Life and death are one thread, the same line just seen from different sides.
Lao Tzu
Please watch the video link (only 11mins) before reading any further because what I have written cross-references with Jordan Peterson’s comments.
I know the majority of people who support assisted suicide, as brought into law by the Canadian government, MAiD, and in many other countries now, Australia for one, believe in their heart that it is the kind thing to do. I have even heard it said, ‘We don’t even let dogs suffer pain so why do we…’
But that said, I, like Jordan Peterson, do not believe that it is safe for any government to sanction by law any form of assisted dying because not only is it conceivable that we could find ourselves in a situation where our government does not have the people’s best interests at heart – has happened before and will again – but also one is handing down the decision and deployment of this law to any number of people to follow through on. And who knows when one comes across someone who has their own agenda or activism, or even mis-held beliefs of any kind.
I also recognise that whether one is a spiritual person or an atheist may also govern one’s beliefs and feelings around death. I have only compassion for someone who has taken the decision to end their life, but I also feel sorrow for them not seeing through and getting beyond their deep suffering which may be even short lived, and also for feeling they cannot allow life to take its own course whatever that experience may bring. They may also never know that death can also be peaceful and beautiful.
I am going to start with the dog thing. In recent years I have had a very deep connection with two dogs where I have needed to be involved with their deaths. The first was our pug, Oscar. He was fit until about eleven years old when it became apparent that he had bladder cancer. I needed to rush back from South Africa when my family told me that things were not looking good, and he was suffering. I got back to Ibiza within thirty six hours and, having spoken with my vet, it was decided that we would give him some daily relief, both of the bladder and for the pain, so that I could be with him for a few more days. I made it through two nights with him sleeping by my side, and then I knew that I could not let him suffer any longer. One cannot explain to a dog what is to come and I knew that I had to do the kind thing for him. My vet came to our home and explained the procedure to me. I sat on the ground holding Oscar in my arms and then experienced for the first time the cessation of life from one moment to the next. I was traumatised by the experience for months, the trauma also being exacerbated because other than the cancer he was still fit and loving life. But also I believe that something of my trauma was knowing that I had made the decision on his behalf that it was time for him to die.
More recently and with my second pug, Kito, at age eight and fit as a fiddle, and I noticed one day that something was not right with him. He collapsed a couple of times and had low energy, so I took him to our new vet in Somerset. They found he was anaemic and suggested further tests. He continued to collapse the next day and the vet said he was now extremely anaemic and suggested a scan. The scan revealed that he had a mass in his abdomen, and the reason for the collapsing and anaemia was because he was bleeding into it. On investigating further they found he had some lesions, still very small, in his lungs. This was secondary cancer. My heart broke, and the memory of my trauma with Oscar flooded through my system.
I said to the vet I would like to have Kito die at home but would never want to cause him unnecessary suffering. I was afraid that the vet would think this was selfish. But to the contrary, he was totally receptive to this idea, and understanding about my unwillingness to go the ‘injection’ route. He told me that Kito would not suffer because he would simply continue to weaken until he bled out into the mass. There was no option to remove the mass because eventually he would suffer once the cancer in his lungs became more prominent. We discussed how I could nurse him at home and I knew that I could do this with his support.
The day after my discussion with the vet I was looking through a few posts on FaceBook and someone had posted an article written by a vet where he said that it is sometimes hard on them when asked to put an animal down because they see the eyes of the dog searching around the strange and fearful vet’s surgery for the eyes of their owners. In its synchronicity this article gave me the peace of mind to go through with allowing Kito to die naturally.
It was hard and some nights when he was weakened by the bleeding I would stay up with him, but then I came to know that his death was not imminent and we settled into a rhythm. Some days were good and there were times he even had the energy to go for walks with Zac, and his old spirit reigned. Now and again I would let myself think that miracles do happen. But towards the end of a month he started to weaken daily, and on the morning of his last day I knew the end was coming. It meant everything to me to be constantly with him for his last hours. Zac, his brother by another mother and father, sat next to his basket and would not leave him. As terribly sad as it was it was equally a beautiful experience. I talked to him and told him he would be fine, and asked him to tell my loved ones on the other side that I loved them all. About twenty minutes before he died I noticed that his eyes were no longer looking around, and his breathing became more erratic. I now believe that his soul had probably passed at that point, or for those who prefer a more scientific explanation, that he had entered a coma. There were three big gasps for air, and then all was still. As sad as I was to lose him I did not suffer trauma, although I will add, that is not either the point. Zac and we grieved, and then one day we all began to live again. Zac sometimes still seems a little unsure of what to do with himself but is once again enjoying being the only child he was born to be.
Now for a much older story. My mother trained to be a nurse and after qualifying she returned to her home town, Knysna, South Africa. She worked as a private nurse looking after the elderly for a few years but one day her family learnt that her father had bladder cancer. I don’t know whether surgery back around 1950 was available as an option or whether her father turned it down, but she then spent his last months nursing him along with her mother.
Many years later and when I was somewhere older than thirty she told me more of this time. She said that as he was suffering pain, and because she was a nurse, she was given the morphine to administer to him. One day as it became apparent he was dying, and with her and her mom never leaving him alone, he said to my mom, ‘Peggy, it is time.’ She told me quietly and with great pain at the retelling that she knew that he knew that it was not yet time for his next medication. I imagine that possibly the doctor had discussed with her and her mother the implication of giving him a higher dose than what was prescribed, and I don’t know whether my mother made a decision with her mother, but either way my mother gave him another dose. Following this she and her mother sat either side of his bed while her father kept saying, ‘Mummy, switch on the light. It’s so dark.’ No amount of telling him that the light was on settled him. She then told me that after a while he said, ‘Ah, that is better…’, and then he passed away. Although my mother was someone who prayed at the side of her bed every night, she had never tried to influence my life with regard to God and I am in awe of her over this, and my father had a similar practice. But I knew what she was implying—that he had seen a great light through the darkness of death. Only now and in this moment of writing have I wondered if this had borne down on my mother’s conscience, and perhaps even her mother’s. My grandmother, when I was six months old, refused my mother’s request that she move in with us, and her answer to her daughter was, ‘I love you very much, Peggy, but I don’t want to live without Daddy.’ I can just imagine how hard this was for a daughter to hear her mother say. My mother through all her life could never mention her father and mother without her eyes filling with tears. Tears can teach us a lot about someone. I often used to think about this but now I wonder if it was guilt that lay heavily in the recesses of her memory.
I will never support assisted suicide and I also know it is already not ending well. The direction of travel of our civilisation today tells me so. More than forty-five thousand people have already died at the hands of MAiD in Canada. Because I have followed this subject for many years now, I happen to know that many who accepted the offer of a humane death, and sometimes before an offer of a medical solution, could see no way through the poverty or lack of support brought about by illness or a disability. Now the Canadian government is keen to open the opportunity to children and those suffering from depression and poverty. And soon the UK government will try to get it enshrined in law too. Heaven please forbid.
jennie's red book 