nine-year-old Oregon man who was dying of leukemia.
The day before I met Greg, he had received a blood transfusion to replenish
his failing white blood cells. We met at his front door. He offered a firm
handshake and he spoke in a clear voice. Though he looked pale, his stride was
sure and strong. He’d planned an ambitious day for us and he was anxious to
begin. With camera crew in tow, we fished for trout at a stream not far from his
home, had a beer at his favorite bar, and then sat in his backyard for the
interview.
He told me he had never finished college, had worked a variety of jobs
around the country, and had been married twice. He was now living with his
girlfriend, Missy. The two had met ten years before, when he was working in
California. They had moved together to Oregon, where they both had the
“freedom to roam.”
Greg had been traveling on business when he felt pain while walking through
the airport. Arthritis, maybe, he thought. Then one day he got dizzy just walking
to the store. His head felt like it would explode. He went to the doctor, who
ordered tests. They came back with the deadly diagnosis. Intensive chemo
wasn’t enough; he would also need a stem cell transplant. Greg’s doctor’s
conducted an exhaustive search for a compatible donor, which included his
brother, without success. Between the chemo and the waiting, it was a rough
ride. Greg finally made a decision. “Gang, here’s what I’m thinking,” he told the
doctors. “The anxiety is getting a little rough on me. Sitting by the phone waiting
and waiting and waiting and getting my hopes up. I really thank you so much for
searching the world, but let’s just move on and let’s look at having a good
quality of life.” He wanted the freedom to roam. That’s how he lived and it’s
how he wanted to die.
Greg signed up for a drug cocktail that would end his life on his own terms,
if he chose. It wasn’t about pain or hastening the end, he told me. It was about
having control.
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