By Antonia Kao
NOTE: Names and some details in this article have been changed to ensure confidentiality.
On September 29, 2025, End of Life Choices California (EOLCCA) received an uncommon call—directly from a doctor, rather than from a patient or loved one. Dr. Grant was requesting day-of-ingestion support for her patient, Mr. Deo— 80 years old, stage 4 metastatic prostate cancer, choosing Medical Aid in Dying (MAiD).
“He has no one,” she said.
As his volunteer team assembled—Dr. Grant, co-volunteer Kelly, and myself—there were many questions. Mr. Deo was in the hospital but like most people, his wish was to die at home. He had refused hospice. Without hospice, family, or friends, what would be the protocol if dying took hours? Who would pronounce him? He was wheelchair-bound; could he safely receive the medications himself or would someone need to be present?
We weren’t able to speak with Mr. Deo directly. Dr. Grant explained he didn’t want to talk to anyone; he hung up or shut doors. All communication went through her; he trusted her. I asked her to convey the necessary preparations to Mr. Deo — no food for 6 hours prior, contact a mortuary to make arrangements. She told us he’d arrive by ambulance from the hospital, and that his mobile home had no running water, no bathroom, and was in squalor. She shared he wasn’t keen on having people in his place; I let her know we were open to assisting from outside. She planned to take the day off work to be there.
Without hospice, family, or friends, what would be the protocol if dying took hours? Who would pronounce him? Could he safely receive the medications himself or…?
Since the ambulance was picking him up at 8 a.m. to deliver him home, and the medications would arrive “by noon”, we set up a default plan: She’d arrive around 8:30 a.m. to meet him and to receive the medications if they came early. Kelly and I would arrive around 10:30.
On October 2nd at 8:11 a.m., Dr. Grant texted that the medications were en route. She got there just in time to receive them. Kelly and I arrived around 8:45. At 9:28, the ambulance pulled up.
The young EMTs opened the doors, and there was Mr. Deo.
I confirmed that he knew what MAiD was, that he wanted it, that he could change his mind at any point before swallowing the medication. He told me he’d had a tuna sandwich at 7 a.m., not ideal, as it is best practice to take the medication on an empty stomach.
The mobile home was piled high with possessions, with only one narrow passage through. Kelly moved several guns from the hallway to a side bedroom for safety. We pulled the mattress back up on the frame, made the bed, cleared space around it. The gurney wouldn’t fit. Rather than wait an uncertain time for another ambulance with equipment to carry him in, Kelly found a firm blanket. He and the EMTs carefully transferred Mr. Deo onto it and carried him to his bedroom.
We propped him with hospital pillows and, when he asked for water, found an unopened bottle in the hallway for him.
There were no surfaces inside to prepare medications, so I cleared a plastic chair outside, positioning it behind a garbage can for privacy.
When I started to explain the process — anti-nausea medicine, a bit of popsicle just prior to and after the MAiD medicine to ease the bitterness — he said he didn’t want popsicle. “Just talk to the doctor. She knows what I want.” Later, once he understood we were on a team with Dr. Grant, he accepted the popsicle.
After he ingested the anti-nausea medication, Dr. Grant took the first shift at his bedside. When I returned, they were listening to Pavarotti and The Three Tenors on a small speaker she’d brought. She set me up with her phone and stepped out.
I sat on the foot of his bed.
He wasn’t cantankerous at all.
He told me about his grandparents, the woman he’d married twice, his time as a corrections officer. He’d been essentially bedridden for a decade, getting up only to read or watch DVDs. “It’s no way to live,” he said.
He asked to hear Maurice Chevalier from the 1958 musical Gigi. When “So Long, Farewell” from The Sound of Music auto-played on YouTube afterwards, he indicated to let it play.
He’d been essentially bedridden for a decade, getting up only to read or watch DVDs. “It’s no way to live,” he said.
Perhaps because of the tuna sandwich, he threw up a bit after drinking the medication, but swallowed most of it back down, determined. Everything went smoothly after that. He fell asleep quickly. Per his earlier request to Kelly, we played The Beatles.
The three of us sat vigil. Eventually we turned the music to silence. Dr. Grant was crying.
When she couldn’t detect a breath or heartbeat, she said, “I should have brought my stethoscope.” Kelly checked his car—nothing. Dr. Grant found a light, gently lifted his eyelids, shined it in. No response.
It was noon. She declared the time of death.
I called the police non-emergency line. They hadn’t had a MAiD-related call in a while and first sent firefighters and medics by mistake. I then called the coroner’s office, which transferred us to the sheriff’s office, which transferred us back to the police, which eventually sent an officer out – a young woman unfamiliar with what to do.
She got on the phone with the coroner, gathered information, scanned paperwork, photographed medication bottles, and per the coroner’s direction, investigated for any indication of kin. The mobile park manager said she’d check her files for family, though she’d never seen anyone visit him in all the years he’d lived there. After confirming the police would handle the guns, around 2 p.m., I left.
Of all the people I’ve supported through MAiD, I felt the most grief after Mr. Deo’s death.
A few days after, I created a small ritual with our daughter and dog to commemorate him and meet the grief. I wondered what happens to unclaimed bodies and learned most counties have indigent burial programs. I was grateful to discover that my county recently started an annual memorial honoring individuals who died without next of kin or the means to pay for a burial.
I was still wondering what had become of Mr. Deo when, on October 28, Mira from the Public Administrator’s Office called. His body remained in refrigeration at the coroner’s office. She was working to locate kin, to determine if he’d had any body disposition preferences, and to investigate available funds. She was glad I’d discovered the memorial service — her office had created it.
Each MAiD death I’ve supported has been wildly different, as individual as the diverse people exercising this right. It has been a gift to be present when artifice falls away, leaving just transparency and humanness.
Even when Mr. Deo “didn’t care” and “had no one,” he had people. Dr. Grant, Kelly, and I cared. We were changed by knowing him. I learned later that Kelly, his wife, and kids had said a prayer that night at dinner for Mr. Deo.
Humans just care.
About the author: Antonia Kao is an interdisciplinary artist and end-of-life doula who has served as a volunteer with End of Life Choices California since 2022.
Editor’s note: Antonia’s story about Mr. Deo is just one of many equally moving examples of the compassionate and caring support EOLCCA provides to anyone who needs it, all at no cost. Whether it’s answering a question, providing a presentation, or being there for bedside support, there is never a fee associated with our services. EOLCCA is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, and we rely on donations from individuals and foundations to enable us to offer these services at no charge to our clients. Please consider supporting our work through a tax-deductible charitable donation.
For more information, visit Ways to Help. Thank you!