Doctor Assisted Suicide

Sometime when I was in middle school (I think?), I read an article about doctor assisted suicide in regards to a patient who had ALS and another with a terminal form of cancer. It was so long ago, the details of the article, but I do remember that one patient was given some sort of drug that would induce a coma, and then they’d very soon there after die. The other patient wasn’t given the option, though as an outsider, it may appear that their condition is a bit more difficult to watch and accept. I don’t remember if those minor details are 100% correct, but we’re going to go with that being the case for the sake of my writing today.

Today, I was listening to the Diane Rehm show on NPR, and there was a discussion about death with dignity, assisted suicides and the law. I didn’t catch the full show, but what I caught was enough to put me in a funk temporarily while I was driving.

Several years ago, my Mom’s Mom (my Grandma M), was admitted to the hospital for various reasons, and except for a very VERY brief stint back at home, she never really went home until her final days. I was a teenager, and going through my own angsty life bullshit at the time, and had a really hard time with the whole situation. I don’t hold myself in some sort of mental hostage situation about how little time I made for her in her final days, but I do have some very prominent thoughts about how the whole thing was handled.

One day, I went to visit my Grandma with my Mom and my Grandpa. My Mom and Grandpa left me in the room with Grandma, who at the time was still within the first few months of being in the hospital. I think I was giving my Grandma some of the delicious avgolemono (Greek lemon chicken soup, essentially) from our favorite local Greek restaurant, when she told me that she wanted to go. Later, when I told this to my Mom (I mean, much much later. Quite possibly after my Grandma finally passed), she interpreted it as my Grandma wanting to go home. I interpreted it very differently: that she was ready to die. It seemed like it was something in her eyes and her tone of voice, almost pleading for the end.

Now, I know how morbid that sounds, but I’m a firm believer in the idea that there comes a point in life where you are just ready to bite the bullet and be done. I believe that at that point, my Grandma was saying that it was her time.

My Grandma suffered in and out of hospitals, assisted living centers and finally hospice for well over a year (possibly closer to two years), and I know how much she hated it.

In the state of Florida (and most of the US), doctor assisted death is not legal. This is a problem for me, and my future. Wasting away in a hospital bed, until there is no dignity left in my death just doesn’t seem like the way I want to go. I would rather have the option to die in peace, at my own time and my own hand.

Medical professionals, insurance, or whoever, seem to think that they have the right to say when someone is ready for death. What is this based on? What makes those people think that they have any right to say when someone goes? I understand that it is one thing for someone to request whatever coma/death inducing drugs if they don’t have some sort of terminal illness or aren’t just prolonging the inevitable by being hooked up to breathing machines or something. But what if someone does have a terminal illness? Or truly feels that they are at the end? Surely it costs less to give someone a lethal dose of morphine or barbiturates and just let them fall into a coma than it is to keep them in a hospital or hospice for weeks, months or even years?

The idea that when I’m ready to die of whatever illness I succumb to but can’t do it on MY terms isn’t one that sits well for me. I’d perhaps like to fall into a coma listening to my favorite album, surrounded by people I love, and in my own bed, instead of hooked up to breathing tubes, unable to care for myself in any way. After all, once I’m dead, how can I regret my own decision?

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