-WAPO. Flashback: Spring, 1990. "The
Hemlock Society called," says Mike. Their local chapter wants someone to tell them about "depression and suicide." I'm finishing my fellowship at Large Urban Medical Center. My program director told them to call me. Might I give them a brief talk?
"Of course," I tell them. I'm young and terribly naive. I bring my slides and handouts to their meeting.
They greet me warmly. It's a genteel group. They're all over sixty. I start my spiel: symptoms, statistics, treatments. There are conditions that cause such suffering, such hopelessness, that patients want to kill themselves. But often they improve when they're treated. Then patients say that they're glad they're still alive.
The group listens closely. (But "Please speak up, dear, we don't hear well.") Half of them have walkers. Some have oxygen. One in the back...looks awfully thin. Another is pale. Question time; any questions?
"Doctor, don't you think, if someone is terminal...and suffering intolerably...shouldn't they have the right to end it all, if they choose?"
Well, I say. Let me explain, I say.
(Is it getting awfully warm in here?) Often that hopelessness is due to depression and pain. We can treat depression, we can treat pain...
They are patient, they are polite. They press me gently...then, firmly. They won't let go. "Suppose there is
no hope. The suffering is
not endurable. Even if you are trying to help us,
it's just not endurable. Then shouldn't we have the right...and the means?"
Now they start to talk about themselves. One says she has advanced cancer. So do I, says another. Strokes, MS, pain...terrible pain...They peer at me across a chasm of illness and suffering.
An elderly man struggles to his feet.
"I'm sick, do you hear me? Sick! And I'm dying! If I want to kill myself, I will, dammit! That's my choice!" The group applauds him. I'm sweating profusely now. My notes...my slides...did I volunteer for this?
Things continue in this vein, until they pry a tortured statement from my lips:
If conditions are truly as they've described them...then they each have an important message that deserves to be heard, and respected. Ah! The relief in the room! They're beaming. The sandwiches are here; let's eat!
Their leader clasps my hand. "They love you!" he says. (Mike whispers,
"Shrinkette, they want you to kill them.")
"Take me home, please," I moan. "My headache is killing me..."
Two months later, they call me again. They're worried about a new member. He's not terminally ill. He's not even physically sick, but he has some strange ideas, and he's suicidal. He sounds like some of those people I was telling them about. Could I please see him?
"Of course!" said I.