Beth McKenna

Beth shared her story in July of 2024.

Up until the day before he died, my dad was giving me book recommendations. Always an avid reader, he encouraged in me a lifelong love of books, cribbage and sports. It’s only fitting that the passions he passed on to me in life are now followed by a new passion, sparked by witnessing his peaceful death.

Dad started his career as a stockbroker in New York City and Chicago in the 1960s. Hoping for a different way of life, Dad and our family moved from Chicago to Vermont; after a couple years, my parents decided to divorce, and Mom returned to Illinois with us three children while Dad stayed in Vermont. Facing the existential challenge of what came next, Dad followed his new interest in cycling and started Bike Vermont, an inn-to-inn bicycle touring company.

Dad met his wife Fiona when she came with friends from Toronto for a Bike Vermont tour. Within that year their lifelong relationship began. Together they traveled the world. They loved walks on the beach and gardening — their home in Woodstock, Vermont, was on the National Garden Tour. Dad was also a volunteer with his local library, hospital and food pantry. 

In his early 60s, Dad faced some health issues. He stopped drinking alcohol. He began questioning his religion and “came out” as an atheist. He started assessing what he considered his quality of life: volunteering and contributing to his communities, continuing to enjoy his life with Fiona, attending and watching baseball games, reading, playing cribbage, and visiting with his children and grandchildren. He was a benevolent humanitarian, and my kids and I often laughed that my father was more Christian than most any other Christian we knew. 

During this period of introspection, Dad also started thinking about end-of-life choices and was open with his family about this topic. He sent all of us — Fiona, his three children, his doctors and his lawyer — a letter documenting his wishes. He made his interest in quality of life over quantity of life clear over the course of many conversations, and it was always one of the first things he brought up with his doctors. Having end-of-life choices and autonomy was very important to him. He advocated for the state of Vermont to pass its medical aid-in-dying law, known as Act 39, which it did successfully in 2013. 

As Dad aged from his 60s to his 80s, he survived prostate cancer and open heart surgery to replace faulty valves. He carried on as before until he developed COPD and neuropathy, both of which impacted his mobility. He could no longer take the beach walks he enjoyed, but he could use a scooter to continue to tour botanic gardens. Several times, my siblings and I received a letter from Dad with updates on his quality of life and confirmation of his end-of-life wishes. 

In the summer of 2023, Dad and I went on a trip to Maine together. We stayed on a beautiful cove and watched the boats come in as we enjoyed lobster rolls, and we traversed a cliffside walking trail, Dad on his scooter. At the time of the trip, he was still reading, still driving. He said, “If I could live like this, I would go on as long as I could.” If he could have seen himself like this even 10 years earlier, he might not have said the same. He couldn’t work in the garden anymore, for example. But at that moment, for him life was still good. He loved being with Fiona. He was still enjoying meals, books and watching every single sports event broadcast on TV. He was sharp as a tack, and it was clear that this was a man who wanted to live his life. 

Things changed for Dad in December 2023. He contracted COVID and had to be hospitalized. Initially, Dad said he didn’t want to go to the hospital. But then he was having a really hard time breathing, and it was challenging for Fiona to give him the care he needed. So he talked with his doctor, who recommended he come just long enough for them to stabilize him. He agreed. 

He was at the hospital for just a few days; when he came home, he said he was glad he went, but he was firm that he was not going to go again. His doctor then enrolled him in hospice care. 

January was hard for Dad. COVID had significantly weakened him, and he could no longer drive, which left him with almost nowhere to go. He was stuck on the couch most of the day. He knew this was not the quality of life he wanted. He started planning to voluntarily stop eating and drinking (VSED), which he brought up to me later that month in the middle of a game of cribbage. It gave him great comfort to know that his hospice nurse would support him through VSED if that’s what he chose to do. 

Then my father’s hospice nurse suggested he might qualify for medical aid in dying. In early March, Dad learned that his doctor agreed that he was eligible—his COPD had become terminal following his bout with COVID and his prognosis was less than six months. 

Learning he qualified for medical aid in dying was a huge relief for my dad, and for us, since we knew that VSED would not be easy and required a lot of support. 

Dad spent the month of March getting his affairs in order and saying his goodbyes. He met with the doctors for his requisite evaluations, including interviews to be sure he was of sound mind. The first time the doctor visited my dad, they talked about books and baseball statistics. The second time they met, they played cribbage. In his final weeks, he was visited by each of my siblings, and he and Fiona did their best to make the most of their time together. I flew out to be there with Fiona and Dad for the last few days of his life. It was amazing to be there with Dad sharing memories, playing cribbage, discussing books and enjoying delicious meals. 

While I was there, Dad kept telling me to look out for the wild turkeys that sometimes visited their property. Sure enough, at five o’clock in the morning on April 3, 2024, the day Dad was going to take his medication, I saw the turkeys. The big tom turkey was strutting like a peacock, prancing around and staring into the window of my father’s bedroom. I somehow felt it was a sign that Dad was being readied for the transition. 

When it was time, Fiona mixed the strong sedative powder with apple juice. I gave Dad a softened popsicle to numb his taste buds, and then he immediately drank the bitter medicine. And that was it. We made sure he was comfortable and he held our hands as he quietly fell asleep for the last time. 

I’m so grateful to have shared those profound moments with my father at the end of his life and to see him go so peacefully and on his terms. We deserve this option for terminally ill people here in Illinois, too. I hope that I can carry on my father’s legacy and help get this bill passed in Illinois.