A Good Death Involves a Glass of Sherry, and a Lake

I love a good story. This one is personal – and ever-so-slightly embellished! I am going to tell you the story of my grandmother’s death – one of many deaths she had. This one happens to be the funniest. Dark humour, I know, but I am willing to bet the following will give you a chuckle – or at least a smirk.

My maternal grandmother was strong and stoic. Her pain tolerance was such that you could have probably amputated an arm and she’d barely wince. She had been through a lot and knew how to tough it out. She was endearingly sweet, patient and kind. She was and always will be one of my heroines.

In her 50’s she almost died during a hysterectomy. Later in life she suffered from severe angina attacks and survived so many heart attacks that we lost count. At one point – I believe it was after bypass surgery – the medical profession had told her she had five years to live. She managed at least another thirteen years – and it is during one of those years that my story takes place:

It was a beautiful summer. Grandma had a cottage at Paudash Lake, in Ontario. She liked to pass the entire summer at her cottage – sipping sherry or single malt, playing crib, enjoying the lake and the abundance of birds and other wildlife.

One day she felt a very familiar feeling. There was a tightness in her chest, radiating and debilitating pain. The signs of a heart attack. Having survived several by this point in her life, she knew what it was. Delighted that she was going to shed her mortal coil at the cottage, she poured herself a glass of sherry and went to sit in her front room. The front room was windows on three sides and had the perfect view of the lake. What a wonderful place to kick the bucket!

Some time passed. The pain was almost unbearable and she was hoping to be able to see the lake with her last breath. It was early evening. In fact, it was about the time she had her traditional evening cocktail with her cottage next-door neighbour. Let’s call her Joan. Indeed, she could hear Joan knocking on her door, calling “Betty! Betty!”. Grandma didn’t have the breath to answer. She hoped Joan would take the hint and go away.
“Betty! I see your car in the driveway! I know that you’re home!”
Dang.

Grandma did not have the strength nor the desire to go to the door and open it. She had a vision of being found expired in her rocking chair with a glass of sherry in hand. Not sprawled out on the floor between the sunroom and the front door.

Joan, becoming concerned, was not one to give up. If there was something to find out she would find it out. Joan made her way around to the front of the cottage. Peering through the wall of windows, she saw my grandmother in her chair, clutching her chest, looking pale and pained.
“Betty. What in heaven’s name are you doing? It’s time for cocktails!”

“I’m a little busy right now, Joan.”

“What are you so busy about?”

Exasperated, my grandmother managed to belt out, “I’m DYING! And you are blocking my view! Get out of the way!” while gesturing toward the lake.

“You’re WHAT?” shouted Joan, yelling through the panorama of glass.

“I’m DYING! Now get out of the way!”

“Oh my goodness!”, screamed Joan. “I can’t let you die here!”

“Yes you can!”

“I need to call the ambulance!”

“If you call the ambulance I’ll never speak to you again, Joan.”

“You’re right – you most likely won’t, Betty. I’m sorry. I have to call.”

“Dammit, Joan!”

As you can imagine, Joan DID call the ambulance. It took a while to reach Paudash Lake, another little while for the paramedics to load my grandmother into the ambulance (Apparently she fought them all the way), and quite a bit longer than that to get her to Belleville hospital’s emergency room.

I got a call from my mom around 10pm that night. If I recall her first words were,

“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that Grandma is in the hospital, and she’s survived a heart attack. The bad news is that she isn’t impressed about it.”

And I recall that there was some debate among Grandma’s children regarding who would be brave enough to be the first to visit her and face her displeasure about the situation.
I called her myself after she was out of ICU and in the ward. It went something like this:

“Hi Grandma”

“Hi, Dear.”

“I heard you had a bit of a rough spell. And I also heard it didn’t quite turn out the way you wanted it to. I am so sorry.”

“That was my chance. The summer is over now. I always wanted to die at the lake.”

And under her breath, I heard her whisper, “There’s always next year.”

And I swear that every year after that – at the beginning of every summer – I bought her the best bottle of sherry I could afford, and I would hand it to her with a wink, and she would wink back.

Ultimately Grandma did not get her wish to pass away at the cottage. But I think the story is a wonderful illustration of not fearing death.

In my initial meetings with clients I often ask, “What would be your perfect death?”. Some people are taken aback by this question, and some approach it openly and willingly. There is a freedom and lightness in being able to imagine something empowering. I mean – what if you DID have some choice in the matter? Death Doulas seek to facilitate as much of that “perfect death” as possible – whatever that means for the individual.

If a better death means being able to see the mountains but not able to get to the mountains, a death doula may put up posters or enlarged photos of mountains. If your favourite scent is fresh oranges, a death doula may bring an organic essential orange oil for your room (just a few drops will do!). If your favourite music is disco, or opera or bhangra, a death doula will make you a play list. There are so many possibilities. If having more control over the inevitable seems like a good idea, I invited you to contact me for a free initial consultation.

My grandmother ultimately passed away – many years later –  in a long-term care facility with her daughters by her side. My mom and my aunt invited other residents to come and say good-by – both before and after my grandmother died. In the end, it my grandmother’s death was exactly the way it was supposed to be. She was surrounded by compassion and love. It couldn’t have been any other way, because that was the way it was.