To die, or not

This is not a post about suicide. Or at least not in the way it might seem logical to write about suicide in this blog. I have never been suicidal, although there were many days where I did feel I'd rather not be living. This was a rather detached feeling, however, and the grief I was drowning in was not so thick that I could not see what the repercussions of such a drastic action would be. In the moments where I felt like I would like to disappear, I would inevitably almost instantly imagine my husband and parents again bowled over in grief-- this time with the loss of me-- and I would find my own grief compounded, and the thought would be pushed aside.
No, tonight I am talking about the right to die, and more specifically, reflecting on an absolutely amazing Frontline show on PBS that Greg happened to stumble upon while grading papers last Monday night. (click there to watch it, click here to read a nice summary with a few choice quotes) It was about a man with ALS who had chosen to end his own life through assisted suicide, using an organization in Zurich that does just that. This man was so gracious, so thoughtful, and what he wanted was to die peacefully, without a great deal of pain, given that his disease was going to cause his death within a matter of years no matter what he chose. The documentary followed him through the decision making process, both on his own and with his wife, and on the plane over to Zurich and on through his very calm, and peaceful death. It was agonizing to watch this man, sitting with his wife in a softly lit room, drink through a straw the concoction that would cause his heart to cease. I was so amazed by his bravery-- knowing that there could have been moments that would have brought him pleasure, but also knowing that much suffering lay ahead. As his eyes closed, his wife sat by his side, holding his hand. You can only imagine me, sitting about three feet from the television in the dark (my glasses were upstairs), in a tiny child's wicker rocking chair, just weeping from the bottom of my heart. I was weeping because it was sad, but I was also weeping because it was absolutely the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. This was like the perfect birth plan, only it was at the other end of the line. This man had chosen the exact day and manner of his death, he had chosen who would be there with him, and he had chosen the music he would listen to when he went. Before he died, his wife kissed him and said, Goodbye, safe journey. Could there possibly be a better way to go? (That being said, I was also cursing the gods for befelling this intelligent, loving man with such a vicious illness; he was only 59 and vivacious and it was just so sad all around)
The sad thing about it is, that death can be beautiful. It is very powerful, just like birth is. It is enshrouded by mystery and can leave its witnesses with some mystical sense of peace. I only wish there were more opportunities for people like this man to be able to make a lovely plan to avoid their own dehumanizing, humiliating decline, and choose a dignified, quiet way to go.