Luke Pease’ good friend built an elaborate suicide machine. In the end, he didn’t need it.
When my best friend, kindred spirit and confidante told me he was building a suicide machine, I wasn’t sure how to react - other than to offer my help of course.
Steve had seen his mother ‘lying gaga’ in a hospital bed for two years before dying, and didn’t fancy repeating the experience himself. A borderline diabetic with neuropathy eating his nervous system, extremities first, he’d already lost a big toe, and with the constant substance abuse with which he’d battered his body for its entire adult existence, some other bits didn’t look that secure.
Steve kept me updated. 'Nitrogen, you’ve gotta use nitrogen, and don’t mess it up.'
He bought two industrial sized bottles, installed dual valves, two masks and redundant tubing. There was no single point of failure. In fact Steve, a first class engineer who’d provided expertise around the world, took such pride in the engineering, that I feared he wouldn’t resist using it. Lying in bed, awake, his body numb and painful, what could be easier than to reach for the mask and enjoy the beauty of his engineering?