Having decided, more heavy choices follow. Signatures. Decisions on how it will be done. I heard Letterman and Leno joke about Dr. Kevorkian on their late shows after some news about him. I could no longer laugh. I can remove her from life support and let my mother die, but she is only on a feeding tube and liquids. If I follow the advice of the facility doctor and withhold only food—somehow this seems more humane to some, she could live weeks. If I follow the advice of my doctor in Vermont and withhold everything, she will live far fewer days. Either way she will suffer, and I can do nothing about it. Dr. Kevorkian may seem brutal to some. In my case I wished I could call someone like him in.

My mother was about to be transferred to one last facility. This would be in Palo Alto, close to her friends. I wanted her to be visited in her last days, and to be home. So one night, the night before the transfer, I drove out to Saratoga and asked her to do anything she could to stop me. I asked her to speak, or squeeze my hand, or blink after certain lines, but she looked vaguely into space instead. And then I myself began the process that would end my mother’s life. Or, rightly, I ended the process that was preserving it. I had demanded this. It was a hard choice, but I did not want someone, however well-meaning, to have that on their hands. Someone who my mother did not know, who did not know her. So I turned the valves to off for both the nutrients and the water, then disconnected the lines.

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