American Politics Journal -- Assisted Suicide: It's Just a Crime

American Politics Journal

Assisted Suicide: Compassionate Felony
by Steve Young

Monday, Nov. 12, 2001 -- LOS ANGELES (APJP) -- This story is hypothetical. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, but let’s just say I’m not looking to be hunted down by the federalies.

A couple years ago, my grandfather, Jesse...Pop to all the kids, lay dying. Pop, who joined the WWI Navy at the age of 15 and at 94 years, had lived a full-life, seeing his kids, grandkids and great grandkids grow up in front of him, had told me for the past couple years that "sometimes we live too long." His wait was shortened when at 94 he was mistreated at a hospital and basically dwindled away to a death waiting to happen.

A family vigil began. Pop’s bed was placed in my sister’s suburban Philadelphia living room. I flew in from L.A.. Pop wanted to "hold on" until I got there. I got there in time to find my skeleton of a grandfather, his dry, parched mouth unable to shut, his desiccated eyes unable to blink and endless tubes seemingly sprouting from him. He was unable to move and so obviously uncomfortable. He was unable to eat, to drink, to go to the bathroom. He was unable to anything, even die.

I leaned over and kissed him. I told him I loved him and that my kids, more great-grandchildren, send their love. He moaned something and I leaned closer. He was difficult to understand, but understand I did. What he slurred was something that today, in Oregon, might find him jailed as an accomplice to a federal crime. Now remember, this story I tell is hypothetical. For purely entertainment purposes only. My grandfather was pleading for his life to end. Up to this point it seemed like no one was paying attention to him. Least of all death.

I tried to explain to him that what he was asking was against the law. That he could find himself in real trouble. I explained that he should never give up hope, and that the family didn’t want to see... Oops, his air tube fell out and he began to gag. His body shuttered and his eyes blinked, rapidly, uncontrollably. Some kind of milky fluid leaked from the corner of his mouth. Finally, the attending nurse got Pop settled. Pop Jesse was once again, living the good life. The good life that would be criminal to end, except in Oregon, as long as you don't go telling John Ashcroft.

I attempted to give Pop some water through a straw. For Pop, life sucked...but unfortunately, he couldn’t. Any liquid that had a chance to get down his throat just dribbled down his chin, like a new born infant. A new born infant who was in tremendous physical and emotional pain who only prayed for a final passing that refused to pass.

As things calmed down I continued my "there’s still hope" speech. I explained how his mid and late nineties were a time for him to appreciate all that he had reaped. I tried to remind him about his good friends, his brother and sisters...who were all dead. He should perhaps hang on for his wife, who lay fifty miles away in some final stage of Alzheimer's. But I don’t think he heard. He must have been busy with all those many things you have to look forward to when your immobile and urging death along.

His moaning became increasingly loud and agitated. The nurse said it was a bit too early to give him any more morphine. You don’t want to overdose someone as fragile as Pop was. You have no idea what it could do to him.

Pop looked at me will the soulful eyes of a loyal pet beagle and continued to moan. I leaned over and he once again mumbled what he had before. For crissakes, Pop was never too much of a rebel... I mean he had a tattoo, but didn’t he understand what top cop Ashcroft had meant when he chose to go after Oregon’s suicide-assisting doctors? Was Pop actually asking his own grandson to participate in a felony?

I decided that Pop didn’t know that what was being done by the judicial system was in his own best interest. I wanted to make sure that none of the other friends and relatives standing vigil would become a willing confederate to this tomfoolery. I took the liquid morphine into the other room, taking care that none of the potential felons knew where it was, especially the suspicious-looking hospice nurse.

I sat there allowing the choice was mine. The decision was not near as difficult as I thought it would be. I carefully doled out an amount sufficient to make Pop...comfortable. ‘Course I did have to estimate a bit, and that is one thing I never seem to do well.

I came back into the living room to find Pop once again struggling... twitching....seizing...one of those things. The nurse said it would be okay for him to have the morphine now. I told her I had the proper dosage ready, that I had watched enough of the Discovery Channel to get it right. Some of the gathering chuckled. Not Pop. Guess he didn’t get it.

I carefully lifted his head, much like I lifted my children’s heads when I would give them medicine to make them better, which is exactly what I want to do for Pop. I poured the liquid down and whispered that I loved him. When the vial attached to the spoon was empty I let his head down to rest gently on his pillow. I kissed him, and almost immediately he took a peaceful breath. I guess they were right. All he needed was the right amount of morphine and he would be fine. No need to start going off the deep end like those killer doctors of Oregon.

I went into the other room to sit alone and think about being four years old and having Pop taking me in his Atlantic City taxi or on those giant buses that waited to cart in the beach crowds from Philly. No casinos then. Just the beach, the Boardwalk, Steel Pier and Pop. It was the best.

I had just shut my eyes when my cousin Shelly came in to get me. We went into the living room where we found Pop resting peacefully and, as I was informed by the nurse, about ready to leave us. In short moments he was gone. Ninety-four years on earth. A single moment to be gone. Someone closed his eyes and mouth. He was asleep. Peacefully. Without pain. With dignity.

The room shed few tears. They had been shed for many days before. There was much more relief. It was for the best. Best part, no one had to step across federal statutes to hurry the process. Pop had found the way out. Maybe that's why he wanted me there. I was glad that I got there in time to help Pop. I was glad that I was able to give him that last bit of painkiller. I was glad that I was part of his life. And so, so privileged to be a part of his death.

Steve Young, contributing editor of the Writers Guild Of America's "Written By' magazine, is a Prism Award winner and Humanitas nominee for his writing on the accurate depiction alcohol use and addiction in a television comedy episode. His forthcoming book, "Great Failures Of The Extremely Successful, Tallfellow Press, comes out in Fall, 2002. E-mail theeothersteveyoung@juno.com.