Women

My Mom Chose Medical Aid In Dying But Didn’t Get Her Right To Die

The author and her mom in 1984.

“Stage 4 peritoneal carcinomatosis of unidentified origin.”

The air in my dining room suddenly felt stagnant and murky. My wife, my mom and I sat at our dining-room table in a Zoom meeting room, staring at the doctor who was delivering the worst news possible from a tiny square on my laptop. Before I could utter a sound, she confirmed my fear: “It’s extremely late stage, I’m very sorry.” I shoved my chair away and ran sobbing up the stairs. I could not even console my mom.

I just wanted to go back in time and change the inevitable ending, as if it was all just a horrific story I was reading. I grew up in the 1980s, raised on the “Choose Your Own Adventure” book series, where I could control the ending by changing the trajectory at the end of each chapter. I was fascinated by the idea that a tiny, seemingly incidental action could change the course of the story, and ultimately the outcome.

On that day in May 2020, my mom became the protagonist in her own adventure story. She was diagnosed with late-stage ovarian cancer. She was only 68 and had many adventures ahead of her. We made a pact that day to guarantee one thing within the unpredictable plot ― the ending to her own story.

Following her devastating diagnosis, she emphatically chose life. “Meggie, I’m ready,” she told me. “We got this! I am not going anywhere.” Choosing to fight for your life is not an adventure for the faint of heart, and my mom was a spirited warrior.

The first year of our journey did not lack excitement. There was darkness, pain, countless hospitals visits, and even unexpected joy. Mom ended her first round of chemo after six months with her spirit intact, and with the belief she slayed her cancer dragons. She slowly recovered from the wreckage of chemo, her previously perfectly colored hair began to grow back as shiny and reflective as armor, and we began to acclimate to a slightly less intense adventure.

The author and her mom in 1984.

We thought we finally had the storybook ending that kept us hopeful during the roller coaster ride known as cancer treatment.

Fast-forward several chapters, and a return to the hospital with undiagnosable pain. No cancer was detected after months of hospital stays, scans and tests. Finally we were given a cause for the pain: gallstones. We cheered for gallstones in the glass-walled tank that was her ER room. We were so relieved, and surgery was scheduled for the next week.

Then we received a call from her oncologist.

“It’s…

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