There in her bedroom, I held her hand and watched her die.

Three syringes in a row that would successively put her to sleep, make her lose consciousness, and then stop her heart.

“I love you. And you. And you. And you. And you,” she said as she looked at each one of us.

“I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me…”

The difference between life and death was nothing more than 30ml in a syringe that slowly kept moving.

Watching the black rubber plunger go from 30 to 20 to 10 felt like an eternity. If I just reached out my hand, I knew I could reach the syringe, I knew I could stop it, but I also knew that’s not what she wanted — and she sure had been through enough pain.

So we all held on to her hands, sat around her bed, and told her how much she was loved.

Moments later, her body slowly stopped all of its normal rhythms.

She was gone.

Suddenly everything around became transformed. It was no longer part of a life, but rather a memory of who she once was.

That blue and gold vase that sat on her shelf was an example of an item that told so much of her story.

Like her, it had been there for so many family members through the generations.

It was old and chipped — and nobody really knew where all the chips had come from anymore. They had just became a part of her.

It was simple and understated. Not yearning for more, but simply wanting to be present and to be in the company of those she loved.

So much of Gram could be found in that blue and gold vase.

It’s said that being kind is giving even when you have nothing left.

Her body was largely gone and her mind was there in bouts. She had just days left, and she knew it —Thursday at 10:30am couldn’t come fast enough, she’d say.

She had very little yet gave so much.

In the hour before her death, her case worker Cassie called to say goodbye and to check in on her.

After confirming this was what she wanted, she began to ask about Cassie’s husband — how was he doing? She’d heard he wasn’t feeling well. And then she asked about the vacation Cassie had just returned from.

She had less than sixty minutes left to live and this is what she wanted to know.

She gave her love so freely and openly. She gave away her car. She paid others’ rent. Anything she had, it was yours if it helped.

And she was tough as nails.

Four kids by 23. Raising them alone while putting herself through hairstyling school. Abusive partners. Esophageal cancer that left her with an inability to eat right and a floating rib constantly causing pain. Low platelets so a bump could become a massive bruise and a cut could take days to heal. And circulation problems that meant her legs were in constant pain, swollen, nearly numb, and would eventually need to be amputated.

Carrying all of that, she still wanted to go her way, leaving as little as possible for others to need to worry about.

She packed up much of her own house. She wrote a letter and taped it to the superintendent’s door, notifying him that her lease would be ending.

Despite all she had been through, she always sought the blue skies. Choosing laughter and love over anything else.

In the minutes before her death, she took one last sip of water. “I love my Georgian Bay gin,” she said with a laugh.

The was who she was — love, strength, and laughter.

And this was her choice.

To go out on her own terms. Before the pain became absolutely unbearable. Before she could no longer care for herself. Before her mind was gone.

I’ll forever be grateful for the month I got to spend with her leading up her MAID process.

I saw her more that I have in decades. We spoke with a level of depth and honesty that’s rare these days, at least in my experience.

We had poutine at Little Lake. We visited her mother’s grave. We visited her daughter’s (my mother’s) tree that we planted after her passing.

And we even got to drive up to Bala, an hour away, where they opened up just for her and made their famous fish and chips, which she’d always wanted to try. And she probably ate more in that meal than she has in years.

She sure knew how to pick a last meal.

And in many ways, this trip was our last meal. Riley, Nygel, and myself showering her in love. Hearing all of her stories. And making sure she felt so damn special in every possible moment we could.

We often wait until somebody is gone to make the effort and show up to their funeral.

In Kaye’s case, there will be no funeral after her passing.

We chose to celebrate her life with her. And then to be by her bedside, holding her hand, as she passed.

And I, for one, wouldn’t have had it any other way.