Marilyn Talmage-Bowers

Marilyn Talmage-Bowers shared her story in February of 2023.

Kent was a teacher by trade, but above all he was an artist. He did hundreds of etchings over the course of our marriage, and in the last five years of his life he took up oil painting too. From when we first met, when I was a senior in high school and he was a senior in college, until the day he died five decades later he was always pointing out the striking tableau, the beautiful color, the particular quality of the daylight. His eye for beauty made me enjoy the world more.

We loved traveling together, but Kent also made our home life lovely: He built our fence, landscaped our yard, did the brickwork on the sidewalk and constructed the fountains in the backyard. He was an active parent to our two daughters and a doting grandpa to our four grandchildren.

When he received his diagnosis, he cried the most about not being able to see the grandkids grow up.

In February 2021, Kent noticed he was slurring his words and that his hands were numb. He thought he was having a stroke, so he went to the emergency room, where they quickly ruled out a stroke and referred him to a neurologist. He learned then he had bulbar palsy, a motor neuron disorder similar to ALS.

As a very driven artist and intellectual, Kent was terrified of becoming unable to communicate or express himself artistically. He also knew that there was no possibility of him getting better. For this reason, from the very beginning and at every meeting with his doctor, Kent was clear that he wanted to avail himself of Colorado’s medical aid-in-dying law when the time came. He talked about it with everyone — me, his doctors, his social worker, our daughters — and we all supported him in that. Our family never shied away from hard conversations.

Kent’s disease was progressive, and he went downhill fast. He was losing his ability to speak, although he could still write. What was harder was keeping food down. In early July, he had to have a feeding tube installed because he could no longer swallow. It worked for a couple weeks, but then it failed. He was rapidly losing weight again.

At the beginning of September, Kent was put on hospice due to the failed feeding tube. He had lost almost 50 pounds, was starting to fall from weakness, couldn’t speak and was on a urinary catheter. He felt he had very little quality of life, but he derived comfort from knowing that he had the option of a peaceful death.

He made his first request for the aid-in-dying medication a few days after starting hospice. Next he had to have another telehealth conference with a second doctor, and then he had to wait 15 days before the medicine finally arrived. The clock was ticking; Kent didn’t have much more time before he might be unable to self-administer the medication. If he couldn’t do it, no one else could do it for him.

The night of September 25, 2021, Kent had a bad fall. He was now very weak and couldn’t even swallow water. Having watched my own parents die, I knew what death looked like. Kent was close.

At 10:00 the next morning, September 26, Kent said, “I want to do it today. Call the girls and tell them 5:00.” He chose the sunroom, his favorite room in the house; the light in the evening was beautiful, and the windows in this room that he had built looked out over the trees in our backyard that he had pruned and shaped. He also wanted the door and window open to the outside so that we could hear the birds chirping and water gurgling in the fountain. He gave me instructions as to where everyone — me, our girls and Kent’s sister — should sit.

When our daughters arrived, everyone said their goodbyes. I read his favorite passages from the Tao Te Ching, which had given him a lot of peace at the end of his life. When Kent was ready, he wrote, “Okay,” and squeezed my hand. Then he self-administered the medication through his feeding tube. He was unconscious almost immediately, and within an hour he had passed.

The last thing I remember my mother saying before she died was “ow.” Kent, by contrast, was able to choose the day, the time, who was with him. He got to die in peace and with dignity. If he hadn’t had that option, then eventually he would have become comatose, and I would have had to be the one to make a decision about withdrawing life support. Instead, it was his decision when to go. It was a blessing to him not just in that moment, but for the duration of his illness to know he had a choice, that he didn’t have to go on suffering.

Read More:

The Colorado Sun – Opinion: What my husband’s death taught me about life (9.24.23)