'My Friend Was An Incredible Ballet Dancer, Then He Chose to Die'

It's hard to fathom all that my friend Richard achieved. We met at ballet school as teens; a tiny academy where we shared literal blood, sweat and tears in our passionate pursuit of perfection.

Dancing together seven days a week—we'd break in through the window on Sundays to grab an extra day—all of us "studio rats" became close. We were an intense bunch but Richard was undoubtedly the most passionate. I recall one rehearsal of a duet danced to Bach wherein he insisted on meticulously examining how we should position our fingers. Richard and I admired each other's commitment and artistry, but I quietly agonized: can we just move on?

Richard was, however, also a bit of an imp; full of humor and ready to prank. Once, he hauled a few of us off to the University of California Los Angeles (UCLA), where he climbed a flag pole under the cover of darkness. And he was my first Bernardo in his live high-school production of West Side Story; sexy-swarthy, confident and oh so charismatic. I was entirely taken.

After our time training together in the '70s, Richard went on to join two of the finest ballet companies in the world at the time. He danced like a comet.

And after that, astonishingly, he became a doctor. Ballet dancers, at that time, rarely went to college. You'd train about to age 18, then audition for a professional troupe as soon as you possibly could. A dancer's life is short.

So, when Richard retired at 36, he had no more than a high school diploma. But, he got his undergrad, then medical degree and became a family practitioner. Careening from choreography to patients' back pain, Richard excelled at two extremely rigorous, highly divergent endeavors. I wonder how many humans have done that, ever.

Richard practiced medicine for over 20 years. Then late last year, I got a terrible message from the ballet teacher we had once shared: he had been diagnosed with progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP), a rare neurological condition that can cause problems with balance, movement, vision, speech and swallowing.

I was stunned. How could this be? A heavy sadness settled in.

Although Richard and I hadn't consistently communicated over time, we'd shared some deeply formative years. I felt that we were sort of spiritually close. So, without thinking about the details or outcome of his condition, I made plans to visit him in Northern California.

Richard was confined to a wheelchair and spoke only in a whisper. But we connected, sharing about everything from whether medicine or ballet was harder—Richard quickly confirmed it was medicine—to the famed dance-makers he worked with including Eliot Feld, who founded his eponymous troupe after appearing in the original West Side Story movie. At one point, trying to soften Richard's descent into his wheelchair, I said, "plié," which is the mattress-spring of ballet technique. Summoning all that his deteriorating musculature could offer, he landed it with perfection.

And as we talked, we cried. I was so grateful we cried.

Then, five minutes before I was to leave, I had the proverbial shock of a lifetime. Bonnie*, Richard's caretaker, a preternaturally precocious, wise and compassionate young woman, mentioned in an offhand way that Richard was going to end his life in a few weeks.

California is one of the ten states that, along with Washington, D.C., have medical aid in dying laws. I had no idea—I thought that option existed only in Oregon. But I found out how widespread it is when Richard prepared to end his life.

These laws are also on the legislative agenda of another 14 states, according to a study published in July that also examines whether this end-of-life option is broadly and equitably available. Research shows that people who used the law to die over the last 23 years were overwhelmingly older, white college graduates. However, new legal and legislative efforts are pushing to ease complex restrictions preventing patients from accessing the option.

But when I discovered what Richard was about to do, I fell apart. Again, I hadn't put much if any thought into his prognosis. I think I went into denial. But Bonnie's pronouncement left me nowhere to run. And the end was coming in a matter of days. I couldn't argue, pretend to debate or change a thing. While we might read about such experiences, I had never met it face-to-face, sitting on a couch in a childhood friend's living room.

Of course, I understood this choice would mitigate Richard's suffering. PSP can't be cured and symptoms only worsen. Bonnie hadn't realized I didn't know and I can't say if Richard ever knew whether I was aware. He was in the other room when Bonnie delivered the news. Either way, when she did, I burst into tears. I lost my religion.

Besides the dual careers, Richard spoke four languages. He was something of a child-prodigy pianist. I could only ask: Why god, why? Why not someone else?

It made no sense under any conceivable scenario. Every construct I'd ever made up about the meaning of life and order and faith and belief and hope and happiness, fairness and righteousness, karma and striving and success and all of it, nothing made sense.

From what I understand, Richard was very much in favor of and involved in ending his life consciously. In fact, he initiated the process. I can just imagine him drawing on his analytical intelligence and medical experience for sure and steady guidance, and he spent his final two years surrounded by loving friends and family. He made his care easy, they've said, and was consistently affable and accepting.

Again, while Richard and I never discussed his decision, I was thankful, if devastated, to have known about it when we went to say our farewell. It was terribly, terribly sad to leave him that day. I was getting on a plane with no promise of a future reunion. But the knowledge allowed me to say goodbye, to embrace him and to say "I love you" with a force that maybe only death, ruthless and unforgiving, can demand.

In retrospect, although this loss is first and foremost Richard's family's, I realized that I was losing a part of myself, too, or at least some long-buried illusions. I'd never been romantically involved with Richard. I chose the other cute guy at the ballet barre, short-lived as that may have been. But Richard was, well, Richard. The one my mother always preferred I'd have chosen. And with his death, there went that dream.

Maybe I was also losing the final vestiges of my long-gone dreams of a ballet career. I haven't done a plié myself in 45 years. Was my clinging a seduction of the past? Or the desire to forever think of myself as a ballet dancer? Well, they are the coolest people in the world. And I was good. Maybe I won't entirely let that one go.

But I realize now, maybe it is time to move on in a new way.

A few weeks after my visit, I rediscovered my so-called religion, my equilibrium. But, of course, I will always love Richard. And I know now, first-hand, that I am deeply grateful for right-to-die laws. I am also aware the choice Richard made required the kind of courage I'm not sure I possess.

Richard's family says he spent his final hours "smoking a cigar and sharing a bottle of scotch with us." It was, they said, "an honor and a blessing to be with him as he took this final great leap."

It was an honor and a blessing to have known you, my friend. So I will see you on the other side. At the barre.

Zan Dubin-Scott started her working life at the ballet barre and went from there to covering the arts and entertainment as a staff writer at the Los Angeles Times. She now runs a PR agency specializing in sustainability.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

*Name has been changed.