The Freedom to Live, the Freedom to Die

My father was a public servant honored for his integrity. A WWII Marine pilot in the Pacific. Twice during my childhood he got sued for speaking frankly. He won. I was rebellious, and we disagreed, sometimes loudly. But each year I appreciate more deeply what Father taught me about how to live.

His father died young, from heart disease. Father had it too. In 1980 he had open-heart surgery. We talked about the fact that he might die. He'd lived with that possibility in the Pacific, and faced it head-on – without letting it distract him.

In 1996 the heart was finally giving out. Doctors could do nothing more. He had between two weeks and six months. He would keep getting weaker. No more bridge, swimming, reading the Times, or making love to his girlfriend. (They'd each maintained a long, loving marriage that ended with the spouse's death.)

Father decided that, although life had been a wonderful party, it was time to leave. 

He asked me to help him depart. I did. 

That night he ate supper with my sister, her husband, and me. After supper, in his bedroom, he asked me to help him to the bathroom to brush his teeth. I guessed he'd changed his mind. We said good night and started to leave. He said, “Wait! Aren't we going to . . .”

So we did. He did. He died a beautiful death. Talking and joking with us, telling us he loved us, then putting his head down on his pillow. 

His death was against the law. We couldn't procure medical assistance or even information. As he lay dying peacefully, I was hoping desperately that nothing would go wrong and cursing Florida's archaic laws. He could wake up wanting to live – or survive with a broccoli brain. 

Father died as he lived, with courage and honesty. Later I mused that just as he'd helped me learn how to live, now he'd taught me how to die. His death led me to join a legal team fighting Florida's law. We failed.

I think often of Father's death and others in similar situations who had no way to manage a graceful exit. So I sure thank our City Council for unanimously urging the Legislature to allow terminally ill adults to end their lives with a physician's help. Several states have done so. Special thanks to Councilor Gabe Vasquez for valuing what life has taught him over his Catholic upbringing. And to Representative-elect Micaela Lara Cadena, who will co-sponsor the Elizabeth Whitfield End of Life Options Act (H.B. 90) named for Mark Medoff's sister, a former judge. 

The bill would allow terminally ill and mentally competent adults (18 or older) who have six months or less to live, to get a prescription for life-ending medication.

I watched my strong, amazing mother die in pain and confusion. So did Father. Imagine watching your loved one being carried aboard a train, kicking and screaming, uncomprehending, as against watching him/her find a seat, put hat and gloves on the overhead rack, sit down, then wave good-bye, smiling.

I understand people's fears, and I agree that we need strict safeguards against euthanasia, and greedy heirs.

Father insisted on dying as he'd lived. As a painful life ebbs, who would sentence someone to stay imprisoned inside a failed body?

We all deserve a choice. Father earned the right to choose.
                                                   -30-

[The column above appeared this morning, Sunday, 23 December 2018, in the Las Cruces Sun-News and on both the newspaper's website and KRWG's website (which already has the spoken version up as well).  During the week, a spoken version will air on both KRWG and KTAL, 101.5 FM (www.lccommunityradio.org).]

[I believe in people's freedom to make these personal decisions without significant interference by the government -- and certainly without being restricted by the tenets of religions other than their own.  The experience of my own parents' deaths strengthens my belief and illustrates the reasons for it, but didn't create it.]

[So many moments stand out from the days before his death -- from which I'll include three here:

He made no secret of his desires when talking with his doctor and the hospital.  I remember a nurse saying they were going to perform some tests.  "What are you doing tests for? I'm dying.  We know that," he replied.  "Well, we need to assess our options," she explained.  As she wheeled him away, he commented loudly, "Aahh, c'mon.  The only option is Dr. Kevorkian."

A day or two before he died, I must have looked sad.  "What are you sad about?" he asked.  I said I would miss him.  "I'll miss me too, but it has to be done," he replied.  

During his last hour, my sister, I think, asked whether he had "last words" -- or perhaps he said he felt he should have something profound to say.  I know that he allused to Simon Bolivar's "last words" as "I plowed the sea," to which my sister replied that he had plowed the sky.  His actual last words were joking.  I asked how he was feeling, and he said, "Fine.  I could still beat you in a game of chess!"  (Bolivar's last words are disputed, but the ones one of us attributed to him were actually from a letter written 17 days before his death: "He who serves a revolution plows the sea.")]