I let my husband commit suicide

The Sunday Times – Scotland

August 21, 2005

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2090-1742011_1,00.html

Jill Anderson nursed her husband through a debilitating illness he could not bear. When he decided to take his life, she did nothing. Writing for the first time, she says she was motivated by love and should not have faced manslaughter charges

In the last few months of my husband’s life, he and I had come to a place of deep peace. There were no issues between us, only lovely words. Without me realising, he had prepared me for what was to come, and given me a long goodbye. He, and he alone, had made the decision to commit suicide. He was ill and getting worse. It was nobody’s fault.

I had already prevented him taking his own life. Twice I had called the ambulance and got him to hospital. There were other attempts he made at home, and I could not blame him. He was suffering intolerable physical pain.

My husband, Paul, contracted a virus infection in March 1995. From that time onwards he never felt well again. Over an eight-year period he experienced a long, slow decline in his health. The medical profession could not give him a straight diagnosis. Only by the elimination of other diseases could one be made. Some time during 1998 he was diagnosed with post-viral disability (PVD), which falls into the ME or chronic fatigue syndrome group of diseases for which there is no test or cure.

Unfortunately, his condition was compounded by other problems. Shortly after his birth in Dumfries and throughout his childhood in Annan he suffered from arthritis that was to remain throughout his life. Then in the last 18 months there was osteoporosis, as well as the PVD. It was too much for any one individual or body to handle, and on July 17, 2003, he took a substantial overdose of morphine, self-administered at home, when I was out. I came home and I respected his right to go.

I did not think of myself or the consequences of my actions or inactions. It was a moral decision. I knew in my heart that my husband had been through enough. It was his decision to release himself from his failing body and the physical torment of his pain.

I was subsequently arrested for assisted suicide and manslaughter by the North Yorkshire police, 12 days after my husband died. An extensive police investigation followed, which lasted 22 months and cost millions of pounds of taxpayers’ money. I gave them full co-operation. They put me in court.

It is hard watching somebody you love suffer from any disease, and Paul’s illness was like watching a man slowly drowning. He got weaker and weaker. He was a sick lion and I was a lioness. I had to make most of the journeys out into the world to bring home what we needed. Some say we lived in our own bubble. Maybe we did, it was not intentional. Chronic fatigue syndrome physically dominated us both. My husband was ill, so I stayed in with him. But within our walls our bubble was big. My husband had a high IQ and spoke 22 languages, so life with him was never dull or uninteresting.

I never saw him depressed. Grumpy, sad, frustrated, angry – yes. But depression is a serious disease in its own right, and he did not suffer from it. He cracked jokes, enjoyed his food and had many goals, hopes and dreams. He was always actively engaged with the world, mainly via satellite and radio. But he was a prisoner of his failed body. 

He was 32 when I met him in London. It was 1992 and he was working in advertising sales for a publishing company while I was working nearby at Twickenham Film Studios. We met one night at a place called Henry’s in Richmond, where we had both gone with friends. It is true to say it was love at first sight. I noticed immediately that we had exactly the same colour eyes. We soon found out that we also shared the same sense of humour, the same goals. We became inseparable. Very quickly we made our plans.
I turned down another contract in television — the hours were too demanding — and we decided to start a translating business. We also wanted to be closer to our families — Paul’s in Scotland and mine in Yorkshire — so we moved to Pateley Bridge near Ripon in Yorkshire. But by then his illness had begun to take hold and our lives were changing for ever.

THAT last weekend we spent together, Paul did not want to be admitted to hospital. He had been there so many times. He was suicidal and again I persuaded him to live. It sounds strange, but even at this time most of the words between us were still about our future. Throughout his illness Paul was a positive thinker who used his time constructively — he was always busy even from his bed, and he made me laugh every day.

On the final day I got up and started my work, organising a conference for a client. Paul was his usual self — calm, kind, sweet. But I knew he was in a lot of torment from the pain, which he said was like large thorns jabbing into his body constantly. That day he was not as funny or as sharp as normal. He did not want anything to eat at lunchtime, which was unusual.

Instead he asked for a disability benefit form that we had held off filling out. He said we would do it now. I sat on the bed next to him and read out the questions on the form. He responded and I wrote down his answers, detailing his physical situation.

The truth was there in black and white. That day, Paul was confronted with a long, growing list of ailments and faced becoming more and  more  disabled.  His  quality of life was rapidly diminishing. About halfway through the form he stopped, exhausted, and said to me: “We will finish it tomorrow.”

Later that day the pain was obvious. He tried not to, but he moaned with the agony. I did not want to leave him, but we needed food and I needed air, so I went out. Not far into my journey I had to stop. I was worried. So I turned around and came back home. I went up to the bedroom with sweetpeas in a vase. They had just come out that day. I put them by his bedside. They were his favourite flowers. I said to him: “Please do not do anything silly. I will be back soon, then I can give you a massage.”

Paul nodded and said he would not do anything — we had said these words to one another before.

I left again to get what we needed. I drove quickly and went round the supermarket as fast as possible. Whether he and I knew, whether we had signalled subconsciously to one another, I do not know. He knew I had to leave to get food, and he waited for me to go out that day. If I had stayed then it would have been the next day, or the day after that, or the next week or the next month.

The journey probably took no more than an hour. When I returned home I went upstairs to see him as I nearly always did. Paul was sitting on his side of the bed on the far side of the bedroom. He had his back to me and was holding onto the edge of the bed with his hands. I started to say something like, “I’m back”, but stopped.

Instinct, I suppose.

I said to him, “What is wrong? Has something happened?” Paul said quite clearly and distinctly: “No, no. It is the pain.” And then he said: “I am sorry. I have taken enough this time. I love you.” Then he rolled over onto the bed and went to sleep. There was a suicide note on top of him as he rolled over. I do not know whether I read it or not. I know now it reads: “I am sorry, I cannot stand the pain any more. I love you. Your darling bear, Paul.”

He looked so peaceful and I thought to myself: if it is this time then I have to find the courage to let him go — but I hope it is not enough and he will wake up. I wanted him to wake up. But he had been ill for so very long and was in so much pain that if he had chosen that day to go then I had to respect his decision.

I could not leave him. That was impossible. I went to him and stroked his face, held his hands and lay next to him for a while. He was sleeping. I told him I loved him.

My hands turned to lead and I could not pick up the telephone.

It was a beautiful summer’s evening, the type that comes every so often. There was a warm, soft breeze coming through the window. There was great peace, pure light, deep calm, and I let him sleep. I do not know what I did though I was awake most of the night with Paul, and yes, I stroked and kissed him and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. Most of the time I was downstairs because like anybody else he preferred to sleep undisturbed without somebody rustling around. I checked on him throughout the night and he was at peace.

At approximately 2am he woke up and asked for his radio earpiece to be placed in his ear. I was happy. He was alive, I hoped he would make it, so I put his earpiece in for him and he slid off to sleep again.

At about 5.30am, he turned blue. I wanted to call an ambulance but I did not — instinctively I knew he would not survive. His body was full of poison. I could not put him through any more. This was my decision. His act was not just for himself, but for me too. It was an act of love by both of us for each other. He freed himself and he freed me. I thought about going with him, taking my own life, but I did not have the courage.

Paul slept on. At 9.30am his breathing changed and became shallower. I was with him when he took his final breath. His eyes opened and I said, “I love you,” and then his eyes closed and he was gone.

In shock, I cleaned our home. I knew people would come but most of all I wanted a few more hours alone with Paul. Then I called his GP. I am glad that he spent the last night of his life at home surrounded by all the things he loved. He died with enormous dignity and, I think, the way most of us would like to go, at home in our own bed.

During my trial for manslaughter one of my barristers said to me: “Jill, you are criminally naive.” I would agree with that. I told the police the truth, that my husband took his own life for what I consider to be the noblest of reasons — and yet I wanted him to live and wake up.

When the police first came to our home I was in shock, and frankly they took advantage of this. Who would be thinking straight in my situation? I like people, so I talk a lot. I talked to the police over four days of interviews, two of them at the station just after my husband died, then another two, six months later.

I signed the pages put in front of me that had the warning that whatever you say may be used in evidence against you. And it was used against me. In April 2005, after 10 days at Leeds Crown Court, my head was reeling. Shock and disbelief only partly describe the inner turmoil I went through during this period. This was my husband’s life and my life being discussed in public and I was deeply embarrassed

The trial became a debate about exactly what my duty of care entailed. Somebody told me that the government had been looking for a case to prosecute around the time when Paul took his own life, and I respected his right to go. Who can account for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as I was?

My barrister, Paul Worsley, took up this issue in court, but it seemed to be dismissed. He mentioned various cases where people had done far more than I had, actually assisted suicide and not called an ambulance, and not faced prosecution. He said to me: “I must win this case so Paul has not died in vain, and it gives a green light to others who do what you did in this country.”

In his brilliant closing speech, Worsley used the words “rare courage”. He was right. It took courage to do what I did. God knows, it was not what I wanted. I am pro-life and I have issues with euthanasia and how we all reach consensus on how to deal with loved ones who are seriously ill. The jury looked like sensible and reasonable human beings, and they found me not guilty. Some nodded and waved to me as they exited the jury box. Bless them. It made me hope power truly does belong to the people.

Recently I unpacked a bag of Paul’s clothes, unable to face this task until now, and of course I broke down in tears. As I did, an item spilled onto the floor. It was a small bag of material that burst open and inside were dried lavender seeds. One of his simple gifts to me many years ago, that he made and put under my pillow for me one night as a surprise. My actions were my final gift to him, as we had given each other so many gifts throughout our marriage.

The list of symptoms Paul suffered was a long one: general flu-like fatigue and malaise; exhaustion; sinusitis; rhinitis; severe muscle spasms in the groin and kidneys; earache; irritable bowel syndrome; unexplained drops in blood pressure; and a pain he described like having a 10p coin rammed into the lower part of the back of his head. This was in addition to general pain and inflammation that felt like toothache inside his body. So far, nobody understands these complex autoimmune diseases.

About 25% of sufferers become severely disabled and, among this percentage, the suicide rate is high.

Even two years on I examine my conscience and his. How can you stop loved ones from ending their own lives if they choose to do so? What help was available to us? We were just like most couples, wanting our own marriage and relationship and the dignity of choice. We did not expect or want social services to do things for us if we could do them ourselves. We did not want to be a burden to our families or friends. I suppose it is called pride. So we kept on going for years, and nobody can take this away from me: I am proud of my husband and myself. We did our best in our time.

Now I have all those days and hours I spent with him to remember for the rest of my life. It is almost as if we knew our time together would be short, though I know we both just wanted to grow old together. My brother said a beautiful thing to me about my marriage: “You had spring, summer, autumn and winter together.” Even though he was terribly ill, we were happy, very happy together. And to know I loved him and that I was kind to him, as he was to me, is probably all I need to know.