1News presenter Melissa Stokes knew her mother felt ready to die. But being told the exact date and time of day she would lose her brought on complicated feelings that she'll never forget.
On the day my mum chose to die, I walked the six or so kilometres to my parents’ house. Listening to a podcast on the Trump indictments and then to Lizzo, as her concert was coming up and I’m one of those insufferable people who likes to sing along.
Every now and then I stopped and put my hands on my knees and tried to suck in air. I watched the cars pass, suddenly obsessed with the tiny machinations of life, listening to my breath, watching people singing along to car radios, drinking from a water bottle while on a bike. Life, even at its simplest there’s a lovely synchronicity to it.
Inexplicably, I stopped at a café on the way and bought an orange juice and a custard square, even though I had a nasty chocked up feeling in my throat and found it hard to swallow. I both wanted to not talk and to scream, loudly, rage at anything.
Mum had been living with terminal cancer for almost seven years, and right before Christmas 2022, she learned it had spread to her brain.
Euthanasia had for a long time been something Mum wanted. I think the rest of us made the right noises but hadn’t realised how adamant she was. From her bed, she got things rolling – appointments made, the medical professionals who'd decide if she was eligible for euthanasia visited, consent given.
A date I asked not to know booked in.
But on King's Birthday weekend last year, Mum said she’d had enough, she wanted to go even sooner than the date she'd booked – next week. What followed was a highly fraught, panic driven, stomach sickening time, that I’m not sure I’ll ever look back on with any less intensity and anxiety.
I was lucky to be put in touch with a friend in a wider social circle who’d had a parent die by assisted dying. Our messaging made me feel less alone and out of control. Having a day and an exact time to contend with was the hardest thing to confront – the clock ticking down to this awful deadline, not just a day but a time. June 15 2023. At 1:30pm that day my mum would die.
An appointment with death. I didn’t know how to deal with that.
My questions were all over the place, do I keep working, do I tell people? Do I tell the kids, what happens, how long does it take, what is it like?
In the end about a handful of people knew, it was too hard to get through the days without my closest friends knowing. But I didn’t do this lightly – I worried about the heavy burden that I was placing on them. It was too big to tell the boys, probably more for me, another impossible task in a week of them, to have to explain euthanasia to a 9 and 11 year old.
We’d dealt a lot in morbid and morose comedy since mum’s diagnosis, but it was hard to find anything that day – June 15. Mum, typically blunt and efficient, told us not to waste time introducing ourselves to the doctors when they arrived, “just get it done”.
The night before, I’d given mum a letter. I couldn’t say what I wanted to say to her in person. I feel extremely fortunate we had no need to make peace as people say, we already were at peace – I know some are not this lucky.
There was pacing, a lot of it, talking to myself, telling my brain we can do this, we can do this, but then a pause and I’d wonder how. I ate the custard square, scoffing it over the kitchen sink, just for something to do. I haven’t eaten one since.
When 1:30pm came, the main medical specialist hadn’t arrived. Mum kept checking the sodding clock – opening one eye. "They’re late," she said to me.
Then they were here, carrying out the formalities, laying out the doses with big bold warning stickers “these drugs could prove fatal”, finding a good course of action and giving us a final moment to say goodbye.
Dad leaned forward to kiss mum on the forehead and Mum told him to kiss her on the lips and, I kid you not, rolled her eyes at me and said, "he always does this" with the smallest of smiles. Those weren’t her last words, but in the blur and utter sadness of it all, they’re the ones I choose to remember.
In the very end, it was just the four of us – Mum, Dad, Olivia and me – the family my parents had created over 52 years of marriage. I’d never been with anyone else when they died, and I remember staying still, eyes wide, heart pounding in my ear – overwhelmed with the enormity of what was taking place in Mum’s sewing room. I wondered how I’d ever explain the feeling to friends. The specialist told us it would take a few minutes and we sat, each of us holding part of Mum and after a bit looked at each other... "Do you think? ... Is it? … Is she...?" A small nervous giggle was released by the three of us.
Mum was gone. For what it's worth, it looked like a peaceful way to go.
Almost immediately, I felt lighter, the big grief – the sobbing in the shower, crying in the car, the sudden and surprising crisis of self-confidence and identity would set in later.
The responsibility to get Mum to the finish line in the way she wanted was unlike any pressure I’ve ever known. It seems to me to be a bold and courageous choice to step into death - but mum, who placed few demands on any of us, was certain that this was how it ended. She didn’t think it was brave – the immediate future was going to be full of pain and indignity and for her, hope had long been lost.
Many will wonder why I’ve chosen to write about this – I don’t really have the answer. I hope it may help anyone in the same situation as my family. Grief is a peculiar thing. As Queen Elizabeth once said. “Grief is the price we pay for love”.
Our heartfelt thanks to the medical professionals that looked after Gill in her final days, their kindness will not be forgotten.
To my beautiful mother, Gillian Briar Stokes. Moe mai ra – E kore e ea i te kupu taku aroha mōu. Sleep well, words can’t express how much I love you.
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