Baroness Prentis of Banbury (Con)

My Lords, I regret that I was not here this winter during the discussions on the Bill. But watching it on television has been a key part of the rhythm of the weeks that I have spent at home. During my chemo-induced cognitive dysfunction, the plot of “Midsomer Murders” was often beyond me, and the steroid frenzy I felt meant that I often could not settle to a book. But during 13 bouts of chemo and an operation, I kept returning Friday after Friday to this debate. Noble Lords may ask themselves, why? It may be because, as a government lawyer, the constitution is in me like the writing in a stick of rock. But it is also, of course, that as your normal procedures and love of friends, work, food and drink are taken from you because you have to remain isolated, the issues of life and death come sharply into focus. What I watched, from a unique perspective, with my telly newly installed in my bedroom—shockingly, some might say—was impressive. It was the calm, quiet scrutiny of legislation. Far from few voices were heard, as some have said. I frequently had to consult the booklet to see who was speaking. I saw the former heads of royal colleges explain why no royal college can support the Bill. I saw lawyers worried that coroners are not able to feel that there are sufficient safeguards in the Bill. I saw former NHS managers worried about the effects on the service and staff that they care for so deeply. I saw experts on devolution get into the details. I was impressed by the deep experience of the Bishops, often speaking from their time as parish priests, who, frankly, have held more hands of the dying than the rest of us put together. As I watched from the coalface of trying not to die, I felt huge sympathy for the very ill people who think that this Bill might be the answer to their problems. Illness leaves you with few options and little control. The systems can seem unyielding and, as a result, uncaring. In my experience, that is worse than pain. Of course, you are exhausted, miserable and sick. You look awful, you are often smelly, and some symptoms are, frankly, revolting. Of course, you worry very deeply about your family watching you go through all this and what it is doing to them. Even with my excellent care and good prognosis, I have definitely at times felt that death would be much easier. Whenever my treatment has not been as speedy as it might be because of capacity issues—I am currently waiting longer than I want to for radiotherapy, which is due to start the week after next—or when I have been waiting literally on the floor, having fainted in a less than perfectly clean NHS corridor, I have had a vision in my head of crisp white sheets and the certainty that would come from knowing that you were instantly going to die. For me, and I suspect for most vulnerable people, that vision passes and life becomes worth living and good again. But I do not think for one minute that we should deny that that vision is briefly an attractive one. We owe the dying better than this Bill. We owe them the best death that we can manage and real effort and enthusiasm put into palliative care and all facilities, including temporary nursing where necessary, to help people die at home surrounded by their families. We need to really integrate physical and mental care and not just talk about it. We owe the dying love, care and respect. We hope that crisp white sheets and some control over treatment dates may become part of the normal system of palliative care and not just reserved for people who engineer some form of assisted dying. We owe the vulnerable legislative protection.