'Euthanasia is always a last resort and it's not a decision taken lightly, but sometimes it's the kindest thing. We did give him an anaesthetic and then we gave him an injection so he didn't recover from the anaesthesia; but if we hadn't done that, he would have died by himself and in doing it this way we have saved him a few days of, essentially, some more pain and suffering.' [Animal Park: Wild on the West Coast, BBC2]

Sunday lunchtime I was watching a nature programme exploring the wildlife off California's Pacific coast. Towards the end it showed a sea lion being given an MRI scan to determine the extent of brain damage caused by a naturally-occurring biotoxin. 'If the scan looks bad,' the presenter Ben Fogle informed us, 'the kindest thing will be to put him to sleep.'

Somewhat unfortunately, I was watching this with my mother, who has undergone a number of brain scans in recent months, having first been diagnosed and treated for a benign brain tumour last December, then been given the 'all-clear' in March, only for an unrelated aggressive brain tumour to be found in June. Understandably the educational wildlife programme's conclusion proved a little distressing. Less than three days later, early yesterday morning, she passed away peacefully in her sleep at home, safe in the knowledge that she would wake to be awarded 'the crown of righteousness' in 'the dwelling place of God', where 'death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore.' (Revelation 21:3-4 and 2 Timothy 4:7-8).

Beautifully, there is one crucial difference between us and sea lions - which is why the Lords were right two months ago to defeat Lord Falconer's proposed amendment to the Coroners and Justice Bill that would have made it legal to help a terminally ill person to die. The unique difference with human beings is that we are made in God’s image, able to have relationships with each other - and, in the words of the Bishop of Liverpool, the Right Rev James Jones, should assisted dying ever become law it would change all manner of relationships.

Sunday afternoon I phoned my sister and brother and we were all able to gather together and to say our goodbyes. Mum unexpectedly rallied in the evening, so after watching Wuthering Heights together, we all went off to bed. On Monday my brother cooked a roast chicken, which she enjoyed, and we listened to some of her favourite music - some Celtic worship and trad jazz. On both days my wife and I were able to read to her from the Bible and other books with words of comfort. On Tuesday it was good to see her whole face brighten with a smile when her lifelong friend visited for the afternoon, after which she basically rested.

During these last three days, Mum mentioned the Dignitas clinic and had she been offered an injection to bring about a swifter end, she would not have hesitated in taking it, but on Sunday she also commented with surprise that she had expected she would be in lots more pain than she was. Yes, she had a lot of discomfort and it hurt whenever anyone touched her steroid-thinned skin, especially when being lifted from one chair or bed to another (something my Dad incredibly did mostly by himself throughout her illness) and, particularly on the Monday, we might have done a better job matching the increasing doses of pain-relief to her deteriorating condition, but in essence the medication prescribed endeavoured to ensure that she did not suffer unnecessarily.

Indeed, her overall care was nothing short of remarkable. Last month, Conservative MEP Daniel Hannan was criticised over remarks he made about the NHS. Well, my mother's experience of the NHS is one that could not be beaten by any insurance-based healthcare provider in any country. At every stage in her illness, her every need has been provided for. For example, on Tuesday morning both the district nurse and occupational therapist happened to be visiting at the same time; they decided my mother would benefit from sleeping on a top-of-the-range hospital bed and within three or four hours we had a hospital bed installed, together with a motorised hoist in case we should need it. In the afternoon another nurse decided it was time to switch from oral to intravenous medication and within a couple of hours the morning's district nurse (who returned, off duty, the following morning) had returned to set us up on the new regime. And had my parents wanted extra assistance at any stage, they would only have had to ask, though they chose to decline having any carers whenever they were offered (my sister lives close by and was able to help with things such as hospital visits).

In similar circumstances again - or even, one day, myself - would I want anything different? Would I want to miss out on the chance to spend time with and be cheered by my friends and family? No. Supported by the unequalled palliative care that we enjoy in this country, surely the kindest thing is to be surrounded by love.

Gwen Hayward

4 June 1938 - 2 September 2009

who thought only of others, even to the end.

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