‘I could see straight away through the glass that she wasn’t doing well. She looked utterly despondent but agitated at the same time. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I wasn’t on duty, but I still ran my practice from home back then, and she called me up. I hadn’t seen her in a while: I knew that she suffered from recurring episodes of severe depression and that all efforts to treat her until now had failed. During the last episode she’d become a danger to herself and had been forcibly admitted to hospital. Now, it seemed, she was back at home.
I let her into my hallway, and she got right to the point. I want to die, she said, and you have to help me. I could see straight away that she was serious. I knew her history, knew the anguish her depression caused her. She was still young, in her early thirties, but she really was a pitiful case and had been so for years.
But I wasn’t going to solve her problems right there in the hallway. This all happened long ago, long before the Euthanasia Act came in. Assisted suicide was far more complex in those days, especially where psychiatry was concerned. I felt overwhelmed. I hadn’t been a GP very long, and I needed time to think. In my head I mapped out the whole sequence of events: I would need to speak to her psychiatrist, as well as her family. I suggested that she come back the next day, so that we could talk everything through properly. She agreed.
Looking back, I regret not giving her more time at the outset – I was too easily convinced that I’d reassured her. I thought she understood that I simply couldn’t say yes straight away, plus I thought she was doing better since she was back at home. But I was making assumptions. I should have started the discussion immediately, then I would have realised the seriousness of her condition. I let her go based on my initial impressions and her promise that she would come back.
The next day, she didn’t turn up. I didn’t stress about it – Mondays are always hectic at the practice, and I had so much on my plate that I was grateful for the extra space. I assumed she was safe with her family and that they would contact me if there were any problems.
On Wednesday morning, during my surgery hours, the police called. She had jumped off a building not far from my practice, and they wanted me to come and identify the body. Her appearance would be too distressing for the family. I can still remember standing there in that tiny little mortuary, leaning over her body. The extra day had been one too many.
Her parents are still angry with me. Not because she died, but because I hadn’t agreed to the euthanasia. They had shared in her suffering all those years, only to see her life come to such a horrific end. They refused ever to see me again.
It’s been twenty-five years now, but this young woman’s story shaped my attitude to euthanasia for the rest of my career. Termination of life might be more intricate when psychiatry is involved, but it can sometimes offer a more humane solution, and I’ve seen the desperate lengths a person can be driven to if that door is closed off.
Whenever euthanasia once again becomes the topic of public debate, she returns to my thoughts. I opened my door to her that Sunday afternoon, which makes me partly responsible for what happened. She interpreted my hesitation as a rejection. The sad truth is that I genuinely wanted to help her. Things shouldn’t have ended the way they did.’