i bow to the exquisite philosophy behind the Sarco capsule.
i bow to the beauty it embodies. the dignity. the freedom. the respect for self-determination.
i bow to the non-judging acceptance that this capsule has the potential to offer to suffering that might be invisible, maybe not medically labelled or objectively observable, maybe generally mocked or shamed or undermined by those of a more mainstream general functioning, but still, suffering that has become a discerning reason to depart.
i bow to how simple it is.
i know that it has not found a context that allows for this simplicity. still, i bow.
in the Sarco capsule.
i look at the sky. i bow to Adriana and her teachings. i sense my gratitude for the life lived. i feel the moment coming. i decide. i press. i leave. just like that. poof. gone. yes. the treasure-button.
description of the test, copied from the article in The Volksrant:
"May 2024
‘This is the nervous part’, Fiona Stewart says.
Today, Nitschke will test his machine live in a Rotterdam workshop by lying in it himself. About fifteen people are watching. Among them are a few journalists and documentary makers. Nitschke, dressed in a bright pink blouse, looks focused and introspective. The doctor, who once earned a PhD in physics with research on lasers, has worked for twelve years on his invention. Just a few minutes ago, he was pouring liquid nitrogen of nearly -200 degrees Celsius. White vapors were filling the room. Now he is frantically checking various meters and graphs on his iPad. An assistant is trying to ensure the Sarco closes properly.
The Sarco is a deep purple color with silver glitter. Stewart: ‘Purple is the color of dignity. We spent months creating the right sparkle effect. It just had to be perfect.’
In the past, much to his wife's horror, Nitschke once put a plastic bag over his head to test how quickly the oxygen would deplete. Now he subjects himself to this experiment with the Sarco.
It is certainly not without risk. Yet the doctor, looking fearless, straps an oxygen mask with elastic bands around his nose and mouth. He steps into his own capsule and pulls the lid shut. Click. There he lies, ready for the test. The oxygen bottle rests on his lap.
In the workshop, everyone falls silent. ‘Is the oxygen on?’ Stewart asks.
Nitschke nods calmly from behind the perspex window.
Suddenly, the capsule fills with white mist—a sign that cold nitrogen is flowing in. The meters show the oxygen level plummeting. Within sixty seconds, it drops from 20.9 to 0.4 percent; humans cannot survive below 10 percent. Stewart rushes to the Sarco. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks. The stress is palpable.
Nitschke wearing an oxygen mask while testing the machine Nitschke nods. Someone reads the time aloud. Three minutes without oxygen. Four. Five.
A little later, the cork pops off the bottle of prosecco. It works. For the first time that day, Stewart looks relaxed. She laughs. ‘This is the real thing’, she says. ‘Cheers.’"
