At Death's Door

Fri, 05 Mar 2010 11:16:27 EST

Assisted suicide, mercy killing,euthanasia, call it what you will, simply won’t go away, and it promises to runand run for years to come.

In the recent past, we have beentreated to the outpourings of MartinAmis and Terry Pratchett on euthanasia and assisted suicide, and both merit ourcareful consideration.

MartinAmis, I suspect with tongue in cheek, advocates “euthanasia booths” on streetcorners where the elderly can end their lives with a martini and a medal. He predicts a “silver tsunami” ofincreasingly elderly and thoroughly useless people, stinking out therestaurants and cafés and shops, in constant conflict with the youngergeneration. He has a point, although notattractively made. More and more of ourprecious resources will have to be devoted to them, from the doctor’s surgery,to the hospitals, to the care homes and finally to the hospices. And as we all know, the state pension wasdevised to support the elderly into their mid seventies, not into theireighties and nineties.

I live in a retirement area, andalthough I am not in the first blush of youth, I find that the elderly can beunintentionally irritating on many levels. Driving behind them is an ordeal, queuing behind them at the checkoutwhilst they count out every penny, dodging their electric carts as they trundledown the pavement with a miserable expression fixed, rictus like, on theirfaces, all this and more is enough to test the patience of a saint. But beneath these petty irritations lies adeeper malaise. Medical science may wellkeep us going for longer and longer, but sadly, without the quality of life, itseems so terribly pointless. This is, orshould be, the nub of the debate.

Terry Pratchett speaks withgreater conviction, as he is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, and inhis opinion, a fate worse than death. Heis probably right. His aim is for a goodand rich life well lived, and at the end of it, in the comfort of his own home,and in the company of loved ones, to have a death worth dying for.

And finally, we now have yetanother “clarification” of the law on assisted suicide by Keir Starmer, theDirector of Public Prosecutions. It isnot his fault, because he has been passed the poisoned chalice, but his“clarification” is meaningless. Hesimply repeats what we already know, that each case is unique, and each casemust be considered on its own merits. Wealready know that Debbie Purdy’s husband will not be prosecuted if he assists inher suicide, and I like to think that all who fall into this category will alsoescape prosecution, but there is no guarantee. To put it bluntly, it is not a guarantee that any law officer can give.

All these are noble sentiments,expressed as they are against the backdrop of a society where old age is to bedespised, not revered, and where elderly relatives are shipped out at the firstsign of inconvenience, not to mention incontinence.

But back to the nub of thedebate. It matters not to which God weaddress our prayers, there remains a fear of the unknown, and a fear of dying. It was Edward Fitzgerald who wrote:

“Strange, is it not? That of themyriads who before us have passed the door of darkness through, not one returnsto tell us of the road, which to discover, we must travel too.”

But above all, and the strongest argumentagainst euthanasia, or mercy killing, or assisted suicide, is to decide whenthe time is right, and most important of all, to decide who decides. Those suffering a terminal illness have beenknown to recover, as have those in a deep and apparently irreversiblecoma. Those, like Terry Pratchett, maystill enjoy a quality of life, even in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, andonce Terry gets there, and is presumably incapable of deciding when the time isright, who in the company of those he loves decides when to pull the plug? And is it ever possible to escape thesuspicion, real or imagined, that this merciful release was not motivated byself interest on the part of those who remain behind? And how is it to be done? On a show of hands?

The same with Martin Amis’s euthanasia booths. If you are well enough to walk into such abooth under your own steam and of your own volition, you are presumably wellenough to live another day.

There is no easy answer. I do not hold a torch for either side of theargument, as I can see the strengths and weaknesses of both. But we must ask ourselves one question. When we are old and frail, and perhapslacking the quality of life we once enjoyed, is it not better to allow theforces of nature to decide our going, even if, to some, we should have gone along time ago? I am not sure if I am ready to have my nearest and dearestcircling my death bed like some carrion crow, ready to pick over the bones ofmy rotting corpse.

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At Death's Door