A Personal Reflection on Life and Choices

I’m making the decision to end my life today at a clinic in Switzerland. This piece was written three weeks prior. For decades, I’ve felt trapped in a body that just doesn’t cooperate like others do, and I’m finally ready to be free.

I suffer from multiple chemical sensitivities, or MCS, which means my body reacts painfully to many things around me. Common substances like perfumes, various cleaning products, and even some foods can trigger extreme respiratory and neurological reactions. It can be exhausting—physically and emotionally.

I’ve battled MCS for 40 years; it started mild but has escalated to a point where I’m allergic to almost everything. Taking over-the-counter medicines like ibuprofen or Tylenol isn’t an option for me, making pain management a real challenge.

I also deal with fibromyalgia, an illness that often seems unknown or underrated. Many simply don’t understand how debilitating it can be. Everyday tasks are tough; I can barely use my hands, and sleeping through the night is a rarity.

This struggle with my muscles has been a long journey. I used to be active, enjoying sports like tennis. However, by my early twenties, I struggled to hold a racket. Just like that, everything changed.

Because of this ongoing battle, leaving my home or living a “normal” life has felt out of reach. I can’t even hug loved ones, which is profoundly painful for someone who cherishes physical affection. It feels like I’ve become isolated from the world.

Despite my suffering, I’ve tried to make the best of my situation. I held onto hope that a doctor might discover a treatment to provide relief, but that never happened. Medication isn’t an option for someone like me.

Last summer, I was diagnosed with breast cancer that has spread to my lymph nodes. I clearly communicated to my doctors that I did not want treatment. Undergoing surgery could potentially kill me, and the thought of chemotherapy made me realize there’s no viable path forward. The risks felt too high.

Upon learning of my cancer, I immediately thought about ending my life. In that moment, it felt like a way to escape suffering. To qualify for “death with dignity” in the U.S., you need a terminal illness, and I had suddenly found myself in such a position. It felt like a relief, a kind of liberation.

While my surgeon respected my decision, my oncologist was less supportive, suggesting therapy instead. When I expressed that my depression stemmed from constant pain, it felt as though she just couldn’t see my reality.

I then began to explore options in the United States. What I discovered was complicated: legal requirements and a lengthy process, which felt impossible given my health context. I realized that to qualify for assistance, I would have to endure unbearable suffering first, and I simply couldn’t go through that.

My research led me to a nonprofit clinic in Switzerland that administers fatal medication intravenously, which could help anyone—not just terminal patients. Thankfully, my diagnosis made me a suitable candidate. I completed a detailed application including medical documentation, and they approved me.

The cost of the clinic is around $10,000, which might seem excessive to some, but if you were in my shoes, how much would you pay to escape suffering? After a few weeks, they asked when I wanted to end my life. Although I wanted immediate relief, I felt the need to tie up loose ends and say goodbye to loved ones first.

My husband and I built a new home not long ago, and it’s important to me to help him make it a welcoming space for friends and future relationships. I manage our paperwork, so I’m walking him through everything to ensure he understands. It’s all those little details of life that I want to sort out before I go.

After 20 years of marriage, my husband has been an incredible support through my struggles. He’s witnessed my suffering and taken care of me, and I don’t want him to endure that anymore. I know he’ll be heartbroken, but he understands this is what’s best for both of us.

He’ll be able to experience life more freely without worrying about my sensitivities. Living in constant fear that something he does might trigger my conditions isn’t a true partnership. It’s exhausting for both of us.

My friends have offered their support too. I’ve often kept my struggles to myself to avoid burdening them, but they recognize the toll this has taken on me. They’re relieved that my suffering is about to end.

My mother, however, is struggling the most. She comprehends my reasons but doesn’t want to see me go. Yet, she supports my choice, knowing it will bring me peace.

Many people find it hard to grasp the idea of choosing death. Some might think there could be hope for a miraculous recovery just around the corner, but I know too well that my quality of life has diminished to almost nothing.

I’ve genuinely lived, or at least tried to, for the past 65 years. I believe there is life after death. I lost my daughter years ago, and the idea of being reunited with her brings me some comfort. Yet, it’s still difficult—leaving behind what I cherish is not easy.

Before my appointment, my husband and I are taking a trip to Switzerland. We’ll spend some peaceful time together in Tuscany, a place where I can still breathe freely. I know I won’t be able to explore much, but just being in that beautiful setting will be meaningful for us.

As I reflect on my life and my decision, I feel that compassion is essential. It’s vital that we support each other and approach others’ struggles with understanding. That’s what really counts in the end.

I hope my story resonates, highlighting that many people endure hidden battles. Compassion and empathy can make a significant difference.

For those who feel trapped by suffering, options do exist. If you can’t find the right support in your area, places like Switzerland present alternatives.

It saddens me that societal beliefs often render discussions around assisted death taboo, viewing it as a moral failing. Yet, we readily help suffering animals find peace. Why not extend that compassion to people?

Some might find my approach to ending my life too casual—almost like setting an appointment for something routine. As this day approaches, it feels surreal yet reassuring.

I will miss my loved ones, but I will not miss the pain. Life should be joyful, and I haven’t felt joy in a long time. I’m ready to find peace.