The first assisted-suicide advocate I ever met left an impression I will never forget.
He had the most romantic life story. He was an Indian from Gujarat who had moved to America in the 1960s to become a hippy. Then one day he found a flier for an Indian dance troupe that was coming through town. In the back row of the group photo he saw a face that he instantly recognised as the love of his life.
He followed her back to India, where he courted and they fell in love. Her parents refused permission to marry, so he got a haircut and a job in the civil service, and the parents accepted. They married and soon had two small, beautiful children.
Then she got breast cancer.
"At the end, she was in so much pain. It lasted so long. I would have done anything, anything to make that easier for her. But I could only watch while the cancer slowly tortured her to death." He was still broken from the experience. It had been 30 years. Life-sized portraits of her were hung throughout the house. The mythic quality of their love was undiminished, not only for him but for anybody who entered that house.
What their love needed was a quiet, peaceful, comfortable death. That would have been good and right and true. It's worth fighting for.
With the help of the Indian government, which makes it extremely difficult for people to get access to opioids, even if they're terminally ill patients.
He had the most romantic life story. He was an Indian from Gujarat who had moved to America in the 1960s to become a hippy. Then one day he found a flier for an Indian dance troupe that was coming through town. In the back row of the group photo he saw a face that he instantly recognised as the love of his life.
He followed her back to India, where he courted and they fell in love. Her parents refused permission to marry, so he got a haircut and a job in the civil service, and the parents accepted. They married and soon had two small, beautiful children.
Then she got breast cancer.
"At the end, she was in so much pain. It lasted so long. I would have done anything, anything to make that easier for her. But I could only watch while the cancer slowly tortured her to death." He was still broken from the experience. It had been 30 years. Life-sized portraits of her were hung throughout the house. The mythic quality of their love was undiminished, not only for him but for anybody who entered that house.
What their love needed was a quiet, peaceful, comfortable death. That would have been good and right and true. It's worth fighting for.