Eight years ago, my husband Mark died. Our youngest child had just turned 11. Mark had been ill for five years. Finally, he waited till the kids and I were out of the house, and ended his own life. By the time he died, he was bedridden, in constant discomfort, doubly incontinent, unable to taste, smell, or see much, but when he was well, he was handsome and brilliant. He was an archaeologist and academic. He was also a dad, a brother, an uncle and a friend. The things he liked included fossils, Tom and Jerry cartoons, jazz, cycling, Rome, 19th-century novels and yellow climbing roses.
Under the present English and Welsh law, ending your life because of physical suffering is a very lonely and isolating experience. Mark knew he wanted to die, but to protect me from prosecution, he could not have me with him at the end, or even share his plans with the person closest to him. He couldn’t access psychological support because all the professionals who might provide it are obliged to treat suicide as a risk, and something to be prevented in all circumstances. And, most of all, he had to die alone, with nobody holding his hand. His act was a brave and loving thing. It still hurts and angers me. Keeping assisted dying out of reach doesn’t stop people trying to end their lives. It just forces people to die bleak and derelict deaths. Dying people deserve better. They deserve choice.
