Years ago Bill Moyers did a documentary for PBS about the right to die. It was one of those things I forced myself to watch because it pertained to my job at the time. He followed several terminally ill people through the last few months of their lives --most of whom (there may have been one exception who went to hospice instead, if memory serves) resolved that when the time came that they no longer found their lives worth living, they'd "end it." It was a typical Moyers piece, with the illusion of objectivity while all the while you're being browbeaten to reach the right --his--conclusion, which is that "death with dignity" is the only truly human way to shed this mortal coil. What Moyers didn't seem to notice in his own piece was that most of his subjects never reached the point that they found their lives no longer worth living --not even the fellow who emphatically swore he'd check out once he was in a wheel-chair. He kept on choosing to live right until the point where he could no longer swallow his pills. While they were relatively healthy, they were all sure they'd no longer wish to live when their health was severely limited. But as they wasted away, they discovered they could cope, and day by day kept opting to live. Most of them ended up dying naturally, as I recall. It was Moyers (and us his audience) who found their slow decline unbearable, lacking dignity.
I was reminded of that in this piece when the author describes the scene the night she comes over to off her friend:
He was in the kitchen when I arrived, very thin and weak, but still definitely Mel. His friend was there, teary, solemn and strangely friendly. Joanne had prepared soup for us, with bread and cheese. For the next couple of hours, he asked us to put certain albums on the stereo — Bach, Dylan, Leontyne Pryce. We shared our favorite stories. He was absolutely clear as a bell, brilliant as ever. Everybody cried a little, but not at the same time.
I can understand people not wishing to live when they feel they're "not themselves" anymore. I don't think that justifies suicide, but I can sympathise with the impulse. But this man was still very much himself --so why the rush to kill him that night? People who say they want to die are often depressed and filled with guilt about being burdensome to their friends. Their request for death may be a way of pleading for someone to tell them their lives have meaning even at the end, that they're loved, that they won't be alone, and that their pain can be managed. The heartlessness of responding to, "It's time for me to go" with "Yup" when people are likely to be suffering from depression and self-doubt is staggering.
Why oh why did someone not say to this man, No, Mel, not tonight. You're still you, we love you, we've had a lovely evening and we can have another lovely evening tomorrow. The poison applesauce will be here tomorrow or next week, but not tonight." Instead they were all practically shouting at him: your worst fears are realized, you're a shell of your former self and a burden to us all. Some friends.
Curtsy: Open Book
