The End in
Two Acts
But prescriptions for such drugs could be written for only a one-month’s supply at a time — and a one-month’s supply, if taken all at once, was not enough to reliably cause death. That meant the terminally ill person had to stockpile the pills, ask for another one-month prescription, stockpile those pills and then ask for a third prescription. Only then would there be enough to comfortably, peacefully end life. Advance planning was essential. A two-month minimum was necessary. Tom McDonald, with what he thought was a month left, hadn’t begun the process.
In southeast Portland, in the spare bedroom in Allison’s house, David Bradley was sitting up in bed dressed in a thick scarlet-colored robe. A bright, bold Pendleton blanket lay over his legs. His dog Scooter napped by his feet. The bottle of Nembutal sat on the night table. It was a big bottle, almost a cup of liquid, the dosage equal to the powder in a three-month’s supply of pills. When Dr. Gideonse arrived in the early evening, the family was finishing up its goodbyes. Each person had spent time alone with David, their farewells, for the most part, simple and brief. Knowing that this day was coming, they had been saying goodbye, slowly, for weeks. They had all sat together in David’s room that last week watching episodes of the TV mini-series “Lonesome Dove,” David’s favorite movie, in which – it was hard not to notice — the fiercely independent main character chooses to die on his own terms.
David had asked that only the doctor be present at his death. He wanted his family to remember him smiling, not falling into a coma.