The first time I helped someone to die is an occasion I will never forget. He was a 14-year-old boy who was suffering from leukaemia. I was a young cancer registrar at St Bartholomew's Hospital in London.
He was in such pain. Back in those days, we didn't tell people much about their illnesses - we never mentioned the word cancer, but the teenager had been fighting the disease for more than a year and didn't have long to live.
My consultant turned to me and said: 'Sikora, I don't want to see this boy again. Don't let him suffer.'
I understood. I doubled his dose of morphine, which I knew could suppress his respiration. The child died overnight, peacefully, with his family around him.
That is what doctors used to do. We didn't call it assisted suicide or euthanasia. We called it 'easing suffering'.



