbye on her terms. I remember we laughed a lot and cried very little. This was a blessed moment for all of us. We went home that night as Mum wanted to be alone, but from what I understand she continued to make calls, and I believe had a few more glasses of wine. In the call to my sister, my brother-in- law told her to that he would see her on the other side, to which Mum replied, “That may not be for a long time. It’s taken me over a hundred years to get there.”

I am sure I did not sleep that night. How perplexing to know that someone you love, who was always there, would no longer “BE” tomorrow. Head and heart trying to make sense of happy, sad, relieved, guilt, to feeling relieved, not feeling anything, putting on a brave face, making sure everyone is OK, being strong for Mum. It was all there inside me.

Early morning came. I baked muffins and arranged a fresh fruit platter to take to Mum’s suite, I suppose to try and keep a lid on emotion and not to really think about what was going on. I felt like an observer watching a movie, all the time knowing the reality of the day. This is the way I always cope.

I got to Mum’s with a smile on my face, a steel lock on my heart. We got there very early.  She was getting dressed trying to figure out what she should wear, complete with a new pair of underwear! This was very important for her, those undies, a family joke about always being prepared. We took pictures, as she wanted us to take them. We spoke about many things, and we laughed. She was very clear that it was important to understand that all that mattered in life was love of family, friends, and whoever was in your presence. She stood by her curio cabinet, pointing to it, saying, “Nothing matters after that, the rest, all this stuff, is junk.”

The MAID team arrived at 10 a.m. She was told there was no rush to say goodbye, and once again she was reminded that she could change her mind at any time. IVs were established as Mum sat comfortably in her green recliner. My husband put the TV fireplace station on just so she had something peaceful to look at. “Better than the garbage on TV,” she said. (She also mentioned she was looking forward to being in a place where there would be no news or politicians!) We all had a good laugh.

We stood behind and to the side of her, holding her hand, the doctors and nurse kneeling at her feet. Suddenly she said, “Wait!” I was quite sure that she was changing her mind, as I think we all did.

“Mum, are you OK?”

“No! We didn’t have a toast!”

There was quiet in the room, then we all laughed. I went to get the glasses and wine.

“Mum… red or white?”

“White.”

“Huh? You never drink white.”

“Yes, but today it will be white so that my mouth and tongue don’t turn red.”

Mum patiently drank her wine and reminisced about her life and how grateful she was to have so many people in her life who loved her. She also felt very grateful to the MAID team and told them how special they were.

The wine finished, gratitude expressed, laughter at a moment in time that was so needed. The gentleness and compassion of the MAID team, love was held gently in a sacred space. In the grace-filled silence of the room on November 29, 2019 at 11:39 a.m., Mum left this world, leaving us with precious lessons of not only how to live in love and with compassion, but in how to die with dignity and grace.