NZ Farmer

Assisted dying does not take the pain away

Harold Inch, a Canterbury farmer, chose assisted dying after developing motor neurone disease. He died on August 18, aged 70. Rachael Inch has written this piece with her father-in-law’s permission.

I’ve reflected a lot on the meaning of life, encounteri­ng many quotes and beliefs that attempt to capture its essence and its meaning. To me, life is a tapestry of moments – a light and breath unlike anything else in this world.

It is woven from the memories of this world and from the memories we create and hold onto, both now and long after we’re gone. In my view, life and living are interconne­cted yet distinct.

Life encompasse­s the full spectrum of emotions: joy, love, and laughter, as well as heartache, pain, and tears.

I’ve faced loss and grief first-hand. I’ve gripped a steering wheel in silent panic, trying to keep someone calm until their final breath. I’ve experience­d the frantic lastminute attempts to save a life, followed by the numbness and shock that comes with the absence of time for goodbyes.

I’ve watched someone dear and young wither like a flower, struggling to process the unfolding pain while waiting for suffering to end. The absence of goodbyes meant giving everything possible to help them find peace, comfort and acceptance for a life cut short.

I’ve awaited that final phone call, knowing this trip would be the last, while witnessing a body shut down before the mind can fully grasp what’s happening. Goodbyes are overshadow­ed by confusion.

I’ve received that sudden phone call informing me of a loss, and experience­d the madness of sadness and anger that follows as you try to make sense of the situation. No time for goodbyes.

Yes, grief has visited me repeatedly. I’ve seen and been the person who lashes out, who breaks down, who fixates on the small insignific­ant things. I’ve witnessed a mix of greed and generosity and dealt with the practicali­ties and mess left behind.

Now I’ve seen the impact of an irreversib­le disease that reduces a oncemighty lion to a mere shadow of itself. I’ve observed the love that shines through in life and the strength of a family uniting in support. I’ve witnessed the power given to a person who has the choice to end their suffering.

Assisted dying doesn’t remove the layers of emotion – disbelief, anger, rawness, bargaining or acceptance. It doesn’t take away the silence that settles in our hearts.

Instead, it provides our loved ones with a sense of purpose and control. It offers them the chance to process their experience­s fully and to feel the outpouring of love that might otherwise come too late. It allows for a time to come together, celebrate life, and share in the collective pain.

I’ve lost count of how many people have struggled to process this choice and asked me how to explain it, especially to a child. My response, whether one agrees with it or not, is: “It is not my choice; it is their’s and their’s alone. They are ending their suffering.”

My son put it simply: “It’s helping my granddad because he has to get so many other people to help him do things now when he was the one who has spent so long doing everything for everyone else. He’s hurting all the time, and he is never going to get better, but he doesn’t have to hurt any more, he can be happy till the end.”

In the end, the choice of assisted dying is not about erasing the pain of loss, but about honouring the dignity of the individual. It acknowledg­es that while we cannot shield ourselves from the pain that accompanie­s death and loss, we can offer our loved one compassion in their final moments.

This choice does not diminish the value of life or the depth of our emotions; rather, it respects the complexity of our human experience. It allows for a final chapter that is defined not by suffering, but by the grace of letting go.

So, as we all grapple with this deeply personal and challengin­g decision, we do so with the understand­ing that it is not about removing the inevitable pain, but about allowing our loved one to navigate their final moments with the respect and autonomy they deserve.

In doing so, we are honouring not just their lives, but the essence of our shared humanity.