SAN DIEGO
(AP) -- In early July, Betsy Davis emailed her closest friends and
relatives to invite them to a two-day party, telling them: "These
circumstances are unlike any party you have attended before, requiring
emotional stamina, centeredness and openness."
And just one rule: No crying in front of her.
The
41-year-old artist with ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease, held the
gathering to say goodbye before becoming one of the first Californians
to take a lethal dose of drugs under the state's new doctor-assisted
suicide law for the terminally ill.
"For me
and everyone who was invited, it was very challenging to consider, but
there was no question that we would be there for her," said Niels
Alpert, a cinematographer from New York City.
"The
idea to go and spend a beautiful weekend that culminates in their
suicide - that is not a normal thing, not a normal, everyday occurrence.
In the background of the lovely fun, smiles and laughter that we had
that weekend was the knowledge of what was coming."
Davis
worked out a detailed schedule for the gathering on the weekend of July
23-24, including the precise hour she planned to slip into a coma, and
shared her plans with her guests in the invitation.
More
than 30 people came to the party at a home with a wraparound porch in
the picturesque Southern California mountain town of Ojai, flying in
from New York, Chicago and across California.
One
woman brought a cello. A man played a harmonica. There were cocktails,
pizza from her favorite local joint, and a screening in her room of one
of her favorite movies, "The Dance of Reality," based on the life of a
Chilean film director.
As the weekend drew to a
close, her friends kissed her goodbye, gathered for a photo and left,
and Davis was wheeled out to a canopy bed on a hillside, where she took a
combination of morphine, pentobarbital and chloral hydrate prescribed
by her doctor.
Kelly Davis said she loved her sister's idea for the gathering, which Betsy Davis referred to as a "rebirth."
"Obviously it was hard for me. It's still hard for me," said Davis, who wrote about it
for the online news outlet Voice of San Diego. "The worst was needing
to leave the room every now and then, because I would get choked up. But
people got it. They understood how much she was suffering and that she
was fine with her decision. They respected that. They knew she wanted it
to be a joyous occasion."
Davis ended her
life a little over a month after a California law giving the option to
the terminally ill went into effect. Four other states allow
doctor-assisted suicide, with Oregon the first in 1997.
Opponents
of the law in lobbying against it before state legislators argued that
hastening death was morally wrong, that it puts terminally ill patients
at risk for coerced death by loved ones and could become a way out for
people who are uninsured or fearful of high medical bills.
Marilyn
Golden of the Disability Rights Education & Defense Fund, said her
heart goes out to anyone dealing with a terminal illness, but "there are
still millions of people in California threatened by the danger of this
law."
Davis spent months planning her exit,
feeling empowered after spending the last three years losing control of
her body bit by bit. The painter and performance artist could no longer
stand, brush her teeth or scratch an itch. Her caretakers had to
translate her slurred speech for others.
"Dear
rebirth participants you're all very brave for sending me off on my
journey," she wrote in her invitation. "There are no rules. Wear what
you want, speak your mind, dance, hop, chant, sing, pray, but do not cry
in front of me. OK, one rule."
During the
party, old friends reconnected and Davis rolled in and out of the rooms
in her electric wheelchair and onto the porch, talking with her guests.
At
one point, she invited friends to her room to try on the clothes she
had picked out for them. They modeled the outfits to laughter. Guests
were also invited to take a "Betsy souvenir" - a painting, beauty
product or other memento. Her sister had placed sticky notes on the
items, explaining each one's significance.
Wearing
a Japanese kimono she bought on a bucket-list trip she took after being
diagnosed in 2013, she looked out at her last sunset and took the drugs
at 6:45 p.m. with her caretaker, her doctor, her massage therapist and
her sister by her side. Four hours later, she died.
Friends said it was the final performance for the artist, who once drew pictures on a stage with whipped cream.
"What
Betsy did gave her the most beautiful death that any person could ever
wish for," Alpert said. "By taking charge, she turned her departure into
a work of art."
Her guests agreed to meet again on her birthday in June to scatter her ashes.
