clean grief

I've been sitting with this for a while.
Partly because that's how it has to settle. It has to get in my bones until it doesn't feel uncomfortable any more. Then it is real.
And partly because I've been fighting what I've just said. Because if I sit on it, like it's a manhole cover, the sewage won't come bubbling up. Then it is really real.

My friend chose to die. He chose to die on his own terms as the law gave him permission.
My friend was terminally ill, but his decision was made many years before, as medical poison killed off cells, good and bad. He swore then if he survived he would never endure that treatment again. And twenty-two years later, when cancer invaded for another battle, Weldon Bona would not draw his sword.
Instead he chose to live what time was left as he had always lived. He lived like he was going to die.

weldon bona (photo by steve wadden) 

I knew something was wrong before I was told.
I knew it in the way that those with a long history of friendship know when a pattern has slipped out of place. There was a sudden silence; unreturned calls and messages. Friends who were on the ground told me "You'll have to talk to Bone". I feared what I didn't want to be true.

He wanted to tell us face to face. It was his story to tell and as Weldon did everything, he would do it in his way. I drove to Cape Breton to see him. Friends gathered, talking, questioning, crying. He had an answer for every inquiry, and let us know his plans were already in motion. He would die when he decided it was time.

That night I stayed with him, our heads coming together in the cushioned angle of the large sectional sofa, watching television. In the middle of Coronation Street I started to cry again. He told me "You should be happy for me. We're all dying but most don't know when. I do. The problem is, most people live like they are never going to die. But if you live like you're dying, you have a much richer life".

I carried those words with me, back across the Causeway on that early Autumn day. I carry them closer now.

Christmas came and then the New Year, and finally, the date was set. But circumstance and  the healthcare system had other plans, and when Weldon's case became a glitch,  he became a fly in the ointment, and gave the last fight of his life so that he could die. 

And then it was time.
He threw a party.
It was a gathering of about twenty friends, his inner circle. There was food, wine, champagne. He laid out the remainder of his medical marijuana and wanted everyone to partake. Many of us faked it, not inhaling because we wanted to be clear-headed for what was to come.
Weldon was in great spirits. He was happy that we were all with him, and he even pulled off one final practical joke on a friend. He had set it in motion weeks before, so he was thrilled with the pay-off that sent us all into tear-streaming laughter.

In the late afternoon, Erica, the woman who was going to perform the procedure, came to talk to those of us who were present. She explained what was going to happen.
There would be three needles.
The first would relax the body, and sending him into a very deep and peaceful sleep. That would be the last thing of which he would be aware.
The second needle would freeze the veins. Sometimes the third solution could sting and they wanted no discomfort at all.
The third would paralyze the organs, shutting them down. Shortly after that, his heart would stop.
Throughout the procedure, she would ask him at every step, if he wanted to proceed. He had every chance to change his mind. He assured her that he would not.

Erica asked him what time she should return and he told her 9 PM that night.
Friends continued to arrive and there was more talking, crying, hushed voices, loud laughs. Weldon sat or lay on the sofa, engaging with the group, or talking quietly to one person, or sometimes closing his eyes, maybe sleeping, maybe listening to his hive buzz around him.

At 8.30 I noticed the time and I felt sick. I mentioned to another friend "Oh my god, it's 8. 30". At the same time, I saw Weldon look at his watch and say "Oh my god, it's only 8.30". He was ready.

Erica was prompt. She came in quietly, and made her way to the sofa. Everyone gathered around, although not too close, as Weldon wanted only Erica to be next to him.  The process began with the insertion of IV lines. She told him that once the lines were in, he could take as much time as he needed to talk to his friends and say goodbye. He waved that suggestion away.
"No need. I've said all I need to say. Let's get 'er done. " He was ready.

There are two levels in the loft apartment, and we sat and stood staggered, but together. I was on the upper level, with people in front of me and people behind. Erica explained that she was going to administer the first needle. She asked if he still wanted to go ahead, Weldon said a resounding yes, and then smiling at his friends, he said good night. Voices called out "We love you Bone". "Safe journey, Friend". There was the sound of soft crying, of tissues being separated from each other and pulled from boxes. We waited as our friend drifted away from us, with a smile on his face.

As I sat there, looking at those around me, I was compelled to capture what I saw. I took my phone from my pocket and I took a picture.
This is not something I would have ever considered doing, and certainly not something I would have ever considered posting publicly, except for one thing.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I realized: This is love.
Our friend slipped out of this world, carried away on our love.

this is what love looks like

It took a few minutes for his heart to finally stop. Erica confirmed his death and the funeral home was called. The only thing I knew I couldn't bear, was to see him leave the apartment. I didn't want to witness them taking him out of there, so a few of us went downstairs to the next level. Sitting on the floor of the hallway that joined the front of the building to the back, we were given a comedic gift that Weldon himself could have orchestrated for our benefit. We listened to the sounds of trying to get his body down three flights of not very wide stairs. The drunkest of friends, and those who didn't fake inhale, decided that they would help "take my buddy out of here". Hearing the discussion and strategy had those of us in the hallway laughing so hard we were sobbing, because your body can't tell the difference between hilarity and heartbreak sometimes.

In a strange way, the most difficult of times of our lives can also be some of the best. This experience was as profound and beautiful as it was heartbreaking. The only thing I can say is that it is the first time in my life I've ever experienced clean grief.

I've lost those I've loved suddenly, and I've watched others linger and suffer. 

In this case, there is a tremendous loss, but there are no "if only's " or "what ifs". There was nothing left unsaid. There is grief, but it is clean. 

The loss is lessened by the reminder that this was Weldon's wish and that while those left behind ache, we must also, as he said, be happy for him.