Let Me Kill Myself
Before he dies of Lou Gehrig's disease, Phil Snaith wants to accomplish one final goal: force the state to allow assisted suicides
Talking about Snaith's suicide makes Wildermuth visibly uncomfortable. She rubs her necklace between her palms and speaks haltingly. "It puts me in a bad position," she says, "because I have a professional license. I don't want to be accused of helping him, and yet I want to be able to help him. I think he should just shut his mouth, and when the time comes, he can do it."
These days Snaith passes most hours in his well-worn living room chair, CNN on the big screen, Sir Winston by his side, a bloody mary or a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand. He's still eloquent, sardonic, and ornery. "So long as I can still stand up, I don't intend to take it sitting down," he says after a few drinks. The trouble is, it's getting harder and harder for him to stand up.
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