Currently, if you help someone to end their own life, there will most likely be a police investigation. While the circumstances will be taken into account when determining whether it is in the public interest to prosecute, you will probably be interviewed under caution, your home may be declared a crime scene, and it can take months or even years of living with a jail sentence hanging over you for a decision to be taken. All of this at a time when you are probably in the midst of grief.
This has to be one of the most difficult, personal and emotionally trying programmes I have made in a 50-year career reporting on wars and making documentaries. It took me deep inside the lives and deaths of people wrestling with wretched choices. People like Dan, 47, a former music teacher now living with multiple sclerosis, who continues to compose music on his laptop using movements of his tongue and nose, which are picked up by his screen. Dan now lives back with his parents and is getting his Dignitas paperwork in order – or as he calls it, “his get-out-of-jail free card”.
We spent time with Di and Trevor, a couple whose plans for a far-flung retirement travelling the world were halted when Trevor developed motor neurone disease. Unable to speak or eat, and in constant pain, Trevor used an iPad to answer my questions. At one point, he held up the words: “Utter boredom, pain, both actual and emotional.”
Under the circumstances, it was really quite remarkable the freedom our contributors gave us to record their lives, and in some cases, their deaths, and I suppose that must say something about our having convinced them of our ethics, along with our promise to respect their wishes throughout, and our genuine concerns for their welfare.
We negotiated rare access with Switzerland’s best known assisted dying organisation, Dignitas, and through them we contacted their 1,300 UK members, some of whom had joined because they sympathised with the cause, others because they might want it as an insurance policy for use at an unspecified later date, and others because they had a more immediate desire for an assisted death. We considered how best to negotiate the ethical and moral dilemmas of what to show and what not to show, and in this respect we were guided not only by Ofcom’s strict regulations but more importantly, by our participants’ own wishes.
Kim and Andy, a couple who met at her university in Manchester, got in touch and invited us to document their life since Kim’s diagnosis of progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP), a rare neurological disorder.
Kim, a fiercely independent woman throughout her life, was so appalled by her deterioration that she was adamant about wanting to travel to Dignitas. Now reduced to using words sparingly, she gave it to me straight: “I will take a drink. I will die – hopefully painlessly.” Right from the beginning, they were both extremely willing to have us follow them the entire distance, however it unfolded. Indeed, we genuinely didn’t know if Kim would change her mind until we filmed the family packing up the car. Even then she might have decided to come home, right up until the point she finally took the drink that would kill her.
I gained so much from witnessing the compassion, care and love between the people who allowed us in at the bleakest point of their lives. It’s not easy getting up in the morning to go to work knowing that in all likelihood there will be a moment when the tears simply can’t be stopped. So, why, at an age when most of my peers will have retired, did I do it?
I felt ultimately that the best service we could provide our audience with was to coolly and neutrally show examples of those most affected by the law as it stands now, while highlighting fairly and honestly what it is that those who oppose any change most fear.