Article
Assisted dying
Care
Comment
Death & life
6 min read

What do you make of Esther?

A campaigner’s call to change an assisted dying law got family calling MND sufferer Michael Wenham. Here he shares why such legalisation will increase people’s fear of dying.
An image of a woman wearing formal clothing is overlaid by a BBC logo, a programme logo, a sound wave illustration and a caption.
Today Programme post about Esther Rantzen's comments.
BBC.

"What do you make of Esther Rantzen?" asked my brother. 

I knew what he was talking about, as no doubt all listeners of Radio 4's Today Programme would have done. Clearly the advocates of assisted dying, or specifically suicide, have launched the next round of their campaign, even enlisting the late Diana Rigg, whose resemblance to my wife was once commented on by an old welsh policemen, as a witness. The Today Programme devoted a great deal of airtime to the subject over a number of days.  

My reply to my brother was that I thought it was a good thing if we were more open about the subject of death and dying. After all they are events everyone without exception will come in contact with at some point or another. So, the sooner we stop treating it as a taboo subject the better. However, the dangers of legalising assisted suicide, are proved by places like Canada and Belgium. 

I don’t see any way to protect us from such coercion, internal or external, except to demonstrate through legislation that every life, however tenuous, is equally important.

In January this year I made a submission to the Parliamentary Health and Social Care Committee consultation on assisted dying/assisted suicide. Here’s some of that submission. 

“I am writing as an individual who was diagnosed with a rare form of Motor Neurone Disease (MND) twenty-two years ago and who has experienced the condition’s relentless deterioration since then. There are a number of my contemporaries who have survived that long. That, and witnessing the ravages of the disease on friends in our local MNDA branch plus an Ethics qualification from Oxford, is the extent of my expertise.” 

“My first observation is how positively my contemporaries, with short or longer prognoses, with the disease seize hold of life. Clearly there are some who, like Rob Burrows, devote themselves to fund-raising and creating awareness; while others enjoy the opportunities of life that come their way. What might have seemed a death sentence has proved a challenge to live. 

"Secondly, I have recently discovered myself how expert professional care can enhance what is often portrayed as undignified dependence. Good caring can in fact add to quality of life. The sad thing however is that it is not something which the state will normally provide. Along with terminal palliative care, domestic social care must surely be a spending priority for any government that cares about the well-being of all its citizens. I’m fortunate to live an area of excellent MND provision and good, though not abundant, palliative care. But I understand that this is not equally spread through the country. If it were, I suspect it would reduce the fear of dying which must be a major motivator for assistance to ending one’s life. 

"Ironically, in MND, according to the Association’s information sheet, How will I die?, those fears are greatly exaggerated: 

In reality, most people with MND have a peaceful death. The final stages of MND will usually involve gradual weakening of the breathing muscles and increasing sleepiness. This is usually the cause of death, either because of an infection or because the muscles stop working. 

Specialist palliative care supports quality of life through symptom control. practical help, medication to ease symptoms and emotional support for you and your family. 

When breathing becomes weaker, you may feel breathless and this can be distressing. However, your health care professionals can provide support to reduce anxiety. 

You can also receive medication to ease symptoms throughout the course of the disease, not just in the later stages. If you have any concerns about the way medication will affect you, ask the professionals who are supporting you for guidance. 

Further weakening of the muscles involved in breathing will cause tiredness and increasing sleepiness. Over a period of time, which can be hours, days or weeks, your breathing is likely to become shallower. This usually leads to reduced consciousness, so that death comes peacefully as breathing slowly reduces and eventually stops.

"So, this is a third and subtle danger of legalising assisted dying/suicide. It would increase people’s fear of the inevitable fact of death and dying. I think this can be one factor in explaining why, in jurisdictions which have introduced it, we see it being extended beyond the first strict limits. It is held out as an answer to this fearful fact, death, whereas in fact death and dying should be talked about in realistic terms, as normal, as concisely outlined by Dr Kathryn Mannix. As she says, normally dying isn’t as bad as we think

If the government should be doing anything, the first thing it might well do, is to promote informed education about dying of the sort exemplified by specialists such as Dr Mannix, as well as adequately funding her former specialism of palliative care. It should start with schools’ curricula. After all every child will have encountered death at some stage. 

Finally, the dangers of coercion, in my experience, are not so much external as internal. It’s often rightly observed that prolonged pain is worse for the engaged spectator than for the sufferer. If you care for someone, seeing them struggling is barely tolerable. You may wish to see their struggle over, but underlying that wish is your own desire to be spared more of your own horror show. The person who is ‘suffering’ however has that strong survival instinct, common to all humans, and is more concentrated on living than dying. Having said that, when you are depressed, as might be natural, that instinct gets temporarily eclipsed. Then you need protection from your own dark sky. It is at such times that your other inner demons emerge: your sense of being a burden - to your family, to your friends (if you have any), to the NHS and to the state purse; your fear of losing your savings and of leaving nothing to your loved ones; your fear of pain and of dying (exaggerated by popular mythology), and your sense of suffering, heightened by your depression.  

"For most of us with long incurable diseases, it’s these internal perceptions that are most coercive, although they can be easily compounded or even exploited from outside. I don’t see any way to protect us from such coercion, internal or external, except to demonstrate through legislation that every life, however tenuous, is equally important to our society and worth caring for. ‘Any man’s death diminishes me...’ and so we will value it to the end." 

I'm grateful that when I received my 'motor neurone disorder' diagnosis, which was initially frightening, I couldn't be tempted to opt for an early death. Instead of one Christmas with my family (as I warned them), I've enjoyed 22 more Christmases. That was the law against suicide fulfilling its safeguarding function, protecting the vulnerable, as I was then. Contrary to my preconceptions, my form of MND (PLS) is very gradual and I've been able to live a full if increasingly limited life, thanks to my wife, Jane, who cares for me 100 per cent. 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  

My view is still that legalising assisted dying/suicide has more cons than pros. The better choice is to invest in hospice and palliative care, so that everyone may have access to pain and symptom care in the last years of their life. 

Article
Creed
Death & life
Football
Trauma
5 min read

The derby, the downpour, and the death of a hero

At Anfield, grief and glory collide
A mural on a side of a pub shows a footballer making a heart sign.
Diogo Jota commemorated, near Anfield.
Liverpool FC.

My wife and I went to our first game of the season recently: Liverpool v Everton, in the pouring rain. The stuff of dreams.  

It’s a bit of a walk from the train station to Anfield and the whole way, I’d been so excited to get that first glimpse of the stadium, the fans, the atmosphere, the buzz. We turn a corner and suddenly you can see Anfield looming large between rows of houses. One more street and then we’re there and … flowers on the floor. Tributes to Diogo Jota. 

Oh yeah. Diogo Jota’s dead. 

We get a pie, a programme for Jo’s Mum and Dad (who lets us use their season tickets; thanks Jeff and Janet), find our seats. Kick off. Flags wave from the Kop as they normally do and … there’s one of Diogo Jota. 

Oh yeah. Diogo Jota’s dead. 

10 minutes in and Ryan Gravenberch scores a beautiful goal to make it 1-0 and Anfield is roaring. Then 20 minutes hits and everyone stands up to sing Diogo Jota’s song (“Oh, he wears the number 20 …”). 

Oh yeah. Diogo Jota’s dead. 

I hadn’t forgotten that Diogo Jota had died, but being at Anfield made me remember that Diogo Jota had died. 

Being at Anfield – seeing the flowers and the flags, singing his song – all of it hit me and my wife unusually hard. With each new reminder of Jota’s death, I was taken back to the moment a mate messaged me to ask if I’d seen the news of his car crash. There I was again, no longer at Anfield watching the footy, but stood in my house, staring at my phone in disbelief.  

For the last year or so, St. Mellitus College (where I’m lucky enough to teach) has been hosting a series of public events to celebrate 1700 years since the Council of Nicaea. The events have been fantastic and, one of the perks of the job is that I’ve had loads of chances to learn from some of the best theologians alive at these events.  

In March 2025, Professor Trevor Hart was giving one of the public lectures for this project. The next day, I and the rest of the staff team had a chance to speak with the professor about his paper. One of the things that struck me in the conversation was what he said about trauma. 

One of the key characteristics of trauma, he said, is that it interrupts our sense of time. I’m going about my day and – all of a sudden – something triggers my trauma response and the past (that thing or event that causes my trauma) is made very present again. I see it and feel it as if it I’m living it for the first time again; it is re-present-ed to me.  

And this is exactly what happened to me, 20 minutes into the Merseyside Derby.  

Look, I’m not saying I have PTSD about Jota’s death or anything like that. I didn’t know Jota; frankly he’s not mine to grieve and I don’t want to co-opt the loss that Jota’s friends and family will be feeling.  

But, our first trip to Anfield since Jota’s death gave us something of a taste of how trauma re-present-s itself. The past became all too present as I stood there, thinking about the moment I heard of Jota’s death.  

But, for a Christian theologian (like Hart), this aspect of trauma is very significant. Because this is exactly what happens in the sacraments.  

The sacraments are bits of Church life in which Jesus Christ is really and especially present. Different Churches will disagree on exactly which events or rituals constitute the sacraments but most would say that baptism and Holy Communion definitely do. 

Let’s take Holy Communion (sometimes called the Eucharist, or Lord’s Supper) as an example. Again, this will look different in different Churches, but in holy communion bread and wine is blessed and said to become Jesus’ body and blood. And here we see the rupture of past and present. The body and blood of Christ, broken and shed on the cross before being raised again, is re-present-ed here for me, now. It is made really present (both in the physical and temporal sense of that word).  

Time and space collapse in on themselves as Jesus Christ – who created time and space in the first place and so can do what He wants with them, thank you very much – bends them to His will just to be present here, and now, with me. 

I wonder whether something similar happens in trauma, too? If trauma, too, might function as a sacrament, of sorts? If the moment of the past rupturing the present when trauma responses are triggered is precisely where Jesus Christ seeks to meet and really be present with those people? 

It certainly felt like it in the roaring, red cathedral of Anfield Road. The moments of remembering Jota’s life and having his death re-present-ed to us felt genuinely … sacred.  

And look, it was the Merseyside Derby, our first in-person game of the season; I was obviously excited, so maybe I was just primed to be emotional when these memories of Jota appeared. Maybe. Who knows? But it would be entirely in keeping with what the Church knows of God’s character that he meets with us precisely at those points where time and space begin to fall apart: in the sacraments, and in trauma. 

There will be flowers and banners and songs for Jota for some time yet. Whenever we drive from our house into Liverpool city centre, we drive by a huge mural of Jota that’s been painted onto the side of a pub.  

It won’t be possible to forget Jota, and there will be lots of prompts to remember him. And in those moments of remembering, time and space may well continue to collapse in on itself. I may find myself once again in my house, staring aghast my phone. And I may well find that Jesus Christ is there with me too. 

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