"A way that's quiet and calm"? Not for me.

Dudley Clendinen has a terrible disease: ALS (amyotropic lateral sclerosis), or Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS is a progressive disease that gradually robs a person of his ability to move. The mind is alert, but trapped inside a body that can no longer perform the most basic functions. This is, undeniably, a tragic diagnosis. There are no words of comfort I can offer to him; everything would sound hollow in the face of the future he now faces. If I knew Mr. Clendinen, I wouldn't know what to say. But I can promise you I wouldn't say what a friend did after flying in from Texas to Baltimore to express his concern. According to this New York Times opinion piece written by Mr. Clendinen, his friend said, “We need to go buy you a pistol, don’t we?” Mr. Cleninden says, He meant to shoot myself with. "Yes, Sweet Thing", I said, with a smile. "We do." I loved him for that. 

Mr. Clendinen does not wish to try for a few extra months of life with a drug that may give him a few extra months. He doesn't want a tracheostomy to try to avert choking along with possible mechanical ventilation. And I understand his decision. I wouldn't want to have my life preserved using extraordinary means if I were in his shoes. I would choose as he has in that regard. So I'm with him so far.

But that's where we diverge. Mr. Clendinen has decided how is going to tackle his disease. He plans to kill himself before he becomes a "burden". Here he sums up what he plans to do "when the time comes".

I’d rather die. I respect the wishes of people who want to live as long as they can. But I would like the same respect for those of us who decide — rationally — not to. I’ve done my homework. I have a plan. If I get pneumonia, I’ll let it snuff me out. If not, there are those other ways. I just have to act while my hands still work: the gun, narcotics, sharp blades, a plastic bag, a fast car, over-the-counter drugs, oleander tea (the polite Southern way), carbon monoxide, even helium. That would give me a really funny voice at the end. I have found the way. Not a gun. A way that’s quiet and calm. Knowing that comforts me. I don’t worry about fatty foods anymore. I don’t worry about having enough money to grow old. I’m not going to grow old.

After reading his piece, David brooks - a New York Times columnist - said life was more than "just breathing and existing as a self-enclosed skin bag".  He expressed his approval of Mr. Clendinen's plan. But the only part of his plan I unreservedly support is the last two sentences. The heck with fatty foods. And the heck with money worries. Facing one's mortality has a way of stripping away the "little stuff", and with little time left to live, these things fade away in importance.

Mr. Clendinen describes his experience with his aging mother, and he wants to spare his daughter Whitney from a similar experience. He says, 

I spent hundreds of days at Mother’s side, holding her hand, trying to tell her funny stories. She was being bathed and diapered and dressed and fed, and for the last several years, she looked at me, her only son, as she might have at a passing cloud.I don’t want that experience for Whitney — nor for anyone who loves me. Lingering would be a colossal waste of love and money.

My father didn't die of ALS, but other factors rendered him helpless. He was rarely able to eat without choking and had frequent episodes of aspiration pneumonia that proved impossible to eradicate. He couldn't dress himself and could only feed himself with difficulty. He was unable to stand, couldn't sit unsupported, and wound up losing so much weight that, upon his death, he had a scant 125 pounds on his 6'1" frame.

I was with him throughout his last illness. When it became apparent to him that he would be unable to regain any sort of independence but would continue to decline, he decided to change to hospice mode. He took no medications other than those required for comfort. Close friends and family came to visit. Dad was up-front with them; everyone knew that he was dying. But the time we spent was not a "colossal waste of love and money". We used the time well. At the end, neither of us had regrets. Neither of us would have chosen to deliberately end his life by "a way that's quiet and calm". He was far more than "just breathing and existing as a self-enclosed skin bag".

Do I respect Mr. Clendinen's choice? Yes.

But do I agree with it? No.