This subject is not one I have been able to get involved with, as I've been on both sides of the 'debate' and I still have no idea what I feel or believe about it.
As a young woman, newly married, I was given the devastating news that my husband had a terminal brain tumour and had 'probably' six months to live.
The previous day, he had gone for a CT scan, concerning a swelling in his neck. I waited outside the radiotherapy room, thinking all would be well, and wondering if the cafe in the hospital would be open, so we could go for the 'celebration' of the good old British cuppa.
But no, the fates didn't shine brightly on us that day, and my bright, full of fun-husband who had walked into that room smiling, was wheeled out of the X-ray room, unconscious on a trolley, his body twisted grotesquely from the spasm it had gone into as the CT dye entered his body.
He was immediately transferred somewhere else in the hospital, whilst I gathered up his coat, and followed almost blindly, in a panicked daze.
My mind has mercifully erased the rest of that day, other than being told he would be staying in hospital that night.
The next morning, still reeling from the shocking events of the previous day's horror, I received a phone call from the hospital, to say an appointment had been made for me to speak with a Doctor before I went to see - and hopefully bring home, my beloved husband.
Little did I know, that fateful meeting with the Doctor, would be imprinted on my brain, for the rest of my life.
On arriving at the hospital for my appointment, I was ushered into a side room off of the bustling clinic, aware of other patients' envious eyes on me; wondering what made me so special, that they, who had been waiting for 'hours' should be usurped by this newcomer?
Eventually, the Doctor joined me in this dark little room, so nondescript, but etched into my memory for the rest of my days. His manner was brusque, and seemingly irritated, that he had been the one designated to give me the news that he was now beginning to speak of.
After the good morning pleasantries, he said quietly, without looking at me. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband has been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumour, and is terminally ill"
I barely took the words in, but suddenly the chair I was sitting on, seemed unstable, as I looked around for help. What help did I need? I didn't know, just someone to comfort me, and stop this man saying these words. I didn't want to hear this, I hadn't expected this, and it was too much for my poor frightened body and mind to take in.
My mind was swirling, but all at once I could feel the great discomfort of the Doctor who had just given me this devastating news. He looked like he just wanted this horrible situation over, and started to get up out of his chair.
That movement focused me, and I heard the words coming from my mouth
"How long has he got to live?" The answer was another bomb going off in my terrified brain.
"Probably six months, with treatment, maybe a little longer"
With those words, he'd decided he'd had enough, and quickly left the room, just stopping long enough to say
"You can stay in here for a few minutes if you want to"
We actually had 13 more months together, endless days of hospital visits for repeated radiotherapy, with huge changes in both of us.
Finally, in late December, my husband was finding the daily small doses of morphine were not helping control his pain the way it had been doing. It was suggested by the MacMillan nurse, that he should go into the local hospice to get his pain under control.
We agreed, of course, thinking that would be a great help.
As was usual for him, my husband had the ambulance driver in stitches with his jokes. He walked up to and into the ambulance like he didn't have a care in the world.
Upon arrival at the hospice, we were immediately looked after and shown to the room he would be staying whilst they sorted out the pain, and got the right dose of morphine, to keep it under control.
That evening, he started getting sleepy, which was unusual for him, as he was always wanting to fully make use of every hour he had, and considered sleep a waste of his time.
As he drifted off, I thought the day must have wearied him, and decided to go home and come back early the next morning.
Little did I know, that he would never 'wake up' in the normal sense of the term ever again.
When I arrived the next morning, he was in a coma-like sleep, which panicked me, but I was reassured by staff this was normal, as he was coming to the end of his illness.
I was distraught but accepting of their words. In my innocence of this situation, I didn't know any different.
Gradually over the next two days, family members arrived, and I was comforted to have them there, as my bright, talkative, full-of-laughter husband, hadn't uttered a word since that afternoon that we first entered the hospice - to get the 'pain under control'
He died on the 28th of December, without waking at all. At the moment of his death, I raged against the dying of my light and screamed and screamed at what had happened.
I was young and confused, I couldn't understand how he had walked into the hospice 3 days before, laughing with all the nurses, and then got into bed, went asleep, and never woke up again.
I never got the answers I needed, only hinted at, but time and experience of life have given me them. He was medicated with high doses of morphine, to 'control his pain' but of course, it ended his life.
At the time, and for a while after, I railed against what they had done, but now I am so glad that it happened this way, as he had no pain, and had as good a death, as it was possible to have.
I also had solace that he knew I was there with him, as the night before he died, I was crying at his bedside, and his hand came out slowly, and touched my hair.
Looking back often, I think of every part of our time together without anguish, because he had hardly any suffering, and his death, though not a natural death, was without pain.
Roll on 27 years, and the illness, and death of my second husband, haunt my life, every day and night.
He was diagnosed with a rare neurological illness, in 2014, although he'd been having symptoms for two years before that.
It consisted of losing control of every system in the body, but unlike some similar neurological illnesses, there was no treatment at all for it, just a prognosis of death within 3-4 years.
Gradually, day by day the person becomes less able to move, walk, speak, eat, swallow or control their bladder or bowel.
I had been a Carer to both my parents, and my first husband, but I had never seen or experienced such horrific suffering as that which he went through day and night, for three long years.
In the final three months, he was under the care of the local hospice, and they would home visit him for an occasional massage to try to loosen his limbs.
He had to have different aids to help with bodily function, but were a nightmare for him (and me) He lost every single bit of dignity he had and was subjected to things that I could never detail here.
Finally, to sort out problems with the aids, the Home Hospice team, suggested he go into the hospice to 'sort them out' Yes, history repeating itself, but, a much worse outcome.
Being his 24-hour Carer, I understood how completely helpless he was, as he couldn't call for help, or press a buzzer for help. He couldn't move his body one inch, or move the bedclothes if he was hot or cold.
Consequently, I tried to impress on them, that when I wasn't there, he needed someone to be near, or looking in on him constantly. That didn't happen, so each time I got there, he was more and more ill.
Finally, they admitted they couldn't help with the problem he had gone in there for, as he was now too ill.
I got him home as quickly as I could, but he was in a dreadful state, and in a great deal of pain. When we left the hospice, they said they would send the home care team to help him with the pain.
They duly came twice a day, but wouldn't give him any pain medication. At first, I accepted when they said no, they couldn't give him morphine, and that they would just help him by being there. With my experience of Morphine from the past, I knew it was a last resort, but as the days passed, he was in more and more agony, now, I was desperate that they give him some relief, so I begged.
On the last night before he died, my poor broken husband, screeched in a whisper to the hospice nurse
"Please help me, I'm in agony"
She answered: "No, you'll have a good sleep and feel better tomorrow, you're just tired"
He died the next day, in torturous pain.
It haunts me all my days and makes me feel hate, which I have to suppress, to survive.
With two very different experiences, I don't know which is right, because it's down to the person from medical services giving the care, and can we trust them at all?