If you have watched a loved one endure a slow, torturous death it is so very hard to remember them without that horrific memory on the periphery. It clouds all my lovely memories of my dad, who so desperately wanted to die with dignity.
However, it was not to be. Now, to be clear, he also developed dementia so this would have precluded him from assisted dying in any case. But even without dementia, his concurrent Parkinson's and cancer stripped him of all dignity and I know for a fact he would have chosen a peaceful death had it been available.
As it was, his final year was spent in agony, unable to walk more than a few steps, go the toilet or use his arms. If he needed to urinate, I had to somehow hold him up from behind and stand there with a jug underneath his penis so he didn't wee all over the toilet and himself. He also became doubly incontinent. I had to feed him. I had to comfort him as he sat in a chair with tears rolling down his face saying 'This is so degrading, I want to die. I can't take any more'. I had to watch him writhe and thrash around in bed at night as he couldn't get relief. He never slept more than two hours a night for the last eight months of his life. Nor did I.
My dad, an eloquent, kind, rational and extremely clever engineer, died a hideous death in hospital. He developed terrible hallucinations and psychosis and thought his visiting granddaughter was on fire. He was grasping at her skin asking why no-one had called the fire brigade and screaming that her skin was melting. He got severe pneumonia and had to be suctioned several times a day. If you've witnessed this, you'll know the trauma. He died gasping for breath, his face screwed up in anguish. That's my final memory of him.
So while I can empathise with others' concerns – and I genuinely do understand these concerns – my passionate opinion is that we should work very hard to alleviate these concerns. NOT use them as a reason to withhold a peaceful, pain-free death for people like my dad.