image copyrightBas
Warning: Some people may find this article disturbing.
One morning in June 2024, Bas parked his car next to his parents' motorhome, parked in a sunny marina in the north of the Netherlands.
His parents, Jan and Els, had spent most of their married life in the water. Now in their 70s, they could no longer maintain a houseboat. Their mobile home, located close to the yachts and boats, was the best alternative.
Jan and Els got into their son's car. Bas started the engine. This would be the last time I would take them anywhere. For the couple, this trip—to the local hospice—would be their last.
At 10:30 that morning, doctors would administer lethal medication and they would die together in what is known in the Netherlands as couple euthanasia. It is legal and uncommon, but every year more Dutch people choose to end their lives in this way.
Three days before their fateful appointment at the hospice, Jan and Els gave an interview to the BBC in their motorhome.
Jan was in constant pain, a consequence of the years he spent transporting goods along the inland waterways of the Netherlands.
Els had been diagnosed with dementia.
The story of this family had a huge impact and generated public discussion in various parts of the world.
Now, more than two years later, the couple's only son describes how he tried to convince his parents to delay his death, while also supporting their decision to undergo euthanasia.
Bas reveals the emotional burden that the situation took on him and the deep loneliness he felt afterwards.
The trip
Bas had planned a scenic route to the hospice, including the Frisian meadows and canals.
"I still remember the whole trip," he says. His mother was in the back seat and his father next to her. At first, they talked. Els seemed firm in his decision to opt for euthanasia.
"My mother was convinced, sure to do it," says Bas. "But my father was a little excited."
Jan asked his son if they were doing the right thing. Bas was taken aback; He thought it would be his mother who might have doubts.
"My mother always enjoyed life a lot," he says. "I remember him saying to me, 'I would love to be 80 or even 90.'"
But his father had been talking about euthanasia for more than a decade because of all the years of pain.
In the car, Bas reassured his father. Once Jan calmed down, they drove in silence, listening to music and watching the scenery go by.
In the months before the family embarked on this journey, Bas had tried to persuade his parents to delay his death.
"I tried to convince them to stay a little longer; why not wait until winter or next year?"
Bas was undecided. Although he thought his parents' decision to request euthanasia was the right one, he did not want them to leave.
"My father was in this situation for 10 to 15 years, so he probably could have lasted a few more years. But I think if he had waited another year, my mother would have been in trouble..."
If Els delayed requesting euthanasia, she risked her Alzheimer's worsening, which could mean she would not be considered capable of making the decision to end her own life.
in the hospice
Bas found a place to park.
"My father said goodbye to my car; he liked my car and said, 'Good job,' and 'thank you.'"
"And then we went in," says Bas. "Imagine doing that, being in their place, taking that trip and that walk. It's unreal."
For the next two hours, the couple's family and friends came and went. They remembered anecdotes and listened to music. At one point, it occurred to Bas to end the meeting.
"I had the feeling that we should leave... Get in the car and go," he says. "But I didn't want to bring up anything that might raise doubts; I had supported the entire [euthanasia] process."
"It's better to stay calm and take advantage of the moment to say goodbye."
Shortly before 10:30 in the morning, doctors arrived to inject Jan and Els with the lethal medication that would end their lives. The couple lay in hospital beds side by side. And in those last moments, before losing consciousness, Bas witnessed the closeness between his parents.
"I've seen them walk hand in hand maybe three or four times in my entire life," he says. "But now they were lying there, holding hands. And that gave me a really nice feeling: They're really doing it together."
Bas describes that first half hour after his parents stopped breathing as "an irrefutable fact": they were no longer alive.
"Then you realize what the situation is; it's an unimaginable feeling."
At the hospice, sadness overwhelmed Bas. He began to experience deep loneliness.
"Grief is very, very deep," he says, "and I don't have any brothers or sisters; I really felt alone."
If we grew up with both parents, when one dies, we can share our memories and sadness with the other as part of the grieving process. But Jan and Els were no longer there.
"It was like my legs had been cut off," Bas remembers.
His pain was also physical: he felt sick for four or five weeks. His body hurt.
"I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, and it might be a difficult conclusion," he says. "Maybe for them [my parents] it was the best option, but to have lost them both at the same time was very, very shocking."
Did Jan and Els leave too soon?
For people planning to request euthanasia in the Netherlands, especially those with dementia like Els, choosing the right time to end life can be complicated.
Source: Regional Euthanasia Review Committees (RTE)
In addition to demonstrating that they suffer unbearably, doctors must evaluate whether they still retain the ability to decide for themselves that they want to die.
This can cause immense distress in dementia patients considering euthanasia, explains Rozemarijn van Bruchem, a geriatrician and ethicist at Erasmus Medical Center Rotterdam.
"They think... I have that power right now, but it's too early. Maybe next month will be too late. So how do I decide when to start this process to see if I qualify, to see if I can access euthanasia? And if I wait too long, could I have missed the opportunity?" says the expert.
Dr van Bruchem says the anxiety her patients experience is because euthanasia is legal in the Netherlands.
Additionally, they know that it is rare to obtain permission for assisted dying in cases of advanced dementia. In countries where euthanasia is prohibited, such as the United Kingdom, people with dementia can face many challenges, but they rarely have to weigh these life and death options, as happened to Els.
In 2024, she told the BBC that she and her husband couldn't wait because there was a possibility that his Alzheimer's would progress. And Jan was determined to die with Els. He told the BBC that perhaps he was leaving too soon, but that he had lived his life to the full; his life was complete.
Has everything been said?
Jan and Els were acutely aware of the burden their end-of-life decisions placed on their son. Bas attended all the meetings his parents had with their respective doctors during the euthanasia process. There were open family conversations.
We often have regrets when a loved one dies, especially about what was left unsaid. This didn't happen to Bas. Two days before Jan and Els' appointment at the hospice, on Monday, June 3, he wrote them a letter.
"It had about eight pages," Bas says. "I went to the motorhome on Saturday night, two days before the event. I read them the entire letter. It talked about our lives and I thanked them for what they had done."
Jan and Els were deeply moved. And just as they rarely showed affection in public, they were not very expressive with their son either.
"You feel like they love you, but they show it with actions, not with words or hugs," says Bas. "My mother hugged me more when I had dementia, but my father never did; I never got a hug."
That changed in the mobile home that last Saturday night. Jan hugged Bas.
"He did it after that letter. It was maybe one of the best moments."
"Everything has already been said."
This article was originally written in English and we used an artificial intelligence tool to translate it. A BBC journalist reviewed the text before publication. Learn more about how we use AI.
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