A Wellingtonian Facing the End…

In a quiet bar on the Golden Mile, previously Courtenay Place until a deceptive Mayor changed the name to confuse the public, a Wellingtonian sits nursing a drink, lost in thought, waiting for someone, anyone to visit. Full of what fight is left. Names don’t matter, at least not to the world beyond this story.

What matters is that this patient is dying—a body weakened by years of cancer, the doctors giving “a few weeks” now and a mind racing to cope with certain death, always just on the horizon. No more hope for a recovery. A constant daily reminder of life at the end. Friends try and support, and the expense on the Wellington hospital scene, is staggering-“well beyond” a natural citizen’s costs.

With “at least” 9 trips to A&E and friends tapped for support over many years, the patient has a rich tapestry of stories and happenings to draw from, that paint a bright complicated legacy.

From one account, family bridges may have been burned. Any falling-out well in the past now, and life has left him this way. Friends stop by, sharing memories, clinking glasses, offering fleeting moments of comfort and listening to the incredibly outlandish “drug blurred” stories, memories and brags. But at the end of each night, he remains alone, waiting for the inevitable, living with a charitable caring family on a hill overlooking a playground called the Golden Mile and a “New World” bag full of life-ending drugs.

A Government-Approved Goodbye

New Zealand is one of the few countries where assisted dying is legal. Under the End of Life Choice Act, those with a terminal illness can request medical help to end their suffering. The process is strict—two doctors must confirm eligibility, and the person must be of sound mind, making a fully informed decision.

For this man, the process appears to be a grey area, he has days & slim weeks. The Wellington doctors prescribe him enough drugs to sedate a horse, and the medication—carefully measured and legally prescribed—has been given to him. A choice: take the medication when ready, knowing it will bring a peaceful end or take more, a lot more rendering the patient “pain free” but a shell of one’s former glory, wit, focus and capacity to make logical decisions.

Unlike what some might imagine, this is not an unregulated act. A doctor or nurse has guided him through the process, ensuring he understands every step. But now, the choice is his alone. There is no need for hospital walls, no machines or sterile rooms. Just him, his drug-fuelled warped thoughts, and the noisy hum of Wellington life carrying on around him. No time, car, or money. The only thing left is drugs, lots of drugs, limited time, friends, more pills, a bar and a system allowing a person to self-administer death.

The Question of Loneliness

Supporters of euthanasia argue that laws like this offer dignity. They spare people the pain of an unbearable death. They give control back to those who have lost so much to illness and numb the ends racing thoughts.

But what happens when someone faces this decision alone or is so incapacitated by overuse, that they are essentially killing themselves on the spot, right in front of, well everyone?

The law encourages people to discuss their choice with loved ones, but not everyone has that option. Some have friends who care, but they will not be there when the moment comes and they are definitely not there when the patient takes 3 instead of 1 pill. His death, like his life, will be his own—on his terms.

A Real-Life Story in Wellington

This is not just a hypothetical scenario. Assisted dying is now a creeping reality in Wellington, every day – where is it leading us. As more people make this choice and the system allows, their stories will shape the national conversation. Are patients receiving the emotional controls and support an incapacitated person needs? Does the law strike the right balance between autonomy and care or is it a “wash our hands of the problem” and let the patient “self administer themselves to a pain less ‘drug fuelled end’?

For now, in a small Wellington bar, one person has made that decision, unwittingly. He raises his glass, takes a deep breath, and lets the moment settle, says something unintelligible, spills his wine, and sits in a space, it looks like he feels vibrant, in control but in reality he has completely lost control and it’s the city that holds the framework and the final chapters.

Soon, the final step will be taken. A quiet goodbye—entirely of his own hand, probably and completely unaware of the final action to end his life, paid for by his previous endeavor and by the other citizens, and supported by a system that allows people to “over use” at will under extraordinary circumstances, not having a clue what or how many pills to take. Out of control, out of the system, and an unimaginable end to the people left behind but a pain less end to a good life.