Stories of Compassion & Choice
Doris's story is about a family's struggles make health care decisions for a father and husband who cannot communicate…
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Diane: Today is Memorial Day. My dad was a veteran of
World War II. He fought and lived through a terrible war, but when he found out he had lung cancer and emphysema, he fought a battle he knew he would lose…
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Max: Max was a very dear friend whom I try to remember the way he was in the early spring of 1998…51 years old, and glowing with the joy of life…
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Adrienne: Mary, my mother, was a fabulous vibrant woman of 59 who practiced yoga and loved long walks in the woods with her dog…
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Michael: I was a Deputy Sheriff in California for almost 10 years. I often responded to a call of a suicide at a private residence—a call that was always met with one or more surviving family members totally distraught…
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Jean: Ever since my youth I have proclaimed loudly that I’m not afraid of dying. Recently I realized how wrong I was …
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Doris's Story
 My husband was 82 years old when he died. We had talked about death and both signed our living wills/advance directives, stating that we didn't want any extreme measures taken. We agreed that we both wanted to go peacefully if possible.
Unknown to me, he had been having chest pains. He saw his doctor, who did an EKG and told him he was fine. He came home so jubilant, I asked him what was going on. He said, "I thought I was going to die, but the doctor says I'm fine." I was happy for him, but I kidded him too. He was 82 years old, I said. How long did he want to live? He said, "Another two years at least."
That night he woke me. He was sweating and his skin was pale as he said, "Call the doctor. I feel like I'm dying." I called and was told to get him to the hospital immediately.
He was monitored closely and that night we all visited him. He was sitting up in bed, talking and laughing and telling everyone about his experience. He talked about coming home soon.
His doctor called me the following morning. He said that my husband had "crashed" during the night and was put on life support. When I got to the hospital, he was not conscious, and the prognosis was not good. I was told if he were moved to a care facility, he would have a 50-50 chance of surviving.
Remembering the living wills/advance directives we signed, I asked a few attending physicians what they would do. They said they would "let him go," and at the time I decided that was what I would do.
But our children protested. "We have to give Dad that chance…he wanted to live another two years, remember?" I told them I knew he never wanted to be kept alive like that, but they continued to say that if he had a chance, we should give it to him.
The doctors told me I had to make a quick decision; each moment counted. Since he was already on life support, I decided we would go with that, and we had him moved.
He was in intensive care. Tubes were inserted in his neck, oxygen was given, and he had a tube down his throat. Every day different specialists examined him. He remained unconscious.
After a while, the tube down his throat caused a problem, so it had to be removed and a tracheotomy performed. He had to be suctioned to keep the fluid from filling his lungs. The tubes in his neck area became inflamed, so they were moved to his other side. He was turned constantly to avoid bedsores.
Every day we were told he was improving in one area but failing in another. The resuscitation cart was always outside his door. The one time he regained consciousness, he started shouting that he wanted to get out of there. The doctors assured me that he didn't know what he was saying.
This went on for 45 days. Every day I stayed with him, and the family gave me what support they could.
Finally, I called a halt. I told his doctor he was not responding, and his doctor agreed that it was time. All the tubes were removed, and he was given a morphine drip to keep him comfortable. He died the next day.
It is too easy be swayed by percentages. I blame myself for not standing strong and sticking to what I knew my husband wanted. It's easy now to look back and wish we'd done things differently, even though I know it was because of our love for him what we made the decision we did.
I'd hate to see it happen to anyone else.
Diane's Story
 Today is Memorial Day. My dad was a veteran of
World War II. He fought and lived through a terrible war, but when he found out he had lung cancer and emphysema, he fought a battle he knew he would lose. On June 4, 1991, he decided to end the war forever by ending his last battle.
He had taken 37 radiation treatments that had decreased the tumor in his lung so much it did not show up on x-rays in October '90. By March '91, the tumor was back and growing.
Dad was a very active person, as are most seniors. They grew up working hard and forgot how to take it easy.
Dad gave no indication the night before when I talked to him that he was thinking about taking his own life. Monday he went for his doctor's appointment. Tuesday and Wednesday he lay in the bed, too sick and weak to get up except to go to the bathroom, which was getting to be a chore for him.
Thursday, when I came home and fixed his supper to take to his room, I found him in his room with his head mostly blown off and blood and brain matter scattered all over his room and the hall to the bathroom.
His 303 British infantry rifle which he had proudly kept because it was like the one he carried in the war was sitting on the floor between his knees. It had been loaded with explosive tip shells, so the police investigator said.
I am writing this to you today so that you can put this story in your newsletter or whatever publication you want so that others will not have to deal with the horrific sight that this kind of suicide causes.
There is a better way. If this story can help just one person, it is worth the time it takes to type it here.
I have learned to deal with my dad's death. I would rather he die as he did than suffocate from lack of oxygen because of his diseased lungs.
I hope that you can help others to realize that they and their families deserve a less horrible, more dignified way of dying.
Thanks, Diane
Max's Story
Max was a very dear friend whom I try to remember the way he was in the early spring of 1998…51 years old, and glowing with the joy of life. He was a computer guru, an accomplished private pilot, and a seasoned world traveler with a lovely wife and two highly accomplished children. He had a great sense of humor and an enormous zest for living.
Fifteen years earlier Max had undergone radiation for a tumor in his throat. The treatment had been effective and if he ever gave it another thought, no one could have guessed it. He was home free…or so it seemed.
In late spring of 1998, Max was diagnosed with cancer of the tongue. The doctors said that if they excised his tongue, he might have a good chance for survival. So in early June, Max underwent the surgery, and about ten days later, he came home to start his new life.
I had been one of the people who encouraged Max to undergo the surgery…after all, there’s more to life than talking. Besides, given his ability to earn a good income with his brain and the availability of computer voice synthesizers, there was a great deal of living he could still do. And he had an indomitable spirit.
Max hadn’t wanted any visitors in the hospital, so I called each day to speak with his wife about his progress. When he came home, I wanted to go right over to see him, but he wasn’t yet ready for company. I continued to call each day, and as we got into the third week after surgery, I told his wife to inform him that I was coming whether he liked it or not, and that they had the option of just not answering the door.
Well, they did answer the door, and I did get to see Max…and it was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. The loss of his tongue, I learned, involved a great deal more than we had imagined. First, there was the permanent trache tube, to insure that he could breathe, and the insert had to be removed and cleaned each day. Then, there was the direct line into his intestine, through which Max had to feed himself liquid nutrients for 12 hours each day. And then, the worst problem by far…his inability to control salivation.
As I sat with my friend, trying to cheer him with computer technology talk, it took all of my strength to hide my upset with the sight of the tube into his abdomen and the huge bubbles of saliva he was drooling into his bucket. I know it was much harder on him then on me, but after starting the drive home, I only got about a mile before having to pull over to the side of the road and cry. It couldn’t get any worse than this…or so I thought.
Although Max’s wife urged him to let me visit often, he only allowed me to come every other week. The next visit I was fully prepared, and managed to maintain a cheerful demeanor. When I asked whether he was making progress with his swallowing exercises, he nodded a half-hearted affirmative, but it seemed that perhaps there was even more bothering him than I knew about…or perhaps it was only my imagination. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
In the subsequent weeks they found that Max was developing another, highly aggressive tumor in his throat. For whatever reason, further radiation was not considered an option. The tumor grew rapidly. They treated the physical pain, but that was the smallest part of Max’s problem. Imagine, if you can, spending months sitting up in a chair, unable to lie down to sleep or rest, managing a cat-nap now and then, waking to connect another bottle of nutrients to your feeding tube, drooling huge globules into your bucket, while you waited patiently for the tumor in your throat to grow big enough to strangle you. It was hell on earth!
Max had about four months of that nightmare which some people insist upon calling “life.” When death finally claimed him, my radiant 6’1”, 185-pound friend was a pitiful 80-pound scarecrow.
The morning after delivering the eulogy at Max’s funeral I joined the right-to-die movement. Ever since, I have devoted myself to the battle for legislation that will provide terminally ill patients with the means to avoid such horrific suffering.
—Fred Cohen
Adrienne's Story
Mary, my mother, was a fabulous vibrant woman of 59 who practiced yoga and loved long walks in the woods with her dog. She had a loving husband and four daughters who leaned on her for her wisdom and advice even while they charted their own individual lives. Mary was diagnosed with breast cancer in April, 1999. She accepted the news with quiet, determined strength. She started the long journey of breast cancer treatment while still having time to support and encourage her family. She did it all; surgery, radiation, chemotherapy and any other treatment that hinted at promise. She joked that if she had to be cursed with breast cancer she could at least be the guinea pig that might lead to new breakthrough treatments.
As she traveled the country with her bright spirit and unyielding optimism giving herself over to being poked and prodded and injected at cancer centers in the Pacific Northwest, where she was from, to NIH in Bethesda, Maryland then to Cleveland Cancer center she never lost her sense of humor or her enormous hope. However, nothing worked.
From the moment she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she started preparing her family for her end of life wishes. I will never forget that phone call where she told me the prognosis was not good and continued. “I am not afraid of dying, I am afraid of the process of dying.” She told us she wanted to be able to choose her own time and circumstances. We understood her wishes; we just didn’t know how to honor them.
The summer of 2003 was bleak as we tried to remain optimistic but knew in our hearts the end was getting closer. She made out her living will and asked us to help her take control of her death. We did some research on the internet and discovered Compassion In Dying (now Compassion & Choices). Mary was relieved, she knew she could now stop fighting this disease and end things when and where she wanted to. In early September 2003, her husband and she took a last vacation…a small one, four days in British Columbia. It was there that she realized her days were numbered. She became partially paralyzed and had to return early. Her breast cancer had moved into her brain.
Mary died on September 22, 2003 at home with her family around her with the support of Compassion in Dying. She was 59 years old. Her family will always be grateful that she was ultimately able to spend her last few weeks knowing she had control over her death just as she did over her life.
Michael's Story
I was a Deputy Sheriff in California for almost 10 years. I often responded to a call of a suicide at a private residence—a call that was always met with one or more surviving family members totally distraught—at times so greatly that they required medical assistance at that time. The methods were varied and can be shared if needed.
My father died of complications from advanced bone cancer in 1993 in Oregon. He followed his doctor's regiment faithfully and kept a log of medications, times and results. He died in his sleep on July 20th. My mother lived on until 1998. Struggling with the continuing emotional vacancy at the loss of her life partner as well as emphysema she decided to exercise her choice as a strong-minded human being and made the choice to end her life. She informed my 3 brothers and me of this decision. None of us wanted it to happen nor did we agree with her choice—but we were products of strong parents who raised us to take responsibility for our actions. We had to accept and support her choice.
She chose a weekend to gather the boys, some of their wives and children, and we spent 2 days talking about the past, the future, what Mom and Dad really knew about what we did growing up ( things we were sure they had no idea ). We opened and gathered as much information as possible from old photo albums, marveled at the grades Mom and Dad had received in school and college, watched TV shows, listened to music, played hearts—the family card game that Dad was almost unbeatable at—and, even with the inevitable looming everywhere we turned, spent the final hours together. Hours of good memories, not ones of finding our Mother, or receiving a phone call from someone of her being dead from some horrible choice of suicide.
We took photos of us all together for the last time—the anguish shows in some—and then she said it was time. She chose her clothes to wear and had a few private minutes alone. When she called us she was in bed and ready. She drank the morphine we had picked up that afternoon from the pharmacy. Morphine prescribed by a wonderful doctor who really cared for her and us. Although it took much longer than we expected ( 12 hours ) she finally fell asleep and joined her partner in the better world she believed she was entering. She had written a ledger for us to follow after her death and the subsequent difficulties were much less painful.
Writing this brings huge tears and sighs but I treasure the memory of her going to sleep so much more than one of finding her dead in an undignified and demeaning circumstance. My brothers and I will follow the lead of our mother when the time is right for us individually. My daughter is aware of this and also accepts it, albeit reluctantly. I currently live in Washington and, if still here when I make that choice, will follow through with my choice, regardless of any laws contrary. What can they do when I'm gone?
California used to have a law against suicide or attempted suicide. I thought it ludicrous then as I do now - how do you punish the person committing the act? You can't, unless they are unsuccessful but if followed through by the authorities you only punish and insult and harm the surviving family members. If I or my brothers - one in Oregon, another in Washington also and one in Nevada can be of help in this campaign I am willing.
Sincerely, Michael Dodds
Bellingham, WA
Death Without Dignity, Jean's Story
Ever since my youth I have proclaimed loudly that I’m not afraid of dying. Recently I realized how wrong I was; I’m not afraid of death, but I am afraid of dying. When we have a pet that is suffering, we take it to the vet to have it “put down.” Even a murderer on Death Row gets a merciful death. Why must humans suffer when there is no hope of recovery?
Oregon is the only state sanctioning physicians’ help in suicide for terminally ill patients. In the eight years since this became legal, fewer than 250 people have used the law. The rest of the populace takes comfort in knowing that they have a choice.
On May 19th June, my oldest daughter at 71, had surgery for a brain tumor called glioblastoma multiforme (grade 4) a deadly malignancy with a prognosis of 4 to 6 months without treatment. Chemotherapy makes the patient so sick that the few extra months gained are not worth it. My daughter opted not to have treatment.
During the weeks she lived with me I made her life as easy as possible. However, when the Hospice nurse told her new tumors had developed on the back of her neck, she lost control. She began over-medicating, falling and hurting herself. Breaking my promise to her that she could stay with me until she died, we moved her into a nursing home.
She received good care there, even remarking, “Every-one here is so kind to me.” Her one complaint was the institutional food. When we learned that we could sign her out for a few hours daily, her son, her daughter and I took turns treating her to lunch in good local restaurants. She enjoyed this so much that I thought, “No one looking at us laughing and joking would dream that one of us is dying of brain cancer.”
Then overnight she became bedridden, able only to babble, frustrated because she couldn’t express her thoughts. She slipped in and out of a coma. When we spoke to her she screwed up her face, crying without tears. She mumbled only two intelligible sentences during those weeks: “Why does it take so long?” and, “I didn’t know it would be so hard.”
Now we are praying for her to die. When the Hospice nurse suggested tube feeding because she wasn’t eating, we said, “Absolutely not! She doesn’t want to live.” A morphine patch was placed on her chest to prevent pain. The strain on family members is almost unbearable; we can only stand by and watch her suffer. If we should try to help her die, we would be breaking the law and probably go to prison. June has a Living Will and a “Do Not Resuscitate” order. She expressed her wishes while she was still lucid, but that doesn’t help us to help her.
Our family is fortunate there is MediCal. We don’t have to pay, as June has no funds and no long-term care insurance. Neither her son, her daughter nor I could afford $128 a day for her care—who knows for how long. Luckily for us, the state picks up the tab. Think of the cost to you, the taxpayer! There are thousands of patients rotting away in nursing homes and hospitals in California with no hope of release except death. HMOs pay only a small part of the cost.
My 74-year-old father ended a miserable existence by climbing the George Washington Bridge and dropping over the side, to be smashed on the pavement. Nobody deserves such a death. Why couldn’t he die peacefully with a doctor’s help?
In the past several years California has tried to pass a law similar to Oregon’s. The attempt failed, due to fears of euthanasia, etc. Don’t these people who vote against the law realize that some day their loved ones—or they themselves--might welcome the release such a law can provide? No one should have to choose an end like my father’s or my daughter’s. Death is inevitable—let’s make it easier for those who want help.
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