Doctor wary of watchful legal system

By MICHELE HEWITSON

Out of his battered briefcase Dr Philip Nitschke produces a series of bottles, capsules and gadgets. Out of his mouth comes an endless stream. In a conference room in an Auckland hotel, the scene is a Macabre parody of a pitch by a travelling salesman.

Around a table are 13 people, all of whom, under the rules of this workshop, have been members of the Voluntary Euthanasia Society for at least six months.

It would not be a very good look, says the sprightly Jack Jones, spokesman for the Auckland branch, if just anybody turned up, went home and - he drags a long finger across his throat.

Dr Nitschke, Australia's loudest voice in the movement, is a man whose every move is of interest to the law.

He plays a game of shifting semantics. The handbook given to every workshop participant includes a disclaimer: "I acknowledge that none of the information provided in this workshop ... will be used in any way to advise, counsel or assist in the act of suicide, either of myself, or any other persons."

Says Dr Nitschke to his laughing audience: "It really says, 'I'm not going to take any notice of what you say'."

It is all a bit of a farce. A farce with a cast of white, mostly elderly, middle-class people.

An order form for the "Aussie Exit Bag" also includes a disclaimer: "I will not use the Aussie Exit Bag in a manner that may harm, injure or cause death to myself or any other person."

At this workshop you may or may not be given precise instructions on how not to use this bag.

It is a crime to assist a suicide.

Dr Nitschke walks a fine line: if he gives you information about a drug and you manage to obtain it yourself, has he helped you obtain it?

The game continues. Asked if people can sit with you while you end your life, he replies: "I wouldn't advise it." At least, he wouldn't advise admitting that you had done so.

Many are shy of giving their names. One woman objects to the Herald photographer. "I'm sorry, there's a man up there who will not go away. I just think it's gross." Which is, when you think about the subject they have come here to discuss, slightly ironic.

Dr Nitschke knows the value of publicity: "It's important to show that this is not a sleazy, backyard operation."

But there's none of the sweetening that goes on at events where the hosts are keen for favourable coverage.

Mr Jones has already apologised to the media for a lack of coffee: "You'll be the paupers at the feast."

A snippet of discussion from a strange feast. One man asks: "What about the things some soldiers took in the war?"

A chorus: "Cyanide."

Dr Nitschke: "It's a hard substance to get hold of - unless you're a gold miner. It's not peaceful."

An elderly woman: "I think Goering used it."

Dr Nitschke: "He cheated the executioner."

Bettina Ward says afterwards, "It was a bit strange." But she found it "objective and factual".

She is 67 and in perfect health. She decided to go because she lives in "dread of becoming incapacitated".

We struggle to find the right word to describe her preference - it's not quite like choosing Tupperware - should the time come, of the options on offer.

She thinks the idea of dying inside a plastic bag "horrible". Perhaps the little machine that delivers carbon dioxide. As a delivery system of death, it seems clean and quick.

Nonette Bright has had rheumatoid arthritis for "half my life, darling". She is 76 and knows about pain.

But really she is here because she watched her husband take four years to die. "I said he had died when I had to give him up [to care]."

If assisted euthanasia had been legal she would have helped him, she says. "Absolutely."

At the end of it, every person in this room could tell you exactly how to kill yourself. Except, of course, nobody in this room, including me, has taken notice of a word that was said.