Thank you, Mr. Chair.
Good evening, everyone.
My name is Caroline Marcoux. I am the mother of the gorgeous Charles, whom I have with me, right here.
On July 30, 2019, Charles received a diagnosis of osteosarcoma, a cancer of the bones, in his right femur. At that time, Charles was 15 years and nine months old.
Over the next year, he went through a whole series of chemotherapy treatments and had major surgery on his leg to remove the mass. Charles was always cheerful, optimistic and smiling, as you can see. He was an exemplary and very resilient patient during his illness.
A few months after the treatments ended, he was told the cancer had returned, in both his lungs. He had surgery on each of the two lungs to remove the metastases, but in spite of this, the disease came again immediately after, not just in both his lungs, but also in his knee. Once the cancer had recurred twice, we know that the disease was irremediable and nothing more could be done to halt it. That was in January 2021.
As always, Charles accepted what was happening to him. Psychologically, he still felt well, but his physical health started to decline, bit by bit. He had less and less energy, less and less appetite, and more and more pain. In fact, from January onward, he was having about one good day out of two.
Still, he proudly completed an important milestone in the life of a 17-year-old young man: he got his driver's licence. At that point he was missing one lung, because his left lung was full of liquid and there was nothing more to be done for it. His driver's licence meant that he was able to enjoy his autonomy about three or four times in the week that followed. That was all. After that, he was no longer in shape to leave the basement of the house.
Starting then, and even a little earlier, all the medical care, emergency services and drug dosages were handled by the palliative care team. The team did its best, within the limits of the options available to it, but was never able to completely relieve the pain. That is without mentioning the side effects: Charles was hot all the time and slept very badly. The drugs were not doing the job. He took Dilaudid, morphine, fentanyl, methadone—everything he could get to relieve the pain. The number of drugs he was taking kept going up, because the pain and the symptoms were constantly increasing. His lungs hurt, his shoulders hurt, and he had a distressing loose cough. His condition was not improving.
At the beginning of July, shortly after he got his driver's licence, he was barely getting out of the hospital bed that was brought to the basement for him anymore. Most of all, he was fed up: fed up with doing nothing, fed up with watching television, fed up with being sick and fed up with not having any quality of life. That was his situation. He started worrying about death. He wondered when death was going to come, whether he would be alone when it did and how it would happen. He was calm and collected by nature, but he started having anxiety attacks, anxiety and panic attacks, which showed how completely powerless and at the end of the rope he was.
In about mid-July he started talking about medical assistance in dying. He talked to me about it and he talked to the social worker and the doctor. He could not go on suffering and waiting for death any longer. We knew that the end was imminent; that was not the issue. He would have liked to have the choice and control over the time of his death. That would probably have reassured him. What he said was that he would have liked to have control over the disease, in at least that respect, because he had not had any control for the previous two years. He had never talked about death before that point. He had always been positive. When he made that request, he was already in the terminal phase. We knew that death was imminent, but he had to wait, because he was then 17 years and nine months old.
It is inhumane for a mother to hear her child say: "Mom, do something, I can't take any more." I accompanied him in it, in his suffering, to the end. I would have liked to do as he wished and do everything I could to calm his anxiety and his pain. All the doctors could do, again, was increase the medication. He was having trouble talking, because he was very medicated. He wasn't eating. At least, he was able to express his needs and tell us what he wanted.
The only possible solution, at that point, was palliative sedation. One day, he asked for it. He was completely fed up and just wanted to sleep and not be aware of his condition. So he went into the hospital pediatric ward, because that is what he wanted. He was put into a state of induced sleep. We watched over him for 24 long hours, and his sleep did not seem peaceful. Again, it was as if the drugs were not enough to calm him, any more than they had been enough to relieve his pain before. He did not seem to be comfortable. As a mother, I had to see him in that state, not being able to understand his needs, waiting for him to be completely unconscious. It took 24 long hours.
He died on July 30, 2021, exactly two years to the day after his diagnosis. So he was 17 years and nine months old.
I lost my boy, but I hold onto the two promises I made him. First, the promise to go on the trip of his dreams to England. And second, at the point when he asked for medical assistance in dying, I promised him that I was going to do everything I could to campaign, or at least to speak up as I am doing tonight, so that it would become accessible to young people like him would like to have it.
Charles was a very mature young teenager, even before his illness. He lived with his disease for the last two years of his life, with a serenity that gives me the strength to get through this period, through his loss. I cared for him until the end, and I would have done it as long as he needed. I didn't want to lose my boy, certainly, but I could not see him suffer any longer, nor could he suffer any longer. He had truly reached his physical and psychological limits. I would have cared for him to the end, but I hoped not to have to care for him when he had reached a stage when he had lost his dignity. I hoped not to have to change his diapers and see him grow thinner until he was a walking corpse. I would have gone there, but I hoped that it would not be the case. Fortunately, when he died, he still had his gorgeous chubby cheeks, so we were spared that, but he was truly at the end of his rope.
I know that the decision to expand access to medical assistance in dying to mature minors is not to be taken lightly, nor did Charles, from the height of his 17 years, at the end of his life, take it lightly. It might not have hastened his death by much, since he was already at the end of life. The date he would have set might have been a few days after July 30. But he was ready and he deserved that choice. It would have been his decision, in the end. It would have been he who chose the time to leave and the people who would be with him. That is the only choice, or at least the last choice he would have been able to make in his life.