My grandma was this force of love and wisdom. When she got cancer, it felt like the world was stealing her from me. Her laughter, her warmth all replaced by pain. I typically try to be the strong one in my family, but this time I felt this overwhelming helplessness, this desperate need to make it all go away, to see her smile just one more time wishing there was no more suffering.

And then there was my great uncle, a vibrant man full of stories and laughter. Seeing his spirit diminish with each passing day was like watching a candle slowly fade away. He wanted to live, to cherish moments, and just when the doctors told us he was recovering suddenly he went into a coma and never woke up again. However, my uncle did tell us if anything ever went wrong to make sure his suffering ended after two weeks of trying.

Both my grandma and my great uncles' last days weren't just about their illnesses; they were about choices or the lack of them. I witnessed their battles, the dilemmas they faced, their desire for control.

Personally, all I could feel and think about was their pain. Maybe it’s that young angst, but I know for a fact that they did their best to make the ones around them feel loved and happy. It is their journey that made me do research about physician-assisted suicide. I felt like in their own way I was guided to this path to get a deeper understanding about what a patient goes through when it comes to end of life care, and how things like physician assisted suicide can help some people in some cases. Today though, I’m proud to say that their stories aren’t of pain, but of lessons on how I can make myself more open and knowledgeable on these same issues as well.