In my previous article, I wrote about Bonnie, a woman who was baptised in hospital, another breast cancer warrior. When I wrote the last article, I knew that Bonnie’s time in this life would be short. This article tells the story of her death.
When I last saw Bonnie, she was in a hospital room with a willow cross taped to a window. Dappled sun glistened in the window and it was a beautiful day. I was unable to see Bonnie the following day as I had a commitment to be at Church out of town, and asked if I could visit her when I returned to Fernie.
“Of course”, she said, “I look forward to seeing you.”
My plan was to be with her by 4:00 pm on Sunday 12 October, Thanksgiving Sunday.
Saturday afternoon I drove with my friend to Kimberley, BC to Kimberley Shared Ministry. Nancy had never visited Kimberley before so she and I enjoyed an afternoon of wandering around the Platzl, steeling ourselves against the brisk autumn wind.
We checked into our hotel for the night and enjoyed a quiet evening chatting, laughing and catching up with one another. Nancy lives in Ontario and we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like. When I was diagnosed with cancer, she decided she needed to see me in person, and so she flew from London, Ontario to Cranbrook, BC to see, with her own eyes, that I’m okay.
The next morning we went for a drive and then arrived at Kimberley Shared Ministry where we enjoyed a full house, wonderful music, shared in Communion and celebrated God’s grace. Instead of the sermon I had prepared, I preached Bonnie’s story. When I got to the part where she placed her hand on my chest and asked if I had cancer, some members of the congregation gasped…they were not aware that I had been diagnosed with cancer.
Following worship and a time of hospitality, Nancy and I drove back to Fernie through some snow showers. It was a typical Thanksgiving drive, lovely trees changing colour, a bit of snow and low cloud, nearly obscuring the mountains.
When we got back to the flat, Nancy insisted we both needed to rest and so we did, she in her room, and I in mine. Just before 3:00 pm I roused from a nap and decided I needed to go to the hospital. Nancy decided to stay behind.
I got to the hospital just after 3:00 pm. I went to the Nurse’s station and learned that Bonnie had been transferred to the palliative suite, which is a lovely, open, bright, airy room with space for families to gather. She had changed into a bright yellow long sleeved pajama top and matching white, yellow and green pajama pants. She looked well, and happy.
“Hello!” I said as I entered the room. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Happy thanksgiving to you!” she said. “Today is a good day!”
“I am so glad to hear that”, I said. What makes today such a good day?” I asked.
“Today is the day I die” she said, eyes shining.
Her face was scanning mine carefully, searching for my reaction.
“Congratulations!” I said. And I meant it.
She explained that the day she had been baptised, she was told that she had qualified for MAiD, Medical Assistance in Death. She had made an application eight excruciating months earlier. Receiving permission a couple of hours after her baptism on the Thursday had seemed poetic and heaven-sent.
I asked why she hadn’t told me before, and she said it didn’t seem right after the last conversation we’d had, where she’d named my cancer. We sat quietly for a few minutes, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Here was my sister in Christ, battling the same disease as I am, of similar age, and staring bravely into the end of her earthly life.
Those of you who know me know I am the farthest thing from subtle. I asked if she had decided when this would happen and she told me, “today at 4:00 pm”. The clock showed 3:20 pm.
I asked if I could be present, and she said she wanted that to be.
I asked if I could be involved in her memorial service, and she said she wanted that to be.
I asked if she knew when the memorial service would be, and she said that it would be in the Spring as she wanted a red maple tree planted in her memory.
I spent the next fifteen minutes speaking with each of her daughters and her husband, assuring them of my support and guiding what happens next.
The MAiD physician came into the room just before 4:00 pm with a document he needed Bonnie to read and sign. She signed the document, the second such document since she had learned her wish for MAiD had been granted. He explained the procedure, the length of time it would take and what to expect next.
He asked if there were any questions and one of her grandsons asked when would we know she’d got to heaven. He pointed to me and said “Ask them!”. The room laughed and I uncovered a tattoo I have on my right forearm. It is of a dandelion, the puffy white kind, with scattered petals and the words “spirit, breath, and wind” etched.
The Hebrew word Ruah is also present and I explained the ancient belief that when a person is born they receive their “Ruah”, their spirit, breath or wind, their essence or soul, if you wish.
We each have a unique self which remains with us through our earthly lives. When we come to the end of our life, we will exhale for the last time and our Ruah returns to the lifesource from whence it came. There was a comfortable silence when I finished speaking and the grandson nodded at me.
The MAiD doctor came back into the room a few minutes later with seven vials of medicine which would be used to bring about Bonnie’s death. He asked her, one final time, if this was what she wished to happen. She said, in a clear and strong voice, “Yes it is”. It struck me suddenly that when a couple are married by banns, the questions are asked three times. Here was a woman who had asked to end her suffering and was being asked to answer the question three times. It seemed to me to be both poetic and beautiful.
Someone was trying to play an awful version of Amazing Grace on their phone which kept glitching. After attempting this three times, I cleared my voice and started to sing Amazing Grace, a capella. Those who knew it joined in and we sang it through twice.
As we sang, the MAiD doctor diligently went about his work. He was methodical in administering the medicines, the nurse by his side dutifully recording each vial of medicine used. An uneasy silence fell across the room as we waited for the doctor to finish his task.
Suddenly I was moved to sing the song of Simeon. A beautiful, ancient hymn often sung as a casket is being led to its final resting place. I have sung this hymn hundreds of times, most commonly at gravesides, yet also in hospitals and at bedsides. “As it was in the beginning, is now and every shall be, world without end. Amen”.
As the finishing strains of the hymn ended, the MAiD doc finished his last vial of medicine and we sat in silence. He placed the stethoscope in his ears, and placed it against Bonnie’s chest. He nodded. She was gone. Peacefully. In a most dignified way. Her earthly journey is over, her suffering ended.
In eighteen years of ordained ministry, I have been present at the bedside of many, many deaths. I worked as a volunteer for six years in palliative care, long before I took holy orders. Every death is sacred. Not every death is gentle or dignified. Bonnie’s death was beautiful.
I was honoured to be part of her new life in Christ through her baptism.
I was so honoured to be part of her transition from this life to the next through her death.
It will be my absolute honour to gather with her family in the Spring to remember her. There will be laughter, tears, scripture, singing, reflections, and not a single piece of black clothing in sight. Rainbow tie-dye for me!
By the grace of God, I met a remarkable woman who reflected the light of Christ to me. We bonded over the waters of baptism, held hands through promises made and kept. We knew each other for four days, and she will remain part of my heart for the rest of my earthly life.
In eighteen years of ordained ministry, I have never had an experience as profound as this one. Bonnie is my soul sister, a warrior and I look forward to seeing her again. In the next life.
Rest in peace Bonnie, may your memory always be a blessing.
Originally published October 2025