I have to say that I can’t possibly remember the last time I was in a bar at 2pm on a Saturday afternoon, because maybe I never have been.  But that’s where I found myself yesterday, waiting to watch an old student of mine get up with his band to play a set at an open mic.   It wasn’t the kind of “open mic” I’m used to, with a single stool and maybe one mic, if even that.  No this was a huge stage with tons of amps and mics and stands and even lights.

What was interesting to me wasn’t that I was in a bar at 2pm on a Saturday, but that the place was filled with long-haired hippy freaks, dressed as if they never left the 70’s.  You know the type; hollow-cheeked, glassy-eyed, peace sign tattoos, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Well, admittedly, they were much older, just like me, and some of the long hair was thinning and grey and the tattoos were getting wrinkled. But other than the obvious signs of age, it was like being in a time capsule.  The bands were playing Lynard Skynard, Fleetwood Mac, Rolling Stones and Eric Clapton and the girls (well, “girls” no longer) were up dancing by themselves or with each other as if they were tripping out on Janis Joplin.

If you think I’m just going to reminisce about the 70’s, though, you’re wrong. Actually, I wanted to talk about doctors. Yeah, kind of a leap, I know. But bare with me.

When I was sitting there looking at my contemporaries, I was wondering how on earth this generation, my generation, is going to handle REAL old age.  Maybe it’s because I’ve lost my father and stepmother recently that I’ve begun to think that way.  I’m next.  We’re next.  We aren’t kids any more.  When we were younger, unless we had health issues, we never thought much about doctors.

I didn’t really go to my doctor much even in my 30’s or 40’s, unless it was for one of my kids.  I remember once bumping into my doctor down town and she pestered me about coming in for a check up. But I didn’t really feel like I needed to;  I was healthy and happy and what’s the point?  When I turned 50, however, I thought I should at least make one visit with her and check things out.  Of course, the high blood pressure that had been lurking for years had now reached (literally) a fever pitch, 174 over 93.  Not good.  After a battery of tests to figure out if there was an underlying cause, I was immediately put on blood pressure medication.

I was in shock.  Me?  Pills?  At first I sort of resented the whole notion, but as time went by I got used to the morning ritual of popping a pill at breakfast and making sure I had them with me whenever I went away.  Then late last year, I discovered that I have something called atrial flutter, where one of my heart’s chambers occasionally spazzes out and causes my entire heart to beat too quickly for long periods.  Its likely cause, the cardiologist said, was too many years with unchecked high blood pressure.  Duh.  High stress and things like caffeine can trigger it.  I’m happy to say I haven’t had any bouts for months, but it has to be monitored.

But now my doctor has reached her retirement age…passed it, really.  And although she hasn’t announced her retirement, she has been looking for a replacement.  The problem is, there aren’t any.  Young doctors these days prefer to specialize or to work in clinics with other doctors where they don’t have to deal with overhead and the responsibility of an office and staff all alone.  So GPs are becoming a thing of the past.  And that scares me just a little.  When my sister-in-law had a stroke a few years back, she didn’t have a doctor to oversee her recovery.  The list of potential GPs that was given to her was full of doctors who had either retired or weren’t taking new patients because they were already overwhelmed.  It’s awful to think that you could have a serious illness or injury and no one to keep an eye on you.

When I make an appointment with my doctor these days, it now takes up to a month to get in. She has pared down her hours because she just doesn’t want to work as much these days, and who can blame her? She should be basking in the sun, playing with her grandchildren or spending her days in the garden. If I have an emergency I have to go to a clinic or to the emergency ward, and deal with people who don’t know me. That’s the beauty of having a long term GP, they KNOW you. There is great comfort in talking over health issues with someone who is aware of your history.

I had an appointment with my doctor just the other day, mostly to fill prescriptions. But I asked her a couple of questions too, and we went over my history and the things that had happened. I felt very much at peace after that appointment, knowing that I had a course of action to take and that I could trust the person who was giving me that course. We all need that. Trust and comfort.

As I age, along with all of those hippies in the bar at 2pm on a Saturday, who is going to look after us? For the moment, we can still play, we can still dance, we can act like kids when we hear the music we remember from our youth. Most of us are in relatively good health and, fingers crossed, we will remain so for some time yet. I’m just hoping there will be enough young doctors out there willing to help us out when we will truly be needing it.

As my husband and I walked out of the bar, there was the inevitable sweet smell of pot wafting around us. Someone was giggling. I couldn’t help but giggle myself.

If I closed my eyes, it was like we were just leaving a high school dance. Except it was, by this time, only 4pm.  Still time to get home, eat dinner, watch the hockey game and get to bed early.  The 70’s are, clearly, long gone.

I drove to the church on a chilly February afternoon 21 years ago, just a little nervous about my impending performance at the service. I knew this wasn’t going to be an ordinary occasion by any means, but I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw when I got out of my car in the church parking lot.

Along with the expected media, there were plain-clothed RCMP everywhere.  One of them was videotaping as we all walked in the front doors of the church. Someone said they were looking for the doctor, but I was convinced that he or she would never have dared to show up for this.  There had also been a bomb scare, so as I walked inside I noticed more officers walking the halls and standing near all of the entrances, scrutinizing everyone.

A few months earlier I had been asked by singer/songwriter Dennis Lakusta to sing back up on his latest album.  We had recorded it in Surrey BC and afterwards, Dennis had sent a copy of it to Sue Rodriguez, who was at this point pretty much bed-ridden with ALS.  There was a particular song that he had written for her and it turned out she liked it very much and had her caretakers play over and over.  It was called Wounded Eagle.

For those of you who don’t know, it was 22 years ago that Sue Rodriguez had gone all the way to the Supreme Court of Canada advocating for medically assisted dying.  They dismissed her appeal by a vote of 5-4.  A year later she ended her own life with the help of a physician and the support of her family and friends.  As it turned out, after she passed away her caregivers contacted Dennis and told him how much she had loved that song.  They asked him if he would perform it at her service, and because I had recorded it with him, he asked me to accompany him.

I don’t remember much about the service itself.  I do remember that it was very emotionally charged, and in spite of the strangeness of so many officers surrounding the congregation, it was all about Sue. When Dennis and I stood up to sing, I remember looking into tear-stained faces in the first few rows and trying to sing right to them.  The right song at the right moment can go a long way in giving great comfort.

After the service we were invited to Sue’s home, where we met her son and other members of her family.  It was an ordinary home in an ordinary suburb, but the extraordinary person who once lived there still filled it completely.  I remember driving home, feeling the significance of that day, the sorrow, but also the satisfaction that she ended her life the way she wanted to.  They never did figure out who the doctor was who assisted her.

Yesterday, Sue’s quest for a person’s right to die was finally granted by the Supreme Court.  There are many out there who disagree with this ruling, and I understand their doubt and fear.  All I can think about is the question she brought to the Supreme Court when she faced them: “If I cannot consent to my own death, whose body is this?  Who owns my life?”

As it turns out, you do, Sue.

I’ve been to five celebrations of life this year, beginning with my father’s last January 25th.  That, for me, was the toughest one of course, but I hope I gave him the kind of send off he would have enjoyed.

The last one I attended was yesterday.  The wife of my husband’s friend disappeared last January when she went for a hike.  I remember driving out to the park with my husband just after she had disappeared, watching the helicopter above scanning the wooded areas, and the rescue vessel combing the waters below. It was a strange and helpless feeling. There were dozens of hikers and rescue workers on foot, scouring the park hoping to find her. They never did.  Her husband took a long time to decide to hold a memorial for her, the finality of it likely his reason for resisting up to now.  When there is no body, it is undoubtedly difficult to completely let go.

When you read the obituaries these days, most tend to invite people to a celebration of life or a “gathering” rather than a more formal church funeral which was more common when I was growing up.  The very first one I attended was my mother’s memorial when I was 14.  I didn’t really pay much attention to what was said or done, the whole experience was mostly a blur at the time.  But my mother was not religious, so the event reflected that which was unusual at the time.  It was done through a memorial society which she and my father had joined before she passed away.  She was cremated, which was also less popular than burials back in 1972.

But forty-three years later, the way we say good-bye to our loved ones, for the most part, has become a more positive expression.  And I like that.

When you think about it, how someone died is such a tiny event compared to how they lived, even in the case of the woman who disappeared on that hike.  Our minds wandered to all kinds of possibilities as to how it happened, but even in her case, the life she lived before that was far more important.  People stood up and told stories, we laughed, we cried, but mostly we remembered with a smile.  I know that when it’s my turn to go, I will want people to do the same.

Two of the people who passed away were elderly;  my father and one other man.  Three were taken too soon, two by cancer and the woman who disappeared on the hike…all in their 50’s or 60’s.  But each of them had a celebration, a gathering where the real focus was their life, their achievements, their loves.  Their stories.

At my Dad’s celebration, I played an old song that he always loved called “Hallelujah I’m a Bum”.  I don’t know if you would have gotten away with singing such a song forty years ago, even at a non-religious service.  But it was a song he and his sister would sing when they went trick-or-treating as kids on Halloween, and he never got tired of hearing or singing it.  It’s a funny song, but it’s also about poverty during the Great Depression which my father experienced along with so many others so it was a reflection of his life, his era, if you will, and the sense of humour that never left him.  I think he would have enjoyed watching everyone sing along on the chorus that day 🙂

Even though each gathering I have attended in the last year has been mostly a positive experience, I would prefer not to have to attend any more for awhile.  Not that I have any choice.  But what I have resolved to myself is to make sure that from now on I live the kind of life that people will smile and tell good stories about when it’s my turn to go.

To live a life worth celebrating.