I was in a Swiss hotel room with my father the night before his scheduled death through medical assistance in dying (MAID). He turned to me, “Danny, you are in charge of the story. Give others the chance I had to find peace.” I had no idea at the time what his request would set in motion, as I was focused on what would be the last few hours I had left with my dad.  

My father, Pop, and I didn’t always see eye to eye. We clashed early in my life. I admired his confidence and independence, but beneath the surface, resentment grew as he asserted control over many aspects of my world. Helping others was Pop’s defining trait—family, friends, even strangers. Yet, paradoxically, he struggled to challenge himself in the same ways he demanded of me and of others. 

At seventy-three, Pop was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease—ironically, an illness defined by the gradual loss of physical and mental control. For several years the disease advanced slowly, then suddenly accelerated. As I watched my father endure his physical, cognitive, and emotional decline, I confronted a tangled web of judgments and unresolved beliefs that intensified the long-standing friction between us. His increasingly erratic and often bewildering behavior brought on by Parkinson’s only deepened my discomfort. Still, I hoped that in the time he had left, he would confront his own lessons and find a path to healing—one that might finally allow us to make peace as father and son. I wasn’t sure he would. 

In the months that followed when Parkinson’s became unbearable, Pop chose to travel to Switzerland to pursue MAID. As an American citizen living in Illinois, he was not eligible for MAID in the US. Switzerland was one of the few countries in the world that allowed non-citizens with non-terminal illnesses to proceed with an assisted death. 

That decision hadn’t come suddenly. Years earlier, as Parkinson’s was tightening its grip, Pop often said he wasn’t afraid of death—he feared dying. He didn’t want to linger or become a burden on his children. He initially contacted Pegasos, a Swiss organization that helped coordinate assisted dying, as what he called his “insurance policy”—something he hoped never to use, but wanted available if necessary. In the end, he chose to cash it in.  

On the eve of his death, Pop resolved the last remaining loose end of his life. When he died the next morning, he was in the arms of myself, my sister, and my brother-in-law. My father passed on with love and dignity; finally at peace. 

Honoring my father’s final request led me to write Wingman: Escorting My Father to a Death With Dignity. The memoir traces Pop’s journey from bulletproof dad to a man crippled by disease, and the transformation of our relationship along the way. It is not a political book. It does not argue ethics, law, or morality. Instead, the story explores the emotional terrain surrounding assisted dying—what it looks and feels like from the inside.  

Writing Wingman transformed me to become an advocate for end-of-life choice. I became involved with Dying With Dignity Canada and other dying-with-dignity organizations around the world, working to increase education, counter misinformation, and challenge taboos surrounding death. 

We often frame end-of-life choice as a legal, religious, or political issue. We rarely talk about how it feels. Families facing prolonged suffering experience a volatile mix of love, guilt, fear, compassion, loyalty, and doubt. With Wingman, I wanted to show the human side—the part legislation can’t capture. You don’t have to agree with my father’s decision to understand it. The memoir offers a framework for thinking about dignity, decline, autonomy, and choice, and serves as a reflection tool for anyone navigating aging parents or chronic illness. 

I hope readers take away from Wingman that death does not have to be silent, reactive, or hidden. Families can—and should—talk openly about end-of-life wishes long before crisis hits. Love may be expressed most powerfully not by trying to save someone at all costs, but by walking beside them. I once heard that “grace is not preventing loss—it’s meeting it with love.” 

As more people with terminal illnesses or intolerable suffering throughout Canada and the world grapple with how to end their lives peacefully, “Wingman” shows, at its core, that the choice is rooted in a desire to leave this world with love, grace, and dignity. 

__________________________________________________

You can learn more about and purchase a copy of Wingman: Escorting My Father to a Death With Dignity HERE.