42 days

 That’s how long my mother-in-law has to live.

I know this because she has chosen MAID—medical assistance in dying, as we call it here in Canada. She has a progressive, fatal illness, and the road ahead is not a gentle one. It’s hard to fault her decision. In fact, it’s hard not to admire the clarity of it.

She has picked her date.

The last time we saw her, she said, almost offhandedly, “I really hope someone else hasn’t taken the spot, because I really want that date.” As if she were booking a table at a restaurant. It was jarring, and yet… completely in character. Practical. Organized. Still managing things.

She’s tying everything up now—making it as smooth as possible for the people she’s leaving behind. Her longtime partner. My husband, Serge.

And yet, smooth is not the word I would use for what’s happening to them.

I think—though I hesitate to say it out loud—that they would both prefer she go “naturally.” Not because they don’t respect her decision, but because this… this feels like watching a clock tick down. It’s too precise. Too scheduled. Too real in a way that doesn’t allow for denial.

I’ve been pushing Serge to call her more. To visit.

He resists.

I couldn’t understand that at first. If you knew someone you loved had only a handful of days left, wouldn’t you want to be there as much as possible?

Last week, I finally convinced him to go.

I wasn’t prepared for what came after.

Serge is a mess.

I keep walking into rooms and finding him sitting there, crying. Not loudly. Just… undone. Sometimes he’ll be in the middle of telling me something completely ordinary, and then his face crumples, and he has to stop. He apologizes, as if this is somehow an inconvenience.

This is not the man I know. Or maybe it is, and I’m only seeing it now.

Friends have told me they understand his reaction. I think I’m starting to, too.

It’s one thing to lose someone suddenly, like when his father died. A massive stroke, and within hours, he was gone. There was shock, and then grief rushed in to fill the space. I remember the funeral home,  his widow and Serge trying to take notes while the representative spoke, both crying, neither really absorbing anything.

This is different.

This is grief with a countdown.

It doesn’t crash over you. It seeps in, day by day, moment by moment. You sit with it. You talk around it. You avoid it. And then it finds you anyway.

I’m trying to be as supportive as I can, though I have a feeling the next few weeks are going to be hard on all of us.

Except maybe her.

We’re going to see her next week for her birthday.

Her last birthday.

What do you give someone when you know it’s their last?

I don’t have an answer yet.

Stay tuned.