My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

My father chose to have a medically assisted death. He died on 6 November last year.

The process to access assisted dying was not straightforward. My mother, who was devastated by his decision but understood it, had to initiate the process and find the doctors and nurses with the right training. The service was not offered by the palliative care facility where he was, so she had to find people who were willing to attend from other facilities. Dad then had to go through all the interviews, the paperwork and the cooling-off period.

At each stage, the medical practitioners tried to dissuade him from proceeding. The reality is that only people as comfortable with administrative paperwork and as determined to work through complicated logistics—arranging multiple in-person meetings and so on—and setbacks as my well-educated middle-class parents could have made that happen.

When the doctor arrived, he gave what he called his “butter chicken speech”. He said, “Hello, Mr Slater. I see you’re here with your family. That’s lovely. We don’t have to do this today, Mr Slater. I can come back next week or next month. If you would even like to just have butter chicken with your family tonight, we can make sure that you can do that.” Dad had to energetically—and, to be honest, quite grumpily—insist that the procedure go ahead.

Dad was very ill. He was dying and had been moved to a palliative care facility a few months earlier when that became clear. He had excellent care. My mother spent hours with him every day, and he saw his grandkids regularly. He knew that he was not going to get better. He would never again be able to play Scrabble with my mother at the kitchen table or walk in the woods bird-watching as a citizen scientist—his favourite thing in the whole world. That was on top of the daily discomforts of tubes and injections, of being lifted and moved, of interventions and medical procedures, and of being rushed to hospital in the middle of the night when something went wrong.

My father was afraid that he would lose capacity and that the moment would come when he would lose the ability to make choices and understand what was happening to him. He knew that he was going to die and he wanted to do it in the bright light of day, surrounded by his family, while he knew who we were, before he could be incapacitated by pain or by pain medications. He was ready to go. He did not want to risk gasping out his last alone and afraid in the dark of the night.

My middle sister and I live a long way away from my parents, and his choice meant that he knew we would be there and that he would not die alone. It gave him the comfort of knowing that my mother would not have to cope alone, coming home from the hospital alone to an empty house.

Originally, only my mum was going to stay in the room during the procedure, but, as the nurse was getting things set up, my mum gestured for us to stay and the nurse said to me and my sisters, “Don’t feel like you have to leave. This isn’t going to be traumatic. Your dad will fall into the best and deepest sleep he’s ever had. He’ll probably even snore a bit,” and that is exactly what happened. Mum climbed into the bed to cuddle him, we girls held his hand, I got to hug him, and he told us that he loved us. He told us to look after my mum and he fell asleep—he did snore a bit. It was beautiful.

I wish that death for myself. I wish it for anyone who wants it for themselves. I do not mind if you would never want this choice for yourself but please, please do not prevent other people from choosing it for themselves. We should all have the right to choose.

20:32

I hope that the chamber has not lost sight of the purpose of the bill, which is to prevent suffering. The member says that the purpose of the bill is to bring about death, but I point out that the people who are eligible for the choice that we are discussing are those who are already dying. Death is already something that is ahead of them. They have to have had a diagnosis that they will die within six months. Death is already part of that conversation.

The evidence from Australia and elsewhere has shown that not everybody is aware of the option of assisted dying, especially people in vulnerable groups, people with language barriers and people in rural areas. I do not think that it is reasonable to suggest that a doctor could see an eligible patient—a patient who is dying and is suffering—and not be allowed to indicate that the option exists. To watch someone suffer and be unable to tell them that they have a choice that they are not aware of would be unbearable for a doctor.

We must all be realistic about the fact that not all suffering can be alleviated, even with the very best palliative care.

Will the member take an intervention?