A Self-Deliverance in California

[EDITOR’S NOTE:  The annual meeting for 2019 of the Final Exit Network was held on Sunday, July 28, and the Blog editor traveled to Chicago for additional training held in conjunction with the meeting.  The Editor of FEN’s Newsletter, Jay Niver, has given his permission to reprint on FEN’s blog articles from past issues of the newsletter when new posts to the blog are not available.  This article may have been lightly edited and/or updated.]

FEN Newsletter    Winter 2018

Self-Deliverance and Bridge Traffic

By Jim Van Buskirk

I first met M over two years ago while holding open the side door of the Potrero Branch Library. The tiny woman was walking her dog down 20th Street and noticed my T-shirt, which read “Let’s Talk About Death.”  What’s going on here, she wanted to know. When I told her that we were about to convene a Death Cafe, she immediately asked if she could attend, and her little dog too. 

I have been co-hosting Death Cafes for over two years, as well as reading voraciously, watching documentaries, and speaking to anyone and everyone about this taboo topic. Not that I consider myself an expert by any means, but as I become more comfortable I am on a crusade to help others deal with their cultural discomfort about our common destination.

Perhaps that’s why M invited me to accompany her on the next leg of her journey. A few weeks ago, she called to say she’d contacted the Final Exit Network and asked me if I would be there with her when the volunteers guided her through what they refer to as “self-deliverance.” I immediately said yes, not knowing what this would entail or whether I was up to the task, and yet knowing that this was the next step in my learning curve. M was delighted and I was honored. And nervous.

I didn’t know M well, but gradually learned that the 88-year old had been a renowned Jungian therapist, author and workshop leader. Still brilliant and brainy, she was intense, yet so soft-spoken that many Death Cafe attendees could scarcely hear her voice over the whir of the fans that kept the air circulating in the library’s small meeting room.  Over many months, M enthralled, educated, and perplexed many of us with her talk of patterns, the importance of this group in her life, and her frustration with her slowly diminishing capacities to drive, to see, and eventually–she feared–to think.  

Astonishingly, she continued to attend regularly, even after moving from Wisconsin Street house where she’d lived for over forty-five years to a senior community residence across the bay in Oakland. 

“I don’t like it ‘over there’,” she’d said dismissively. “I hate that I have to go back to the other side.”

“You make it sound like you’re crossing the River Styx,” I teased her.

“I might as well be,” she agreed, before getting herself to a BART Station to return to her new living quarters.

After I agreed to witness M’s departure, I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. 

“Well,” she said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve assembled all the equipment, but I’m supposed to have a wrench and I don’t think I have the right one.”

“Give me the specs,” I told her, “and I’ll bring the wrench. It’ll be my going away present.”

She appreciated my attempt at dark humor, as she remained focused on achieving her goal. 

When I spoke to the Final Exit Network volunteers by phone, I was immediately calmed by their sense of purpose. They explained the process and assured me that self-deliverance was not illegal, quelling my anxiety about any legal liability. I didn’t much like the term “self-deliverance,” only slightly preferable to “suicide.”

After several phone calls and emails, we had a plan, and a date. I told a few friends what I was planning to do. One friend, a minister who’d witnessed at least 50 hastened deaths, many during the AIDS pandemic, offered helpful advice on what to expect. His counsel was invaluable. What a beautiful day, I noted as I drove across the Bay Bridge. 

M was simultaneously calm and keyed up as I entered her apartment. Taking a friend’s advice, I had not parked in the facility’s garage and only feigned signing in. M had originally offered to give me a sculpture by a well-known local artist, but I didn’t feel comfortable being seen leaving her apartment carrying artwork. Instead, knowing I was a librarian and a writer, she handed me a box with the complete set of her published books. 

Now she was most concerned about a big wicker basket of cat food, treats and toys. She’d managed to get her cat to its new home that very morning, but had forgotten its food.  I agreed to drop off the basket, assuring her I’d call the friend, one less thing for M to take care of. While we chatted, M was amused that she repeatedly forgot the word that came after Final. When I supplied it for her, she remarked with a rueful smile, “Isn’t it funny, that’s the word that I can’t remember?”

The FEN volunteers arrived precisely at 2:30 as planned and I marveled at how patient, knowledgeable, and personable they both were.  Because M could scarcely see, I read out the checklist of items, while M impatiently agreed to each one. She articulated why she was intent on self-deliverance, reiterated that she knew exactly what she was doing, and was eager to carry out her task. We watched as she signed the document with determination. The volunteers then showed her how to assemble the equipment she’d ordered, instructing her step-by-step. Despite her requests, they repeatedly declined to actually do anything for her, insisting that she accomplish each task herself.  With persistence and a bit of frustration she assembled the hood, taping the plastic tube inside and securing the bottom with a headband. She connected the other end of the tube to the regulator which she’d screwed onto the canister, using the wrench I’d brought. The volunteers emphasized that it might not be elegant, but it would be effective.

In the middle of the proceedings, the phone rang and M automatically, without thinking, answered it. The three of us rolled our eyes as we listened to one half of a very long-winded conversation involving $11 which M promised to put in an envelope tomorrow. Don’t let me answer the phone again, she requested after hanging up. The poignancy of the fact that there would not be a tomorrow was not lost on any of us. 

After M finished the sequence of tasks, she was asked again if she knew what would happen if she continued, if she wanted to change her mind, if she wanted to take a break. Adamantly: yes, no, and no. 

“Jim will be driving back across the bridge and there’ll be traffic later.”

I tried to explain that I was here for the duration and not to worry about my traffic, but she remained focused on the details as well as the big picture. I was impressed and inspired by her resolve. 

Once she decided where she wanted the event to take place, on a daybed with a sunny view of the bay, all was ready. After the brief demonstration, the volunteers explained that M would lose consciousness in about a minute and that the entire process would take less than fifteen minutes. Again, the three questions, again the impatient replies. With no ceremony or final words, the three of us watched as M turned the dial, pulled down the hood, and began inhaling.  

She closed her eyes as her breathing became shallow. One of the volunteers monitored her pulse. A few physical twitches and soon she was gone. She looked peaceful. It had been so sweet, simple, sad, and straightforward. I was moved by the simultaneously monumental and mundane moment of what we had witnessed. 

We removed the hood and disconnected the canister, packing everything up to carry out of the apartment. It was far less conspicuous than the big basket of cat paraphernalia I carried. Since the equipment couldn’t be taken back on the flight, the volunteers were planning to jettison it. When they offered to it to me I accepted. As we shook hands, I realized what an important service they, we, had provided.

After weeks of careful preparation, the entire process took less than two hours from start to finish. 

I drove across the bridge–no traffic–and immediately joined Final Exit Network.

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Jim Van Buskirk currently works as a book group facilitator, writer, editor, public speaker, exhibit curator, and collections manager. He frequently presents at the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco, the San Francisco Public Library, and other locations on topics related to Jewish, film and/or queer history.  Jim volunteers as a Coordinator for FEN.