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In last week’s Mail, author Wendy Mitchell said she’d rather die of cancer than go on living with dementia. Now, after ending her life by starvation, she shares her poignant final thoughts…

If you’re reading this, it means it’s been posted by my two daughters as I’ve sadly died.

Sorry to break the news to you this way, but if I hadn’t, my inbox would eventually have been full of emails asking if I’m OK, which would have been hard for my daughters to answer.

In the end, I died simply by deciding not to eat or drink any more. The last cuppa tea, my final hug in a mug, the hardest thing to let go of, was much harder than the food I never craved.

But this wasn’t decided on a whim of self-pity.

In the ten years since I was diagnosed, aged 58, with young-onset vascular dementia and Alzheimer’s, I have done everything I can to stay positive and demonstrate that there is life — a good life — to be had while living with this progressive disease.

I’ve always been a glass half- full person, trying to turn the negatives of life around and creating positives, because that’s how I cope. Well, I suppose dementia was the ultimate challenge.

Yes, dementia is a bummer, but oh what a life I’ve had playing games with this adversary of mine to try to stay one step ahead.

I’ve been resilient throughout my life, even from a young child, so resilience is inbuilt in me to cope with whatever life throws my way. Who would have thought, when diagnosed all those years ago, that my life would turn out quite as it did?

Wendy said those who read her book, One Last Thing - How To Live With The End in Mind, will understand why she felt so strongly about assisted dying

Wendy said those who read her book, One Last Thing – How To Live With The End in Mind, will understand why she felt so strongly about assisted dying

I’ve always liked to have a plan, something that makes me feel in control of dementia. I ‘planned’ for the future by completing my Lasting Power of Attorney and the NHS ReSPect form (Recommended Summary Plan for Emergency Care and Treatment), and sorted my advanced care plan in minute detail with my wonderful GP.

Sadly, assisted dying isn’t an option in this country.

With something that will affect 100 per cent of the population, regardless of wealth, intelligence or ethnicity, it’s amazing how such little value is placed on the act of dying.

For those that have read my book, One Last Thing — How To Live With The End in Mind, you will understand why I feel so strongly about assisted dying. The only choice we don’t have in life is when to be born, for everything else, we, as humans, should have a choice; a choice of how we live and a choice of how we die.

If assisted dying was available in this country, I would have chosen it in a heartbeat, but it isn’t.

I didn’t want dementia to take me into the later stages; that stage where I’m reliant on others for my daily needs; others deciding for me when I shower or maybe insisting I had a bath, which I hate; or when and what I eat and drink. Or what they believe to be ‘entertainment’.

Yes, I may be happy but that’s irrelevant. The Wendy that was, didn’t want to be the Wendy dementia will dictate for me. I wouldn’t want my daughters to see the Wendy I’d become either. In the end, I wanted to choose the one option that I said in my first book, Somebody I Used To Know, I would never choose — Dignitas, in Switzerland.

After looking at every option and eventuality, this was the only place that would give me a dignified death.

I had no fear of flying on my own and would never ask my daughters — or anyone else — to fly with me because of the complexities of the law when they flew back.

But that also meant my daughters couldn’t have been there with me, holding my hands in my final moments.

Wendy pictured aged 47. She said her life was for living, but now it¿s time for dying

Wendy pictured aged 47. She said her life was for living, but now it’s time for dying

I was hoping to go there at the beginning of the year. However, my plans were turned upside down when I fell down the stairs in my house, breaking both my wrists and damaging my neck and spine. I no longer felt confident to travel alone to Switzerland.

I’ve said for a long time that I didn’t want to be an inpatient in a hospital, or a resident in a care home. It’s the wrong place for me; the loss of routine, familiar surroundings and people. For some they may believe it’s the right place, or they have no option. I’m not saying it’s wrong for everyone, I’m saying it’s wrong for me.

You may say, ‘but my mum’s in the late stages and she’s very happy in her care home’. I’m really pleased she is, truly, I am. It’s just not the place I want to end my years.

Many people focus on moments of happiness. Someone I interviewed for my final book was very adamant that a person in the late stages of dementia was happy because he played the piano and made other care home residents happy for 15 minutes each day.

My argument was, what about the other 23 hours of his day? Are they spent in confusion, of wondering why he’s there? Does he like being totally reliant on others? Would his former self have chosen this ending to his life?

These questions can never be answered, of course, but I took the decision to answer them for me now, while I was able.

I’ve always given people hope, or I like to think so. Have I stopped giving people hope by choosing the death I’ve chosen? Or have I given people hope, that if they wish, they too can have hope for an existence of their choosing, or a death of their choice?

My life was for living, but now it’s time for dying. So, if you want to do something for me, please campaign for assisted dying to be law here.

Adapting to this life with dementia is over, but I don’t consider dementia has won, as that would be negative and you all know I’m a positive person. It’s me calling time on my dementia — checkmate, before it plays its final move.

I was determined I wouldn’t forget, and by doing this now, I haven’t.

Yes, I’ve had to die before my time, at 68, but I had to make sure I had capacity and hadn’t allowed dementia to creep in overnight and take that capacity away from me.

In the end, after my accident, the only choice open to me was to stop eating and drinking. I learnt about Voluntary Stopping Eating and Drinking (VSED) as my way out of this world during the writing of my final book.

You may or may not agree with what I¿ve done, how and when I¿ve chosen to leave this world, but the decision was totally mine, wrote Wendy before she died

You may or may not agree with what I’ve done, how and when I’ve chosen to leave this world, but the decision was totally mine, wrote Wendy before she died

I spoke at length with my daughters and I spoke at length with my GP over the last few months, always including her in conversations with my daughters, to give that ‘expert’ information to questions I could never have answered.

I don’t feel hunger or thirst, meaning that part of the process would be less stressful for me than for others.

After my fall downstairs at home, my lovely friend Philly came to stay with me to help support my daughters and me.

It was during this time, and after many conversations with my girls and Philly, that I decided it was time to end this cruel life dementia had thrust upon me.

I wasn’t depressed, I wasn’t forced or cajoled in any way whatsoever, it was solely down to my choice. I was ready.

You may or may not agree with what I’ve done, how and when I’ve chosen to leave this world, but the decision was totally mine.

My girls have always been the two most important people in my life. I didn’t take this decision lightly, without countless conversations. They were the hardest conversations I’ve ever had to put them through.

Some people may be angry at what I’ve done and that’s their prerogative — but don’t take that anger out on anyone other than me. This was my choice, my decision.

Dementia didn’t play the winning card — I did.

One Last Thing — How To Live With The End In Mind by Wendy Mitchell (£9.99, Bloomsbury) will be published in paperback on February 29.

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This post first appeared on Daily mail