Recently there has been a major spike in views on YouTube (see below).
I wrote this in 2006 for a blog I was maintaining before I started Oregon Music News. For those who have seen the doc, recently or over the years, I thought this might give you some insight on the making of it. There's much more backstory, but here's part of it.
June 2001 to September 2005, Portland, Oregon
By Tom D’Antoni
On the day I was to meet the subject of a documentary I wanted to do on Physician-Assisted Suicide (legal only in Oregon) I wasn’t ready to meet the patient.
I pulled up outside the beige, white-trimmed nondescript one-story post-World War II bungalow in gritty North Portland at 3:30 p.m. on June 8, 2001. It was the home of Robert Schwartz. I didn’t want to go in. My stomach turned. Inside there was a dying man whom I had never met. What would I find? A picture of best friend Garey Lambert formed in my mind. I was in the hospital room as he died from AIDS five years before. In my mind’s eye I saw him take his last breaths again. I heard them.
I looked at the grey wooden ramp lined with red roses leading up to the front porch. For some reason it didn’t occur to me that it was for a wheelchair.
There were beat-up cars parked on the street. There were blacks and working class whites on the block.
Portland, Oregon is considered by most to be one of the most enlightened, most beautiful, most livable cities in the United States. It is politically progressive, has little crime, a great public transportation system, logical land-use laws and a rich cultural life, all wrapped up in a slightly provincial, exceptionally polite and friendly atmosphere. People don’t even cross the street against the light here.
But the travel guides don’t send you to North Portland. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t sophisticated, even though over the past few years there has been a lot of migration by folks looking for low rents as wealthy Californians have moved North to Portland, pushing writers, artists, musicians and such out of the more desirable areas.
What would Robert Schwartz be like?
I asked George Eighmey of Compassion In Dying if he could find a patient for me for a TV documentary. On the afternoon of Thursday, May 30, 2001, an email showed up from Eighmey titled “Patient for interview.” It read:
Dear Tom:
I contacted the person who is willing to be interviewed for you new project. His name is Robert Schwartz. He is 50 years old. His illness is late stage AIDS. He does not yet have his pills. He told me he plans to pick them up this Friday. He lost his partner, Oliver, to AIDS 2 years ago. Robert was active in the Death With Dignity campaigns in 1994 and 1997. His family is supportive of his decision. His mother and brother plan to be present when he takes the meds. His father and stepmother can’t be present but are supportive.
I told him you would be calling him soon. Let me know how it goes.
I held it for a few days before calling Robert. I dreaded putting myself through the emotional turmoil I suspected it would cause. I printed it and kept it on my desk. I called on June 5th and was relieved that he wasn’t home. I called again on the 6th, same result. I sensed this experience might change my life, but I did not sense the extent.
If I had wanted to write what the next two years would bring as a piece of fiction, nobody would have believed it.
I finally spoke with Robert for the first time on Thursday, June 7, but he told me he wasn’t feeling well enough to see me. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Was he close to death? Just weak? He agreed to meet me the next day, in the afternoon.
I took the long way to his house. I drove through the neighborhood. I drove around the block several times. I didn’t want to do this. I sat in front of his house. I didn’t want to go in. Finally I walked up the ramp and rang Robert’s bell. Nothing would be the same after that.
He didn’t look 50, and he didn’t look like he was dying. He didn’t look well, either. He was thin, but with a protruding stomach. He was rugged. His face was lined around the eyes, which were soft blue, and kind with a twinkle. His eyes were very alive. His voice was also soft, but strong. There was a small black earring in his left ear. His hair was brown and cut short. He had a red beard. There were bags under his eyes and creases on his forehead. Still, if you guessed his age, you wouldn’t have been an idiot for saying mid-40s.
He looked like a normal guy, and was not obviously gay.
We sat in his living room and talked about the documentary project, Robert in his old cushioned rocking chair which was covered by a patterned quilt. That same chair was the one from which he got up to walk into the bedroom and take his own life 23 months later.
We did not talk very much about his condition. I told him almost immediately that I would not be asking him at this meeting the questions I would ask when the camera was present, that it was my belief that it spoiled the spontaneity of the interview.
He seemed sharp and very aware even though he was in pain.
I told him I had been at the bedside of my best friend Garey as he died from AIDS, and how wonderful it was for him to have his friends and family with him at the end. I mentioned that I was not gay, myself.
He was concerned about exploitation. He may have even mentioned the words, “snuff film.” I explained to him that I had objected to what 60 Minutes had done with Dr. Jack Kevorkian and Thomas Youk. In that segment Kevorkian administered a lethal dose to the terminally ill Youk. I told Robert that although I thought Kevorkian was a pioneer in end-of-life issues, that there was no real context for Youk’s death. That you never got to know Youk and what went into his decision to allow Kevorkian to administer a lethal injection.
Robert agreed.
I told him that the one thing I could promise was that there would be a complete context for him, however this documentary progressed.
He agreed to begin shooting the following Monday, June 11, 2001, on the day he was to receive the pills that would end his life. He wasn’t going to take them that day. He had no firm plans for taking them, no specific date. He was also ambivalent about allowing us to videotape him as he took the pills and died. He wasn’t ruling it out, but he was unsure. I had not yet gained his trust.
For the next 23 months we made the documentary. The story wasn’t all pretty. Over that time, Robert fell in love, was betrayed by that man but later reconciled. He chose two dates to end his life and changed his mind. He had his spleen removed. Finally, when he received a diagnosis of a lung condition that would make him suffocate to death, he ended his life by drinking liquid Nembutal, prescribed legally under the Oregon Death With Dignity law, on camera wearing our mic. That law came under challenge by the Bush administration during the course of shooting. It was upheld by the US Supreme Court last year.
I promised Robert many times that I would tell his story and do right by him, the last time just moments before he ended his life.
Turns out it wasn’t so easy for me. It took two years of legal wrangling for me to get final cut and copyright control of the material. It cost me everything. What else could I do? I had promised Robert I would tell his story, and nothing was going to get in the way of that.
I didn’t cry when he died. I was working.
I didn’t cry at his memorial, where I eulogized him.
I got emotional now and then during the editing, but that was such an intense tornado of work, I didn’t have time to dwell.
I was sitting in the post production house, after it was edited, after it was posted, looking at the final version. Greg was out of town and couldn’t be there, so it was just me and an editor whom I didn’t know.
I sat through the whole thing. When it came to the bedroom scene I was overcome. Suddenly I didn’t want Robert to die; I desperately wanted him to live.
That’s when I cried.
