A Dying Wish

Hired to perform at a Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) event, here's how it feels when your song becomes someone else’s swan song.

Just over a month ago I received an unusual message through my website. It came from a woman named Cynthia¹, who I had previously met at a music festival in BC.

Hi Jill, Cynthia here. I told you my story when we met...and what your song Legacy meant to me. I cherish the beautiful connection we had and your gracious spirit. My cancer has advanced and I am scheduled for MAID. My dream is to have your song playing. May I invite you virtually to play your beautiful song that means the world to me. My credit card is ready. One song . Love Cynthia

Photograph by Rachel Pick

I remembered Cynthia well. She had introduced herself to me, taken hold of both my hands and explained what my song Legacy meant to her, and how she felt that I had written it just for her. She also told me that she was dying, and that she wanted my song to be part of her departure.

I’ve been hired for many types of gigs in my life, but this one struck a different chord. I was honoured that she was entrusting me to play a central role in the final few moments of her life, but I was also daunted. It felt like a big responsibility, one that I needed to get right.

MAID (Medical Assistance in Dying) has been legal here in Canada for just over 10 years, and allows people suffering from irreversible illnesses to end their lives, assisted by a medical professional. It also enables people to plan the circumstances of their own death, everything from the guest list to the playlist.

Cynthia’s wish for her final hours was a party atmosphere: an all day send-off with her family and dearest friends, favourite snacks, champagne and a zoom-in virtual performance of my song “Legacy.” Between laughter and tears, the drinks were mixed, and so were the emotions.

I don’t know why this song in particular resonated so deeply for her, but I’m so glad it did. I suppose we all see ourselves reflected in the music that we love, recognizing something that is human and real. While I don’t believe in God, I think that music is itself a kind of higher power, working in mysterious ways to connect us all.

When it came time for my performance, the “party” began to shift to a more solemn atmosphere. Cynthia sat in a big living room armchair and placed the laptop (with me on the screen) on her lap. I sang Legacy directly to her and did not look away. She wore sunglasses, but cried her eyes out. Her loved ones gathered around her, arms on her shoulders. Between tears she audibly expressed being overwhelmed, a few times vocalizing some big emotions, releasing loud ohhhs and clasping her hands together. I kept on singing.

She was only 60. She seemed full of life and personality and passion. But she was very ill, and the quality of her life was diminishing daily. She saw the writing on the wall. She wanted to go out on a high note, with dignity, to take a final bow and exit stage left. I’m sure I’d want to do the same in her shoes.

Following my performance she moved into her bedroom, and her daughter placed the laptop (with me on the other end) atop her dresser, where I would continue to gently reprise my song, and play music in the background. Once she was set up comfortably in bed, propped up on a pillow, with her brother and two best friends on either side of her, and her golden lab curled up on the foot of her bed, she took a final sip of champagne from a glass flute. “I’m ready.” The caring doctor providing the MAID service acknowledged her consent to proceed.

A local minister said a bedside prayer. She thanked him profusely, and then turned to thank me again, “I’m so glad that Jill Barber is here with us in the room.” I nodded my head in return gratitude, continued to strum my guitar and sing an aimless melody.

She looked to her loved ones and said, “I want you to know I have no fear, I am at peace.” She then asked her brother to further open the blinds. She said, “I want to see the mountains. I climbed those mountains so many times.” Then she turned to the doctor and with a final nod he began the provision.

With MAID, the first dose of medicine induces deep relaxation and sleep, while the second dose stops the heart.

I kept strumming and gently humming throughout the procedure, which lasted only a minute or two at most. The room became very still, quiet and peaceful, with a few tears shed, as final kisses were given.

One by one, her nearest and dearest slowly left the room. For a few minutes, I remained on the Zoom call, continuing to fill the space with my stream-of-consciousness playing and soft oohing. Cynthia lay in bed lifeless, her dog still sleeping unbothered at her feet.

The minister eventually reappeared, addressed me in a hushed tone, and gave me my cue to end. I strummed a final chord, gently closed my laptop, and the gig was over.

Songs are mysterious things. Like butterflies, they flutter off into the world hopping from ear to ear, transferring emotions from one person to another. Some songs pass you by, and others attach themselves to your heart and life and carry you through.

Music is always there for us, to calm, relax and comfort us, to celebrate the good times, to punctuate the hard times, to help us move through grief and pain, to sing along to, dance to, fall in love to, and in some cases, to die to.

What an honour it was to be part of the soundtrack to Cynthia’s life, right until the very end.

ps. I’m curious, what song would you choose if it was the last song you could hear?

This may be my “last song” choice, a cover of the Blue Rodeo song Dark Angel, sung in three part harmony with two of my best friends, and favourite voices, Rose Cousins and Jenn Grant. During playback in the studio, I remember saying “Play this one at my funeral, please!”

1. In order to protect her privacy I have used a pseudonym