New York should legalize medical aid in dying: View
Would my father actually have used medical aid in dying if he’d had access to it? We’ll never know.
The first thing people would say upon meeting my father was, “Just how tall are you, anyway?” I suggested he hand out cards saying, “I’m 6 foot 5 inches. Yes, I played basketball. No, I wasn’t very good.”
Besides being tall, Larry Kelly was an Irish-American lawyer and medical researcher who prided himself on being the “I’ll take care of it” guy for his family. When one of his kids or grandkids needed a sounding board or a helping hand, he was always there with great advice and his trademark wry wit. He was always the solution, never the problem.
When Larry learned he had Stage 4 colon cancer, he leapt into action. He did extensive research on cancer drug trials, and the treatment he and his doctors developed kept him vital and healthy for such a long time that life seemed to go back to normal. We celebrated birthday after birthday following his diagnosis, and his four kids could almost believe he wasn’t mortally ill.
I think he believed it too, and this is where he made a mistake. He wasn’t expecting the cancer to suddenly take a turn for the worse last August. In fact, he hid it from his family for two months so as not to upset us, while hoping he would make it into another drug trial. But time was running out.
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When his doctor told him in October that he was too sick to get into another trial and that nothing more could be done, my dad asked us to help research the residency requirements for moving to Vermont, where aid-in-dying is legal. He was determined to be in as much control of his death as he had been of his life.
When my father learned that timing would not allow him to move to Vermont and access aid in dying, the anger and despair that crossed his face is something that will live with me the rest of my life. Anger because after four years of doing everything he could to extend his life, he would now have no say in how or when he would die. And despair because he feared the suffering and loss of control that was headed his way.
His fears were well-grounded. The tumors in his liver caused terminal agitation, which one of the hospice nurses told us is worse than pain and couldn't be treated. My suffering father kept apologizing to us for the upset he was causing. In his mind, Mr. Solution had become the problem, adding to his grief and distress.
The way my father died was not how any of us had pictured it — most of all, him — and I wish I could wipe it from my mind. The words “harrowing” and “traumatic” come to mind. But “absurd” is also a word I’d use. We were discussing moving a dying man to a state far from his family, just so he could choose to die as he lived — on his own terms, with forethought and self-determination.
Would my father actually have used medical aid in dying if he’d had access to it? We’ll never know. In states that offer the option, only a small fraction of terminally ill people procures the prescription and one-third of those that do, choose not to use it. But I do know he wanted and deserved that option, for peace of mind and a sense of control and dignity during this last important phase of his life.
I also know that if my father had lived in a state where the laws encourage patients to openly talk with their families and doctors about end-of-life issues and choices, he would have faced far less angst and uncertainty at the end.
There was nothing noble or redeeming about the suffering my father endured in his final days and weeks. People with end-stage terminal illnesses, like my independent and funny father, should have choices about how they leave this world. I know I would want that choice for myself one day, which is why I am such a strong supporter and advocate for New York to legalize medical aid in dying.
I urge anyone interested in this topic — a supporter of aid in dying or just wanting to learn more — to attend a free screening of the award-winning “How to Die in Oregon,” followed by a discussion of medical aid in dying on 2 p.m. Jan. 28 at the First Presbyterian Church, 10 Academy St., Cold Spring.
The writer is a Mount Kisco resident.