Cathryn Bauer

Cathryn shared her story in February of 2024.

Ted looked at the camera. “Well, I made it to 73,” he began. He said how pleased and proud he was that his niece had been bitten by the backpacking bug and would be retracing his steps on some of his favorite Sierra Nevada routes. He talked about our marriage, his face crumpling into tears. Then he addressed what had brought us all together that day, November 8, 2022. 

“This is the way I chose to go,” he said. “But it was ridiculous how hard it was.”

We moved to Colorado in March 2020 primarily because of Ted’s love of the outdoors. An avid skier and backpacker, he was looking forward to being able to do a great deal more in his retirement. But the pandemic put his plans on hold, and he continued his work remotely until early 2022. 

Ted was a statistician and system architect. He had been deeply involved in the rise of Silicon Valley, cofounding a statistical software company and winning major contracts with the NIH and NASA. He was ethical, decent, always learning — his headstone will read, “Show me the data.” 

Tragically, he had very little time to enjoy the life he had worked so hard for. 

In January of 2022, Ted started having digestive trouble and seemingly random stomach pains. There were other subtle but gradually increasing symptoms over the next few months, including fatigue. He finally got a CT scan in July. Two days later, we got the news. In hindsight, his symptoms were very typical for liver cancer. 

We immediately started learning about Ted’s various options for treating the cancer and his symptoms. We were both dismayed by what we discovered. Neither of us was a fan of needless suffering. I knew that medical aid in dying was available in Colorado, but other than that information, I didn’t want to share anything with him that would influence his decision-making. So I quietly researched the option in case it came up later. 

Over the next three weeks, Ted tried chemotherapy, which did give him a few better-quality days. But after the second time he went in for chemo, Ted decided he no longer wanted to pursue treatment and was ready to enroll in hospice. One particularly bad night in August, he woke me up saying, “Can you find out more about medical aid in dying?” 

I said, “If that is what you want, I will find out everything I can about it.” (I already had.) 

Despite my research, I did not anticipate just how difficult it would be to find doctors willing to prescribe aid-in-dying medication. Ted received palliative care and hospice service through a Catholic-affiliated medical center. This meant that no one there, including the hospice doctors or nurses or social workers, could be involved in any way with a patient using medical aid in dying. On top of that, we are a rural county, and this Catholic-affiliated medical center essentially functions as the county hospital, the primary facility in the area. We were at a loss as to where to find a prescribing physician. 

Compassion & Choices was tremendously helpful to us; after talking for an hour and a half with one of the end-of-life consultants, Ted felt very reassured about the process, and within a week we connected with a doctor in Colorado Springs. But by that point, Ted was getting weaker and weaker, and traveling up to Colorado Springs, a 300-mile commute, would have possibly permanently damaged his quality of life. So over the next eight days, we worked out with the physician a plan for her to fly down to us for a consultation. In that time, Ted also spoke with another physician and underwent a psychiatric evaluation. 

We paid a fortune to cover the cost of flying the doctor here and back in early September. After she arrived and approved Ted, he expressed to me several times what a relief it was to have the medication in the refrigerator should his pain become unmanageable. 

Over the next couple of months, the foggy relief the morphine provided was no longer something Ted could rely on. It was in Ted’s nature to keep learning, but he was less and less able to do so. I think he saw there was nothing ahead for him but more suffering. For a long time, I had two evenly competing feelings: “I don’t want you to die,” and “I don’t want you to suffer.” But being so close to him, sleeping in the same bed with him, I could see how much Ted was hurting. Every instant of his day was some level of misery and agony. Something in me shifted: I don’t want you to suffer.

Since the night in August when Ted asked me to look into medical aid in dying, he had never once expressed doubt or hesitation about moving forward. Now it was time. The date was set. 

The morning of November 8, 2022, Ted got up and took me in his arms. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I’d like you to travel.” Everything leading up to today had been all-consuming; my own future was too much to think of now, on this day. “And don’t go crazy with cats!” he teased. After a long hug, we released each other to head into the kitchen. 

The stage was mostly set. We had snacks and finger foods waiting in the refrigerator. A typed instruction sheet from the prescribing doctor lay on the counter, phone numbers written large in bold ink tacked to the fridge for the hospice and funeral home contacts. Ted’s brother was there, along with a friend of Ted’s who would hold the camera. A close friend of my own arrived, joined by a physician she knew, for peace of mind. 

Everyone got something to eat and moved toward the living room chairs. I sat on the couch where Ted would join me all too soon. He took a chair in the middle of the room. I was wearing the flowered blouse he liked and the pearls he gave me to wear with my wedding gown all those years ago. 

Our friend held up the camera. Ted shared his last words. Ted’s brother and my friend mixed the drink in the kitchen. 

Even up until the last minute, I told Ted that he did not have to follow through should he change his mind. But he was rock-solid in his decision. He lifted the glass, drank it and then lay down across my lap, my left arm supporting his shoulders. I circled his chest with my right arm. 

The room was silent. I could barely hear him breathing. His last sight on this earth would be my face.

Not one of us has any business telling anyone else how much they should suffer. Medical aid in dying saved my husband the suffering no one should have to undergo. Despite it being an authorized option in Colorado, however, we had appalling difficulty and expense finding a physician and other medical professionals to help us. It shouldn’t be that hard; it should be like other medical procedures. And there should be far, far more education, support and compassion for people like Ted who are suffering so terribly.