Dying people deserve a choice. Let them make it

Eight years ago, my husband Mark died. Our youngest child had just turned 11. Mark had been ill for five years. Finally, he waited till the kids and I were out of the house, and ended his own life. By the time he died, he was bedridden, in constant discomfort, doubly incontinent, unable to taste, smell, or see much, but when he was well, he was handsome and brilliant. He was an archaeologist and academic. He was also a dad, a brother, an uncle and a friend. The things he liked included fossils, Tom and Jerry cartoons, jazz, cycling, Rome, 19th-century novels and yellow climbing roses.