In life and in love to the very end
Wayne Crawford tells the heart-rending story of the death of Margaret, his wife and best friend of more than 50 years
THE air in our bedroom hung thick with the distinctive smell of marijuana. To avoid embarrassment I had, as matter-of-factly as I could manage, told the doctors and nurses who were taking turns to treat and comfort my dying wife, Margaret, that she had been using a cannabis vaporiser between shots of morphine, in search of relief from the cancer pain and nausea.
They — almost as matter-offactly — had accepted it without surprise or judgment, as if it was commonplace in the circumstances. They merely asked that we keep a record of administered doses, in the same way as with other drugs.
Although it was technically illegal to supply and assist her use of black-market psychotropic “weed”, the comforting “high” she got from the cannabis did give us, her family, a momentary glimpse of a cheeky spark of the Marg of old as she drifted in a haze, amused by imagined psychedelic patterns on the bedroom wall. Briefly, she even regained her appetite.
What nobody else knew was that had it not been for the palliating effects of the drugs, there was another law — far more serious — which might have been violated. That of double suicide, which would have been reported by authorities as murder-suicide.
It had been two years earlier when Margaret arrived home from a routine doctor’s appointment and announced: “I’ve been diagnosed with lung cancer.”
What followed was a two-year blur of doctors, chemotherapy, radiation, gruelling trips to Melbourne for specialist treatment when the cancer metastasised to her brain, and the regular postal delivery of black-market cannabis oils from a Newcastle (NSW) based supplier, which goes by the unlikely name of Church of UBUNTU. It is not a church but a clinic which has been battling authorities for years to be able to grow and supply cannabis and other natural products to people who might benefit from them.
The contraband cannabis oils had been suggested by a doctor, frustrated that sourcing legal medical marijuana in Tasmania had been made so difficult by the over-controlling, over-cautious state government. How much relief the unregulated oils gave from pain and nausea, in combination with so many other prescribed drugs, was hard to measure, but we persisted in the belief they were helping. Even specialist doctors said they at least weren’t doing any harm.
I could not bear the thought of Marg going through the agonising suffering that is so common of cancer patients and had promised I would not permit it.
She had been a constant presence at my side for more than 50 years, and if she reached the point of unbearable pain, I would certainly see that she was given relief, even if it could be achieved only by hastened, assisted death.
Given that such compassionate assistance continues to be classified in Tasmania as murder, I faced a dilemma — would I risk prosecution for aiding death in a state where euthanasia was still unlawful, or would I need to find a way of making a joint “exit” with her? We spoke of, perhaps, a hose in the car’s exhaust, to allow us to drift off, side by side; or of stockpiling enough medication to knock us both out permanently.
The ethics and morality of euthanasia are central in the minds of some as Tasmania debates whether to legalise assisted, or hastened, dying in circumstances such as Margaret’s, where death is inevitable and only the timing and length of suffering are unknown. But it seemed equally, or more, immoral that the law forced us to contemplate a Romeo and Juliet suicide pact rather than being allowed the option a peaceful, civilised death by going to sleep with family present to give comfort and wish bon voyage on the final, inevitable stage of a life well lived and now well left.
In retrospect it’s clear Marg and I had not fully thought through the practicalities of a joint, hand-inhand suicide. To protect our closest from prosecution, it would need to be done in secret. And what of the trauma caused to those who would find us; what of the ones left behind, mourning not only one but two parents, grandparents, friends, aunt and uncle, brother and sister? The collateral consequences would be considerable.
Fortunately it didn’t come to that. Although the marvellous palliative care doctors and nurses fought to keep Marg as comfortable as possible, she still suffered. We could see it in her eyes — our beloved force of nature, funny, caring, loving, brave, indestructible Margie was fighting with every sinew against the fear and agony of the disease she knew was slowly draining her of life.
Mercifully, with the aid of the prescribed morphine and the more legally dubious cannabis, she eventually drifted away in her own bed, with her family at her side.
But for many it is not so straightforward — no “good death” awaits them. Their struggle to leave this mortal coil as quickly as possible is fraught with intolerable end-of-life suffering, endless days of semiconsciousness, and the knowledge that their fate remains in the control of others.
The Tasmanian legislature should — in considering Mike Gaffney’s attempt to give our community the right to manage the manner and timing of our own death —finally accede to the overwhelming wishes of the community and allow individual choice on this most personal of decisions.
To do otherwise will be to yield to interests which would rather that, in desperation, we take the risk of using untested, unregulated and risky methods of ending life. Much the same as we are forced to rely on the unregulated drug trade when desperately seeking pain relief.
I HAD, AS MATTER-OF-FACTLY AS I COULD MANAGE, TOLD THE DOCTORS AND NURSES WHO WERE TAKING TURNS TO TREAT AND COMFORT MY DYING WIFE, MARGARET, THAT SHE HAD BEEN USING A CANNABIS VAPORISER BETWEEN SHOTS OF MORPHINE