Rules for Reporting a Planned Death: No Photos, No Pad, No Pen

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Last March, as part of a series called The End, reported by Times correspondents around the world, John Shields of Victoria, British Columbia, permitted me to enter not just his life, but also his death. It was, undoubtedly, one of the most profound workdays I have ever had.

In May, I wrote this behind-the-scenes story about how I came to be in Mr. Shields’ hospice room that morning. It was slated to be published at the same time as my story about his death, together with Leslye Davis’s wonderful photos and video. But as often happens in journalism, it was held. Until now.

What I wrote then remains true today. I carry the memory of Mr. Shields’ death with me like prayer beads. For me, it has become a mantra not only about dying well, but also about living well.

TORONTO — The first living wake I heard about was Rob Gray’s.

His wife described how two dozen loved ones had gathered around him in his hospital bed a couple of hours before his scheduled death. They serenaded him, drank champagne and each delivered a loving tribute.

She called it an “end of life celebration.”

I had been researching Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID), the neutral Canadian term for both assisted suicide and voluntary euthanasia by doctors and nurse practitioners. The government legalized it in June 2016 as the public debate pitting medical workers’ rights against those of patients was raging in the country, as it still is.

More recently, I had begun to clip mentions of it from the obituaries. How was this new form of dying changing the rituals around death, I wondered.

Think about it: If you knew you were going to die tomorrow at 9 a.m., what would you do tonight? What would your family and friends do?

After hearing a dozen more stories like Mr. Gray’s, I realized the country was quietly undergoing a profound cultural shift. Urged by my editor, Michael Slackman, I set out to document it intimately. But how would I find people who were sick enough to qualify for a medical death and would be willing to let a journalist poke around in what remained of their lives?

I decided to fly across Canada from Toronto — where I work as The New York Times’s bureau chief — to Victoria, because doctors there were uncharacteristically open about providing this service. Seven agreed to pass on my request to their patients.

John Shields was the first patient I met. Together with my colleague Leslye Davis, we had tea in his kitchen and watched the doctor sign the forms qualifying him for a medical death.

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He agreed to let us follow his story, but cautioned that he’d live through spring — summer even — so he doubted he’d make a good subject for us.

We met three other patients on that trip. One was a 92-year-old World War II veteran who had booked his death and then, overjoyed by his children’s arrival for his goodbye party, postponed it. A couple of days later he told me he had changed his mind about our interview — his children were too upset.

I realized I needed to follow more than one person. I ended up shadowing three: Mr. Shields and two women, one in Toronto and one in Victoria.

In all three cases we struck a deal. They would welcome me into their private lives and thoughts at the ends of their lives but were free to tell me to buzz off at any time. The flip side? I might not write their stories.

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One of those two women was June Vaile, a funny and forthright 80-year-old who was happy to die from cancer since macular degeneration had stolen her life’s pleasures. Two days before her scheduled death she hugged me goodbye.

The second, a quiet, reflective woman named Eve McLeod, died from pancreatic cancer this past Tuesday morning. Even though she was approved for a medical death, she chose to die naturally in the end.

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I flew back to Victoria when Mr. Shields was admitted to hospice and spent two days interviewing him in ten-minute bursts, between his two-hour naps. The pressure was enormous — to ask only the best, most insightful questions, and not soak up all his precious energy and remaining time. His wife, stepdaughter and an ever-growing line of friends bunched in the hospice lounge waiting their turns.

He was so weak and confused I thought he’d die before his scheduled death.

But he didn’t. What’s more, he decided he wanted a party, much like Mr. Gray’s.

I was invited to attend both his last-night festivities and his death. While we were free to record his final party, the celebrant he’d chosen to oversee both ceremonies laid out some non-negotiatable rules for his death. She believed Mr. Shields’ spirit would be beginning a journey and all attention needed to support him. A detached witness would distract from that, she said. If I came, I had to participate. No photos, no recordings, no notepad.

As a journalist, being without a pen and paper on the job feels like being naked. But once I stepped into the room, I realized that vulnerability was important. Without the shield of my notepad, I could feel and respond to what is essentially one of life’s most profound moments. I held hands with one of Mr. Shields’ best friends. When it was over, I burst from the room in tears and unloaded everything I had experienced into Leslye’s digital recorder. That same day, I checked my memories of the occasion with three other people who had been there to ensure they were accurate.

I’ve thought about Mr. Shields’ death continually since then. I hope everyone I love dies with such peace. I am still astounded by his generosity that morning. I wonder if I will have his courage to beckon death rather than fight its arrival. I am not sure.

I know this: Mr. Shields was wrong about not being the right subject for this story. He was the perfect one.