"Don’t call it ‘assisted suicide’"

 A letter to the editors of The Washington Post from Donna Smith of Compassion & Choices objected to the term "assisted suicide."

Using the term “assisted suicide” to describe medical aid in dying is inaccurate and offensive to terminally ill individuals, who want to live but their disease is killing them. They just want the option to end their suffering peacefully if it becomes intolerable.

In fact, data from authorized jurisdictions shows one-third of terminally ill individuals who receive aid-in-dying medication don’t end up taking it, but they get peace of mind from knowing they can take it if they need it.

A New Machine for a Gentle Assisted Death

The Washington Post reports on a new machine for those who wish to have an assisted death.

People wishing to end their lives in Switzerland — one of a handful of countries that give the option — could soon have access to a new method: a 3-D-printed pod that its creator says can painlessly end someone’s life in a matter of minutes....

At the push of a button, the pod becomes filled with nitrogen gas, which rapidly lowers oxygen levels, causing its user to fall unconscious within a minute, Nitschke said. A person does not suffocate or experience distress, he said, but rather dies of oxygen deprivation after they’ve fallen asleep. In theory, the capsule can be towed to a place of someone’s choosing, said Nitschke, who described the machine as a “stylish and elegant” way to die.

Being Present for the Dying

 Ken Budd's essay On The Obligation to Prevent People from Dying Alone is a beautiful meditation of what those moments together mean to the person who is dying and the person who is there, to talk or not, to read scripture or not, just to be present. Budd, still distressed that his mother died alone, has volunteered with NODA. 

I sit quietly. The dying can feel our presence, I’ve been told. That’s the mission here. To be a compassionate human being. To provide family members — in this case the woman’s devoted daughter — with a break from their vigil. To make certain someone is here if she needs something. To ensure that she won’t feel alone and, most important, that she won’t die alone.

Grief in the Pandemic

"It shouldn’t take a pandemic to let grief run its course."

Lindsay Lee Wallace writes in "The unexpected gift of grieving in lockdown" about the welcome opportunity the pandemic gave her to have some time and space to mourn.

It was a testament to how unwell I’d been that I suddenly felt more at home.

Staying in was not only allowed, but mandated. I could eat fistfuls of cereal for every meal, wear the same sweatpants for days on end, and sleep in until the last possible moment.

I was fortunate to have a job that allowed me to work from home. Work, previously a venue of forced cheer and endless exclamation points, became softer. Every email was written with extra care—people had no idea what others were dealing with, could scarcely believe their own circumstances.

Without having to worry about colleagues at the next desk over, I could do what I needed most, and simply cry.

A Doctor Regrets Telling a Patient He is Dying

In  ‘You’re Dying,’ I Told My Patient. I Wish I Hadn’t. Dr. Daniela J. Lamas writes:

In most contexts, it is a doctor’s responsibility to tell our patients the truth, to help them to understand even the most devastating realities. But when I think about that night, I know that I added to my patient’s pain in the last hours of his life. I wish that I had done it differently. I could have paused and told him that yes, he was going to go home. I could have simply been there with him and said nothing at all. That small kindness might have done more for him than the truth.

Grief Keeps Us Close To Those We've Lost

 Steven Petrow writes in The Washington Post:

Long before my mother died, I’d read a slim book, “Grief: A Novel,” by Andrew Holleran, that long stayed with me. Holleran, whose earlier work chronicled the AIDS epidemic, creates characters for whom grief serves as a lifeline, ironic as that sounds, to those whom they’ve lost. The novel focuses on two men — an exhausted, lonely professor whose invalid mother has recently died and his new landlord, a fellow who has lost most of his friends to AIDS.

In one passage, the two characters discuss the nature of grief, ironically framing it as a way to maintain connection with the dearly departed:

The professor: “[G]rief is what you have after someone you love dies. It’s the only thing left of that person. Your love for, your missing, them. And as long as you have that, you’re not alone — you have them.”

The landlord: “But they’re gone!”

The professor: “Not if you grieve. . . . Your grief is the substitute for their presence on earth. Your grief IS their presence on earth.”

In the years since my mother died, temblors of grief have continued — sometimes on the surface, but more often deep within me. That they can come on without warning is no shock. That they pain me is also expected. The unfolding surprise has been that they no longer upset me. I’ve allowed myself to feel the pain of loss and I came to learn, albeit slowly and painfully, that grief is not to fear. If anything, it’s to be embraced. Grief had become an unexpected and comforting way to stay connected to the mother I’d lost.

Grief and Jewish Observance of Mourning

In this podcast, Simon Shimshon Rubin, Director at the International Laboratory for the Study of Loss, Bereavement and Human Resilience, author of Working with the Bereaved: Multiple Lenses on Loss and Mourning  and Professor Emeritus of Clinical Psychology at University of Haifa School of Psychological Sciences joins Raviv Ullman and Rabbi Matt to discuss the psychological effects of losing those we love, Jewish practices that ritualize mourning, and he'll share some wisdom from Torah that’s been useful in his work.