Miscarriage, Mental Wellness, and the Meaning of Bill C7 -Part 2: Bill C7
The implications of Medical Assistance in Dying to a community fighting for their lives.
Please click the above link for part 1 of this post, if you haven’t yet caught up! :)
In my pain, I felt totally abandoned. My best friend had failed me, the Church had failed me, my family had failed me, and the health and social services had failed me. If there was a God, He certainly had failed me, because the only thing I could see was darkness, and supposedly He was the light of the world. At the time it didn’t matter whatsoever if, or to what extent, any of these statements were true. They had become agonizingly real.
On March 17 of this year, Bill C7 was amended in Canada to expand the qualifications for Medical Assistance in Dying. Aside from the plethora of opinions I have regarding the bill itself, I want to bring one specific aspect to people’s attention.
The bill enables that, starting on the 17th of March in the year 2023, MAID will be made available to people whose only underlying condition is a mental illness.
Probably many of you are waiting to hear about how my story turns out. Well bare with me here, because I’m switching gears for a moment. Partially because these experiences were such a major part of my journey…but more importantly: depression and suicidal ideation are not the only aspects of Mental Illness that need to be addressed. I can’t speak from personal experience regarding other diagnoses - but I can share stories which illuminate the humanity of those who have.
*Please know that none of these accounts are meant to make a statement about the nature of a mental health disorder, but simply to shed light on various true stories as they happened. I believe that all types of illnesses share a spiritual, emotional and physical component and need to be treated as such on a case-by-case basis. *
About a month into the pandemic, I begin working on the Mental Health floor of a residency for at-risk men. The majority of these men had various forms of Schizophrenia, Bi-Polar, or both. Very few were fully autonomous, and the majority had an abundance of comorbidities.
Who ever could have known that the decision made one rainy day in the middle of a global pandemic would have brought me here. Almost exactly a year later my mind flips through pages of memories which have already begun to wear for their replay, and I can’t help but feel the weight of their significance. It was here that I began to breathe purpose back into each moment, and rediscovered what it meant to be a friend as only Jesus can be.
Within 48 hours of hearing about the job opening, I was sitting in the HR office signing stacks of paperwork and skim-reading protocols. I was alone in Montreal, in the middle of a world health crisis, working at a job I was barely qualified for, in a language I could hardly speak. My husband was three hours away in a tiny cottage in rural Ontario. I had no idea how long it would be before we would be able to live together - or even see one another - again.
My first day on the third floor, it was only me and the supervisor. Every single other member of staff, save one, was in quarantine because they had come in contact with the dreaded Covid-19 virus. As we ran through the morning medication routine, I scanned down the list of then-strangers and saw lines scrawled next to some. There were more than a couple in the hospital who had been diagnosed with the virus.
The very first door where we knocked, no resident came to greet us. It didn’t take me long to realize this was not a good sign. Finally the supervisor pulls out a key…what I would later know as “RS”, and opens the door, while calling the resident’s name. I cringed and wrinkled my nose at the smell coming from inside his bedroom. Then chided myself, silently asking Jesus to give me His heart for others.
He was in bed, still fully clothed. The only responses to our questions were grunts, and a couple fleeting mumbled responses. After many requests for him to take his medication, he finally rolled over and ever so slowly dragged himself to a sitting position. He crossed the room to get his shoes, and then sat back on the bed to lace them up.
“You don’t need to put your shoes on. Just take you medication please.”
He either didn’t hear or didn’t understand, and continued to lace them up .
By the time this whole process was over he seemed exhausted. I was exhausted just watching, and the thick warmth of my own breath trapped beneath a disposable blue mask, and the plastic visor I had been handed that morning are hardly accommodating to energy levels. In the end he never did take get his medication down. The following day the paramedics came, accompanied by the SPVM in order to bring him to the hospital for a Covid test. The results came back positive.
This was only the beginning. There are pages of stories outlining the humorous, the difficult, and the truly heartbreaking things I have experienced. When I open my eyes past the ache of these men and the chaos and disorganization of the administration, I can only stand in awe of the things God has done here, the imago dei, and the healing I found in the process. It was in this building that I was reminded of the meaning of sacrificial love.
He would come hang out with me as I sat late in the evenings, surrounded by the smoky haze drifting under the door frame from the indoor “fumoir.” It was in these times that he seemed the most alive - the most unaffected by his illness. He would talk about his youth, and little pieces of the puzzle whom he was before his illness began.
I had always been drawn to his eyes. They burned with anger when provoked - either by one of us, or simply by the demons which haunted his mind. Yet in moments of lucidity, the deep sadness emanating there, would split any heart which took the time to notice. It was through that sadness that he spoke of his illness not as a disease, but in a way that surprised me. He blamed it on sin he had allowed to enter his life. He claimed that if only he could find God…if only the God of Abraham would speak to him, that he would be set free. But in the meantime he served someone else. And in the moments of anger that “someone else” raged, yelled, and advanced me into a corner while spewing lies which could only allude to rape and other vulgarities which he claimed as his own identity.
It was backed into that corner that I spoke not to who he claimed himself to be, but to who I knew my Heavenly Father created him to become. When he loomed his 6’3’’ frame over me with intent to intimidate, I looked into his eyes and calmly told him he was loved, that he was chosen by God, and that he didn’t need to be angry.
“Why are you talking to me like that? You know me don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” I called him by his birth name.
“You have the power to say things like that?”
“Yes. I have the power which raised Jesus from the dead living in me”
“But you don’t have your head covered, so you have no authority”
“My authority is by the name and blood of Jesus”
And he would step back and look down at me - his eyes still smoldering, but the fight, gone.”
“Can you bring me another book? About Jesus? Or something Spiritual?”
“Of course.”
Another resident walks the hallways yelling profanities and insults at others. It is another difficult day after a horrible prolonged period of indoor isolation. I can tell he usually spends a good part of his time outside…and usually he would ask for his “turn” to go outside while I was the one on duty. Sometimes he brought a soccer ball: he would play goalie, and I would try and be good enough to get a shot on him. In reality he was quite talented. Despite his age, he is one of the few who somehow maintained a trim and somewhat athletic physique.
There was a string of days when he would eagerly ask if I was interested in a foot race. How could I say no? From the street side of the parking lot we stood poised, awaiting another resident to fire the invisible starting gun. Then off we would go! His navy business cardigan and tie and my pale blue nursing scrubs catching the breeze as we ran, our masks strung around our forearms. Just for one laughter-filled moment, the sickness that gripped our world disappeared into the wind. Our hands slapped against the back of the company van in unison, as we tied nearly every single time.
When we look at something as shocking as Bill C7, the very reason for our existence on this earth as Christians is called into question. If the death of Jesus rescues from sin, so that we spend an eternity with Him, than why does God bother leaving us down here at all?
See as I sat there writing until the despairingly early and inconveniently late hour of three o’clock in the morning, it dawned on me like the soon-to-rise sun: the people are my purpose. Not because of anything I have done, or anything they have done. They are my purpose because of what Jesus asked us to do:
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed,” Luke 4:18
If you are a follower of Jesus, it is your responsibility to be educated about mental health.
If you are not a follower of Jesus, I would ask you this basic timeless question:
“What does it mean to be human?”
Does broadening the eligibility of MAID, especially to include those with a mental illness, align with your core beliefs and values on the value of life for humanity?
I could write so many more short stories that illuminate this humanity…this imago dei:
I could write about one man’s excitement when he came with us to hand out food to the homeless…not only because he had the opportunity to give back to those who were in a place where he once had been. But because in giving, he had the opportunity to spend time with an employee one-on-one. He had the opportunity to belong.
I could write about the resident who had eaten almost nothing but “Ensure” for weeks straight: how I accompanied him to a doctors appointment, and then took him out for a huge brunch. How he ate his bacon with a childlike abandon. We walked by sunflowers that were taller than both of us on the way there, and he freely laughed aloud. I prayed that my supervisors wouldn’t find out about our little adventure, while thanking God that we could share a few moments of joy and friendship outside the confines of protocols and rules.
Or the resident who brought me a flower to put in my hair, and gifted me a loonie on my birthday.
Or the residents who remind me every time they see me that when the pandemic is over, we are all going to jam and sing songs in the chapel together. My heart breaks wondering how long it will be before we can make music together again.
I could write about evenings spent quietly playing the guitar late into the night while on surveillance duty on the first floor. How I got to jam for over an hour with a resident from upstairs, as we sang through French country classics, and taught each other chords progressions.
I could write about the song I wrote for a resident and the Mother he hadn’t been permitted to see in years. How I sang it for him, and how later he admitted I made him cry. Months later when helping clean his room I found a card written to him from his Mom. The words she wrote were a prayer nearly identical to the song which had poured from God’s heart earlier that year.
I could write about the guitar which was so lovingly entrusted to me during a time when residents were in total isolation and couldn’t leave the premises. With money donated from eager artists (thanks guys!!!), I took the guitar to a luthier and had it almost entirely rebuilt. He has played it almost every day since then, and sang his own compositions for me. And on the days where he plays, the ferocity seems to dim in his eyes, and the kind desire to connect with others returns.
“Do you get that from your mother?” I ask
He smiles…a hint of sadness but sincerity masks the character which only a moment ago was yelling to someone invisible to my perception.
“She’s a nice lady.” He replies
He is the same person who will enter the office when I am working there on my own.
“Can I sit down? I just want to talk. No one ever talks to me around here.”
And so we talk. Mostly about music, sometimes about our families, or any recent changes in the lunch menu. But to him it means being present.
I could write about the elderly resident I grew attached to. The slight case of broca’s aphasia added to the impression that he wasn’t “all there.” But I could see in his eyes that he understood far more than we gave him credit for. It was beside this gentleman that I squatted on the cold floor of his room, as we waited for the paramedics to come. His body was burning with fever, and he looked at me with fear in his eyes. He hadn’t wanted the ambulance to come…but he knew it was necessary. I wished that the virus didn’t exist. That I could take off the cold rubber gloves, hospital blue gown, mask and visor, and simply be present with him without the PPE barrier between our shared humanity. As he was wheeled on a stretcher into the elevator, I waved and said as cheerfully as possible. “Get better soon so you can come home, okay?”
It was the last time I saw him. He was too old to live here unassisted anymore, they said. And so he went alone to a CHSLD with none of his belongings, and no family who were invested enough to ask about his whereabouts. I wonder if I was the last to speak to him of “home.” I wonder if he knows about heaven being a home he can return to. I wonder if he knows that he has a heavenly Father who loves him ever so deeply.
So what does it mean that MAID will be made available to people whose only underlying condition is a mental illness?
I can’t speak for others. But let me rephrase this how I hear it:
Starting on March, 2023, since you have already reached the point where you believe your life to be unbearable and worthless, we will affirm this perpetuating lie, by helping you finalize your death. Instead of offering you suicide prevention, let’s offer you some suicide assistance!
To harsh of a statement? Here are some (very) brief cost analysis for neuro-related assistance in Canada:
A basic ADHD evaluation costs $1500.
If you want a comprehensive in-depth assessment with a neuropsychologist, the cost is between $2700 and $3500, with waits times that surpass over a month.
Psychotherapy is a bare-bottom minimum of $65 an hour, usually hitting around $90/hr.
Other specialized forms of therapy such as art, music or equine therapy can be even more…upwards of $100/hr.
None of the above are covered by Canadian Medicare.
Both free social services I tried to access were so overwhelmed they turned me away. I have multiple residents who got lost, relocated, mugged, ignored, and pretty much given-up on by the system.
But do you know what is free?
Euthanasia.
It isn’t the people who can afford social health services who are generally at risk either. In fact, the Journal of Epidemiology (Suicide Rates Across Income levels., Lee, Sang-Ku et al. 2017) says suicide hazards are shown to increase as an individuals socioeconomic status decreases.
But we want Euthanasia, and we’ll offer that for free.
According to the WHO, 79% of suicides occur in low to middle income countries.
But we want Euthanasia, and we’ll offer that for free.
In 2016, suicide was the second leading cause of death in 15–29 year old’s.
But as a nation, we have asked for Euthanasia.
And we’re offering it for free…
(and also available to anyone over 18 years of age).
A report released in July 2020 by the Canadian Association for Mental Health showed the following alarming statistics:
- 50% of Canadians reported worsening mental health since the start of Covid
- 81% of Canadian workers claimed Covid to have negatively impacted their mental health
- A study on a group of quarantined individuals in Toronto found that 28.9% showed symptoms of PTSD, and 31.2% had signs of depression
- Children who had to quarantine with their parents were reported 4x more likely to develop symptoms of PTSD
This isn’t even beginning to address more complicated mental health diagnoses. And do you know where our country will be in two years?
The health system will be utterly overwhelmed (perhaps more than they already are!!!!) with the casualties of this Pandemic has caused our mental health. In a system who can barely keep track of those who are already “plugged in” (Trust me, I’ve worked there, and it’s an absolute nightmare), how will we possibly take on all the new or increasingly worsening mental health crisis? As a result, victims will go to private resources, until they realize they can’t afford them.
But you know what is affordable?
Euthanasia.
There are no “safe guards” that can ever be firmly enough in place to make MAID “safe” for someone suffering from a mental illness. It goes against everything we have ever fought for to minimize suicide. Even if you don’t hold the Christian beliefs I am clearly so fanatical about, causing your own demise goes against nearly all evolutionary reasoning.
There was a week during the pandemic where not a single day went by that I didn’t answer a call or text from a friend in mental crisis.
What is the point of this? Where it the value in driving 7 hours to another province at midnight to stay with a friend struggling with suicidal ideation? What is the point in my cousin answering desperate phone calls at 3am just to sit in silence and be present? Why text my friend every single day for weeks just to make sure they’re still “okay”? Why should I bother sitting up for hours in the evening holding my friends hand and telling her she has value and is loved and that there is hope even in her pain? Why should Dennet have even bothered to call the hotline when I tried to take my own life?
If suicide is acceptable, than there’s no reason (technically speaking) to try and convince someone their life has purpose.
One major thing mental health advocates fight for is that mental health is a physical illness that affects your neurological pathways. These misconnections cause a breach between reality and harmful thoughts which become real to the individual.
The existence of Bill C7 calls those harmful thoughts reality.
Part of the reason I have attempted to take my life “only” once, is because I refused to allow it as an option in my mind.
The existence of Bill C7 calls suicide an accepted viable option.
If you’d like to take a step in the direction of stopping this bill from coming into effect, please consider signing: https://www.garnettgenuismp.ca/tellmetostay
(Part 3 of my story TBC in the link below…)
