Zoë Coyle explains why she believes assisted dying should be legal in the UK

Twenty years ago, my mother took her own life. She didn’t die by suicide; she euthanised herself.

The story started when a colleague accused her of being drunk in the hospital where she worked as a nurse because her speech had begun to slur and her balance was off. She wasn’t drunk. She knew something was wrong, and in time so did her doctors ‒ but they struggled to know exactly what. More doctors were seen and, finally, there was a correct diagnosis: progressive supranuclear palsy, a neurological condition where brain cells become damaged over time, impairing mental and motor functions.

The prognosis was terminal – and it would be an agonising, protracted and degrading death. Already my mother had a constant band of searing pain circling her head. She told me it felt like a hot metal strap being cranked more tightly around her skull each day. She would end up in high-dependence care, unable to move or swallow. She would need a feeding tube down her throat, so would be unable to speak.

Yet in the face of this prognosis, she was calm and adamant. She did not intend to let the disease rob her of her autonomy and dignity. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to suffer unduly either. She did not qualify to die in Switzerland at Dignitas [a charity that provides doctor-assisted suicide] as, due to her brain degeneration, she wouldn’t pass its high bar of having a fit mind to give consent. 

And 20 years ago, voluntary assisted dying was not legal in Australia, where she had emigrated in the mid-1970s. So she took matters into her own hands: she read books and went to talks about euthanasia. She put her life in order and had a plan in place.

As anticipated, her condition deteriorated. She had to stop work, couldn’t drive, nor write. She often fell, and choked when she ate or drank. Her intention to euthanise never wavered, but the laws in Australia were clear: if anyone helped her die, they would go to jail for murder ‒ as is still the case in the UK. Legally, therefore, the only option was for my mother to be alone when she ended her life.

After several years, when living became too difficult, she decided it was time. As it turns out, killing yourself is hard, even with medical training. My mother wore a ‘do not resuscitate’ sign, but she was discovered, taken to hospital and revived.

She insisted on being discharged from hospital as quickly as possible. Time was a factor because the window of her physical capacity to kill herself was closing. The hospital policy was that if you tried to end your life, you were considered a psychiatric patient. My mother was neither mentally unwell nor depressed; she simply knew her quality of life was not livable.

Three weeks later, she killed herself. I was not with her. I can’t begin to tell you how much I wish I had been, and that we as a family had been offered the choice to support her during this very worst time of our lives. It took me close to a decade to recover from her death, the nature of which made my grief almost insurmountable.

Zoë with her mother in the early 1980s. She did not qualify to die in Switzerland at Dignitas [a charity that provides doctor-assisted suicide] 

I’m deeply proud of her courage. I respect and understand her choice. What created the damage were the laws that prevented us from being there for her.

Euthanasia and assisted suicide can be prosecuted as murder or manslaughter in the UK. The proposed Assisted Dying Bill has twice been introduced to the House of Lords, in 2014, and again last year when Alison Pickard, a former nurse who lives with incurable motor neurone disease, said: ‘I don’t want to die, but I’m dying. I cannot change the final destination, but to influence the journey would provide huge reassurance and peace of mind. I simply want the ability to die peacefully on my own terms, with my family around me, in my own home. The Assisted Dying Bill would give me that assurance.’

I understand people’s fears that assisted dying is murder. I don’t see it like that. I regard it as offering compassion and care to someone who needs help and love. Some people are concerned the laws will be abused, allowing the vulnerable to be manipulated; but in countries where it is legal, the process of applying for an assisted death is rigorous.

For example, in Australia, a patient aged over 18 must request a voluntary assisted death at least three times and be assessed by two independent medical practitioners; they must have decision-making capacity, be acting voluntarily and without coercion. They must have a disease, illness or medical condition that is advanced, incurable and will cause death within 12 months. Their condition must be causing suffering that cannot be relieved in a manner that the person finds tolerable.

Some doctors cite physician-assisted deaths as being contrary to the Hippocratic oath, which states: ‘I will not give a drug that is deadly to anyone.’ But the oath has been modified many times and does not confer any legal obligations to individuals who take it.

Other rejectionists say palliative care can manage any pain. That is not true. Sometimes, despite the best medical care, people have protracted and excruciating deaths. Pain, however, is not the primary motivation for euthanasia: the three most frequently mentioned end-of-life concerns are a decreasing ability to participate in activities that make life enjoyable, loss of autonomy and loss of dignity.

In August this year, a YouGov poll showed three quarters of Britons are in favour of assisted suicide. I’m sure included in that majority are people with a story like mine. I’ve talked to families who’ve had a loved one die an assisted death, and their experience is the polar opposite of my mother’s and mine. They use words such as beautiful, dignified, loving, sacred. They talk about how grateful they are. I am happy for them and relieved they didn’t have to go through what we did. The words I use are the opposite of theirs: harrowing, lonely and traumatic.

There is another way, of course – and passing the Assisted Dying Bill in the UK would enable it. Because it’s fundamentally about compassion, empowerment, autonomy and love.

Where The Light Gets In by Zoë Coyle is published by Ultimo Press, £8.99*

*To order a copy for £7.64 with free UK delivery until 16 October, go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.