She was a gorgeous woman, happily married, bristling with joie-de-vivre. And dying of a horrible cancer, one that rendered her unable to swallow.
She had no chance of cure, but every chance of choking to death. She chose voluntary assisted dying (VAD).
When I arrived at the appointed time, she was surrounded by weeping relatives saying their last goodbyes, taking their final photos. Then it was just me and her husband, he on one side holding her hand and muttering softly, while I knelt on the other side prepping the gear.