On the road to or from Albany yesterday, I recalled a recent essay in the Sunday opinion section of the New York Times. It was a reflection on the assisted suicide of the writer’s sister. 

Describing death day, he assured us that “Julie never wavered in her decision, which proved a godsend for the rest of us.” And yet, he also remembers:

Before heading upstairs with her wife and daughters, Julie cried for a moment and said softly, “I don’t want to leave you.” 

But at this point, it would seem that everyone was invested in death happening on schedule. He explained: 

 That final morning, my sister got up early to write letters to her three girls: her wife and their two daughters. Then she called the insurance company to argue with them about a payment, trying to take one thing off Maddy’s list of to-dos. I heard her say, “I’m doing MAID at noon. I need you to get back to me before then.” That is — was — my sister.

After she took her moment, she really couldn’t linger on; they continued to tackle the day’s to-do list:  

A few minutes later, my sister made herself comfortable on the Ultrasuede sofa in her office. Maddy prepared the medications, and after they all recited the Serenity Prayer, my sister gulped it in one shot. Within minutes, she was unconscious, in a liminal state between life and death. Maddy gently laid her wife down on the sofa and then asked Jay and me to come upstairs. I stroked her face; I whispered to her how courageous she was to have made this decision. (After all, it’s commonly said that we lose our sense of hearing last.)

God bless Julie and all the loved ones she left behind.

Why couldn’t they have had the time?

The more assisted suicide, the less time people will have. There will be less love. People will be prematurely dead, and we will all suffer from it.

A civilization can’t live this way. It can’t survive.