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Courtesy translation of “Aide médicale à mourir: lettre ouverte d’une schizophrène” provided by the Physicians’ Allliance against Euthanasia

Renée Charron Author of the book “One day, I carried the world. My journey through schizophrenia…” («Un jour, j’ai porté le monde. Ma traversée de la schizophrénie»)

I learned the news and was, like many, in shock: Medical aid in dying would soon be available to people with serious mental disorders. Last Monday, I learned that Minister McCann backed down and wants to open a public consultation on the issue.

While I welcome the pause that the Quebec government is establishing, I understand that the possibility that this legislation will one day be passed, is still present.

However, at the mere thought of such a project being considered, several images come to mind. Ideas inside me clash and one of them haunts me: I see the person diagnosed as a schizophrenic, isolated, living a painful moment in his or her life, and who learns that, unlike the rest of the population, he or she is being given this message: (that) suicide is an option. And it is for this person that I am writing today.

Hands outstretched

I myself have been diagnosed with affective schizophrenia. When I was eight years old, I saw and heard bears. I could feel them touching my skin and it made me fall to the ground. Then, as an adult, I went through various psychoses. If you want to know what saved me, I’ll tell you: it’s not just the psychiatrists or the antipsychotics I still take every day. What saved me were the outstretched hands, hands that wouldn’t let me down. No matter what.

Hands that weren’t even afraid to wade in the mud with me for a moment. These were all messages that meant: you are indispensable. Without you, it would never be the same. And I care about you so much that I accept the suffering, for a moment, so that you can stay with me… with us.

What I am saying may seem trivial, but it’s simply the story of someone who affirms that love saved her. At the same time, it’s an exceptional message in a society where, when you are labeled schizophrenic, you are perceived as being different. A being for whom even the law of love no longer applies.

It is probably despair that has led to the opening up of the possibility of medical aid in dying for people suffering from mental disorders. No one believes in recovery. We have lost sight of the fact that people with mental illness have the same needs as people in general.

Listening

People diagnosed with schizophrenia need to be listened to. And often, they aren’t. When you’re lucky enough to have a psychiatrist, after a long wait, don’t be fooled; you’ll get an hour – often less – with him or her every once in a while, and then you’ll walk out of the office with a prescription for pills. You’ll have to swallow them until the next appointment.

Psychiatrists don’t ask this question: what happened to you? They ask even less: what is the content of your delusions? What sensory phenomena are you experiencing? What meaning do you give to it all? In doing so, they are probably afraid of opening a Pandora’s box. But the administration of a little pill, even if sometimes essential, is often not enough.

Multiple factors influence the onset of mental disorders, and many frames of reference can explain this. What about an understanding of the psychological, social or psychoanalytical factors, such as a reaction due to a post-traumatic shock, physiological factors, such as the body’s reaction to sleep deprivation, or the reaction to toxic substances… There is also, of course, the explanation of a spiritual nature; life is a mystery, and who can explain it?

Life is a mystery, and I dare to say that it is sacred. Some may say that this is not a reason to endure the unbearable. Then let’s talk about the unbearable. I’ve been through it. Perhaps that makes it legitimate. Do I have the right to speak, since I’ve been through it?

Yet I am far from being the only person who has gone through such a difficult time that she would have given up everything if she had had the chance. And now, I savour every single day of my life.

Arrow to the heart

One would think that I am writing this in the hope that the government will completely change its mind, and that would not be totally untrue. But I am writing especially for this person who is suffering, alone, at home: the one for whom the mere announcement of this legislation, whether it is passed one day or not, has had the effect of an arrow to their heart.

For there has already been harm done. Even if we were to change our mind and backtrack. The hope, which is passed from one person to another, is so many outstretched hands, hands that take turns and do not want to let go. And for the person diagnosed with schizophrenia, that hand was taken away.

Yet there are ways to help people live better with sensory phenomena and their pain. Think of groups such as Intervoice: those who hear voices and try to make sense of them, which provides a plural response to distress and helping people to take power over their lives and their phenomena. As well as mental health organizations, (which are) so precious, which allow people to be part of a community and to be heard, to receive tools and assistance.

Think of psychoanalysis clinics, organizations that provide help in the form of conferences… All these approaches have in common that they provide listening, attention and time. Let’s also think about investing in research, in order to develop innovative methods, inspired, perhaps, by what is being done elsewhere.

Miracles

I am not the voice of those affected by psychosis, I am the voice of those who, regardless of the state of their mental health, have been upset to see society withdraw its outstretched hand. I am the voice of those who are reaching out and will always want to do so.

I want to pay tribute to Sylvie. She was a nurse at the place where I was hospitalized. Despite my catatonic state, she always knew how to talk to me, smile at me, keep me awake. And despite her workload, which I have no doubt was astronomical, Sylvie washed my long hair and dried it.

She is a hero. And life is full of heroes we don’t know. Those who join us, with open hearts, in dark moments, and who, in this grey and painful space, resist the temptation to bring their baggage of certainties.

It is through the miracles performed that life takes on its full meaning. It is such miracles that propelled me to university, towards the completion of a DESS in mental health, a training as an assistant caregiver, towards the co-facilitation of groups for Entendeurs de voix (those who hear voices), and the publication of a book telling my story and my personal keys to wellness.

It is these miracles that gave birth to a desire to constantly improve myself in order to be able to help people who are going through what I have been through. And these miracles have also made me understand that, beyond what I accomplish or don’t accomplish, I deserve my place in society. That everyone blooms in their own time and in their own way.

So, to you who are alone in your home and think that society has abandoned you, that you are not worthy of an outstretched hand, don’t believe it. You are indispensable.

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