Hazel McHaffie

The Kindness of Strangers

This past weekend, on 1 November 2014, a beautiful and highly intelligent young American woman of 29 calmly and deliberately took her own life in Oregon, with the tacit agreement of those who loved her devotedly. She and her new husband moved there from California so that she could legally take this step.

Though I never knew her, I feel sad that Brittany Maynard has missed out on so much that is wonderful in life. Nevertheless I understand her actions: she was terminally ill with a brain tumour and she did not want to deteriorate slowly and unpleasantly. Who can blame her? As she said herself: ‘I do not want to die. But I am dying. And I want to die on my own terms.’

As it happens, I’ve been identifying more closely with this vexed issue of assisted death than usual this week, because while Brittany was calmly contemplating taking a fatal dose of prescription medicine, doctors were actually working hard to save my life.

After seven decades of valiant but largely taken-for-granted service, my old heart decided to make its presence felt and create a bit of havoc in my life.Get well soon It has set a few records in speed and variety of rhythm over the past week, and when this vital organ is pounding along at 200 beats per minute and assorted members of the medical fraternity are glued to the monitors; when my GP tells my spouse that if ‘anything happens’ between the surgery and hospital, he should pull over and dial 999 – ‘no heroics’; the prospect of death seems unusually close! What’s more, as I am now officially at greatly increased risk of sudden death, heart attack, stroke or other cerebro-vascular disasters, my mind is focusing rather more acutely on what I would choose to happen to me, if I were able to influence anything. And what control I wish to presume over the outcomes. Hmmm.

This is a personal matter for me to ponder, and to some extent share with my loved ones. But the thing I’m carrying away with me from this little skirmish with serious illness is the kindness of strangers. These doctors and nurses who have never seen me before, who will probably never meet me again, who treat hundreds of thousands of assorted odd-bods, have treated me with such friendly efficiency, and respect and dignity and warmth. They’ve even returned expressly to voice their pleasure at my recovery. I’ve been both touched and humbled.

The NHS might indeed often get a bad press – even from its own practitioners! – but when it’s a matter of life and death they can certainly pull out all the stops. I am hugely in their debt. They went well beyond the call of duty for me.

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