A chillingly seductive glimpse of assisted dying

A few weeks ago, I was present when my aunt, a Canadian citizen born in the UK, chose to die through euthanasia, or as it is euphemistically called in Canada, Medical Assistance in Dying or MAiD. Being British, I wasn’t familiar with the process. What I saw horrified me, but it was also chillingly seductive.

My aunt was 72 and in the early stages of motor neurone disease. She had lost the use of one arm but though frail, was living independently and had perfect mental acuity. She was an artist who had worked in the theatre for 40 years designing beautiful and elaborate costumes. For several decades following her divorce she had lived determinedly alone and was not prepared to become an invalid. She made the decision to die freely and against the wishes of her family. She was, by any measure, the perfect candidate.

It was frighteningly easy to organise. Having been diagnosed with a terminal condition in February, she had received instant pre-approval. She made a phone call on a Sunday afternoon (yes, you can dial-a-death at weekends but try getting a regular medical appointment) and arrangements were made for her to die on Tuesday at 7 p.m.

My aunt had wanted me with her at the end. She knew that I am a practising Christian (there is nothing like being brought up in the 1980s by self-proclaimed ‘radical vegans’ to drive you into the arms of the church) and I sensed that deep-down she was conflicted about religion – that beneath all the crystals and dream-catchers there was still a remnant of the faith that as a teenage art student in late-1960s London she had dismissed as stuffy and old-fashioned.