It was almost Christmas 2003. My dear friend Miep was looking after her 96-year-old mother, who lived in a seniors’ home. Her mother was in bad health and in denial. Miep herself didn’t look good; she seemed very, very tired.

    While Miep was with her, her mother died. But surprisingly, Miep came back to Maastricht before the funeral, looking awful. Why was she coming back, driving 300 kilometres just a few days before she’d have to return for the funeral? All she would say was “I wanted to be at home, that’s all.”

    After the funeral, she went into the hospital. She’d heard the day before she left to help her mother that she had cancer, but she didn’t tell anyone because her mother was dying. She had come back before the funeral for a medical examination, and now she had the results: she had breast cancer and it had spread widely. It was in her bones. The doctors gave her little hope. They suggested chemotherapy and medication against the pain. Miep wisely told them that because they had given her so little hope of a cure, she wanted to think about it.

    When she came home from the hospital, we—three dear friends and her sister—heard the whole story. We all cried, including Miep, but she comforted us before we could comfort her. That was Miep; she was always there for everybody.

    We started to talk, to consider, to deliberate. After a couple of days, during which she plundered the library and the internet and discussed her situation with her family doctor, Miep made her own choice. She refused to take chemotherapy, saying, “What is the use of chemo for me? It is clear that it can’t cure me—I am incurable. I would be very ill for three or four months and maybe I would live half a year longer. Is that what I want? Oh, no, it is not the quantity of life that counts—it’s about quality of life. If I could become healthy, I would do anything, but with this diagnosis? No, no, and again no, I won’t take chemotherapy.”

    Her family doctor stood by her, even though the doctors at the hospital thought it was “stupid” of her and that Miep’s behaviour was arbitrary. Miep had made her choice and that was that!

    She received hormone therapy and medication against the pain. We—her friends and sister—looked after everything that had to be done to care for her and her house.

    And then the miracle happened! Miep flourished. After two weeks she was out of bed and walking through the house. We couldn’t believe it. She was getting well!

    The medication continued to help her incredibly and another week later she took her first walk outside. And this was the beginning of two wonderful, wonderful years, during which Miep kept taking her medicine and kept refusing chemotherapy, no matter what the doctors at the hospital said.

    Miep and I went for a long walk twice a week. She would pick me up at 10:30, when I had finished my work, and we would walk for about two hours, following a route through nature; take a rest; and then walk two hours back. As we walked, we talked and talked about the meaning of life, about God, about whether there is a life after this life, and so on. Miep called them our philosophical walks. We both enjoyed them so much and the memory of them continues to help me today.

     But very suddenly, on the day before Christmas 2005, Miep felt enormous pain and couldn’t get up anymore. The ambulance came, and in the middle of the night I went with her to a hospital about 30 kilometres away where they could give her the radiation treatment she needed immediately.

    The radiation helped, but our long walks were over. From this moment on, for most of the next year, Miep spent most of her time in bed. Even now, though, she was full of spirit and humour and enjoyed her life very much. When spring came, she bought a wheelchair and we began to walk again, little outings in the neighbourhood. She could sit for only half an hour, so now we had our philosophical talks at home.

    Here in Holland, people who are dying have the option of euthanasia. This was one of the subjects we talked about. And the sicker she got, the more we talked about it. After much reading and talking and thinking, Miep made her decision. She told the four of us that her family doctor had been honoured when Miep asked her if she would help. And so her die was cast. She didn’t tell us the day she would leave us. Only her dear sister and her family doctor knew. One day, though, when I was leaving, she said goodbye and farewell, not her usual “Until next week.” She hugged me and clasped my hand while tears flowed from her eyes. I knew then I wouldn’t see her alive again.

    Two days later, I received a lovely postcard from Miep that she had made herself. It said, “. . . and the rest is silence. . . .” At that moment I knew she was no longer with us.

    I admire so much about Miep. I admire her attitude. She always had the strength to go her own way! She resisted the doctors who wanted her to take chemotherapy, saying, “I have the feeling they need me to test whether chemo can do anything for patients who are as ill as I am.” I admire the strength and the courage she had to “cure” herself a little bit and how much she loved her life for two and a half beautiful years. And most of all, I admire her for the choice to end her life at the time she wanted. She was in so much pain, bearable only if she took so much morphine that all she could do was lie in bed like a vegetable. She didn’t want that. Instead, she said goodbye to all the people she loved so that we didn’t have to see her suffer.

    Miep died on September 22, 2006, at the age of 66. She is in heaven now and still taking care of us all! We’ll never forget her and we hope to see her again!