Bon voyage, Yves | The Press

The elevator doors opened at 8^e floor, that of Yves Bélair’s apartment. I set foot in the hallway, nervous.

I’ve written about physician-assisted dying a hundred times, at least, over the past ten years.

But I never attended this ultimate treatment.

Yesterday and the day before yesterday, I told you about the unusual life of Yves Bélair, suffering from cerebral palsy. A life to make its way despite a body-prison.

A life well surrounded, full of friendships.

A life to give to the next, too. I told you about the scholarships he created for people with disabilities, notably at UQAM: $142,000 over 30 years, from his own money and that solicited from those around him, a titanic feat for a man neither rich nor plunged like the regulars of Montreal philanthropy…

Yesterday, I left you at the end of my second meeting with Yves, in this column which documented the wear and tear that ended up winning over this fighter who never gave up, I told you about the vexations of a body that loose, added to the small indignities of not always adequate home services, the frustration of an increasingly difficult speech…

And I told you that Yves had made the decision to request medical assistance in dying.

He invited me to attend. I said yes.

The elevator doors therefore opened on Tuesday, May 16. It was 3 p.m. Olivier Bédard, Yves’ great friend, was there, at the end of the corridor. I walked towards him, nervous.

I entered the apartment.

It was the party.

Yves beamed, laughed.

Seeing me, Yves groaned, his eyes teasing.

Brigitte Groulx, Yves’ other great friend, sitting next to him, translated: “Yes, Yves, we’re going to give Patrick some champagne…”

And a glass of champagne materialized in my hand. I told you: it was the party…

Oli explained to me: “He started the day with rum brought by his family doctor… There he is with champagne. »

Outside, the trees swayed in the wind against the gray, rainy sky.

Everybody was there.

Brigitte, Olivier, but that, I told you. Mugurel Grigoras, the most faithful caregiver at the CLSC. Julie, Oli’s sister, the one who put Yves and Oli in touch, at UQAM, 17 years ago. Stéphane Bolduc, carer and friend. Marcella Vinet, a friend of Henriette, Yves’ deceased mother. Jean-Marc Thuotte, a friend from UQAM. Simon Gosselin, a CLSC caregiver. Benoit Bélair, Yves’ brother. Robert Chapdelaine, ex-caregiver and still friend…

On Friday, when I spoke to you about Yves Bélair’s life as a fighter, I spoke to you about his childhood. I spoke to you about the alley in rue Louis-Veuillot, where the little disabled child was “integrated” into children’s games when the concept of integration did not exist.

I told you about little Yves Bélair’s best friend, a child named Pierre. His protector. The one who, for example, “integrated” Yves into hockey games, by imposing him as a goalkeeper…

It was in the early 1960s.

Nearly 50 years later, who has become Yves Bélair’s employee, then friend, and finally protector?

Olivier, yes, the Olivier I’ve been talking to you about since Friday. Olivier is – total coincidence – the son of this Pierre who protected Yves in the alley…

The Bédard family realized this by chance, when Julie moved near the Cadillac metro station, in Yves’ childhood neighborhood.

And on this May 16, 2023, Pierre Bédard, 60 years later, is here, in Yves Bélair’s apartment, to witness the departure of his childhood friend, who has become the friend of his son Olivier.

There are signs, sometimes, that life sends that we would be crazy to ignore.

In the kitchen, the D^r George Lespérance was preparing his equipment. I went to join him. This retired neurosurgeon is a pioneer of medical assistance in dying in Quebec – he spoke about it in the 1980s.

It is he who will provide the ultimate care to Yves Bélair.

From the living room, giggles reached us in the kitchen, above the music.

“Is it always like this, Doctor?”

– This side … festive?

– Yes.

“I would say that captures the spirit of most of the medical aids in dying that I have the privilege of providing. »

Looking at the loudspeaker in the kitchen, George Lespérance sketched a half-smile: “Félix…”

Indeed, it was from Félix Leclerc.

He showed me the syringes, lifted the second one, the anesthetic one:

“Have you already been operated on, Mr. Lagacé?”

– Yes.

“You know when the anesthetist says count to ten…

— Yes, and we fall asleep at 3…

– So. That’s the second injection. »

Next, propofol. Then, curare.

Then, cardiac arrest, gently.

This is the care of the medical assistance in dying that Yves will receive in…

I looked at my watch.

In 20 minutes.

Yesterday, I told you that Yves wanted to meet me so that I denounce in The Press the poor quality of home care.

He wished to say that if he had chosen physician-assisted dying, it was because his home care was poor…

I listened to him. I listened to his friends. And, as I said yesterday, the picture is more nuanced. Yves Bélair received very good care at home. He also received very bad ones.

Did he choose to die because of this poor care?

Yves agreed with me, after discussion, that it was more complicated than that. That he had come to the end of what he considered to be a full, dignified and active life.

He who had always known how to get up, from the alley, always, in fact, was no longer capable of it.

Even metaphorically, it was hard to get up. His body had been failing him for years. His speech was barely comprehensible, even to his closest friends.

Yves, when I started talking to him, to talking to his friends Olivier and Brigitte, would have liked me to denounce home care.

But, as I told him: what moved and struck me in his story was that of a generous man who always fought to be free, despite this body-prison.

And who, as a free man, at 69, decides on a final gesture of freedom: to ask to be delivered from his suffering.

Everyone was there, so everyone drank, everyone laughed.

A little after 4 p.m., the atmosphere darkened.

It was time to say goodbye.

Everyone was able to have their little moment, in private, with Yves, seated next to him.

Gone are the laughs. Gone are the joyful outbursts of voices.

It was my turn to go sit next to Yves. I called Olivier: you’ll have to translate, my boy…

“Are you OK, Yves?

– Yes.

And there, Yves Bélair asks me, with a teasing eye:

– You ? »

I start laughing, Oli too, which makes Yves laugh even more. He’s going to die, and he’s laughing…

Yves tells me something. Oli listens, makes his friend repeat:

“In Quebec, there are still a lot of things to improve…

“I know, Yves. You’re right. We will say it. »

I kissed him on the head, I pulled away.

Yves called:

“Steph!

Stéphane Bolduc approached, his carer and friend. He leaned in front of Yves, Oli translated: “It was a great wrinkled… »

Brigitte and Olivier gave each other a hug, while Mugurel moved Yves Bélair’s chair to his bedroom.

Yves is in his bed. Brigitte is lying next to him, holding his head. Everyone is there, a semi-circle of love, around the bed. Pierre, Olivier and Julie holding hands, Stéphane, Simon, Jean-Marc, Benoit, Mugurel, Robert…

And Marcella patted her foot, sitting at the foot of the bed. Marcella, Henriette’s great friend, Yves’ mother, so important in her life.

I thought of a song that wasn’t playing in the speaker, The Endthe Beatles:

And at the end

The love we receive

Is equal to the love we give

These are the words I thought of, seeing all these people surrounding Yves Bélair. Yves Bélair gave, Yves Bélair received.

The D^r Lespérance gave the first sting, water, to open the way.

Then, the second, the anesthetic.

Sniffles broke the silence.

A second passed, maybe two.

The old doctor said, “I am honored to have known you, Mr. Bélair. Have a good trip. »

Everyone in the semi-circle was now holding hands. And everyone responded spontaneously, repeating the doctor’s words, in chorus, through the tears: “Bon voyage! »

And so it was that on May 16, at 4:15 p.m., Yves Bélair ended his unusual 69 years on Earth, the same way he lived them…

Free and well surrounded.