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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Archives Revels Classifieds Real Estate Menu Guide Wedding Weather Subscribe Contact Us March 16, 2005 Mason knows the end is near Story by Robert Plain Ashland Daily Tidings Steve Mason was exposed to the herbicide Agent Orange while serving in the Vietnam War. Steve Mason, the poet laureate to the veterans of Vietnam, talks about his experiences in the armed forces. Orville Hector | Ashland Daily Tidings Thirty-seven years, later his doctor informed him that as a result of this exposure, he had developed terminal lung cancer. As soon as the cancer spreads, his oncologist told him, his life would be over. Sometime in the coming weeks, Steve Mason, an Ashlander known as the poet laureate to the veterans of Vietnam, plans to kill himself before that happens. Rather than allowing the cancer to steal away the quality and capacities of his human existence, he will take advantage of Oregon's Death With Dignity Act and end his life, as he put it, "on my own terms." "Am I afraid of dying?" Mason asked. "I was never afraid of living, so why should I be afraid of dying?" He held out his hand, palm down, to demonstrate his calm. In the all-too-near future, when his cancer metastasizes, or spreads, throughout his body, rendering his life effectively over, he will call together his family and friends and host what will amount to be his own living wake. "I lived my life with dignity and I want to go out the same way," he said. "A man should live a life that leads to its own end." "It looks like, in my case, the cancer is going to metastasize into my bones," he said, as if speaking about a broken limb or a sick pet. "At that time I will be too sick to eat, too sick to sleep. I'll go downhill real quick and when that time comes I'll say, 'OK, everyone over to my house.'" At this time, his two daughters Margaret and Jessica, his ex-wife, best friend and sometime lover Teri Mason and his many other loved ones and friends will gather together at his home in Ashland to say good-bye. Then, at some time of his choosing, he and Teri will go upstairs so that he can end his life. "I'll take two little pills that will allow my system to accept the hemlock, as it were," he said. Once he is confident this first round of medicine has taken effect, he will then swallow the pill that he refers to as hemlock. Greek philosopher Socrates ended his life with hemlock. In Oregon, patients are prescribed a lethal dose of barbituates. "I'll be unconscious in one to three minutes," he said, paused, and then added, "And then dead in three to 10." Mason, 65, insists that he is not committing suicide. He is simply living his life, as he always has, on his own terms. "Suicide is defined as the needless taking of one's own life," he said. "When you have a terminal and incurable disease there is nothing left to do but end your life with dignity." While Mason knows he probably won't be alive when it happens, the United States Supreme Court will soon determine if he, in fact, had the constitutional right to kill himself. Per a request from the White House, the high court will hear a case, (Gonzalez v. Oregon) this fall that challenges the state's 11-year-old law that permits terminally ill patients to end their own lives. The Death With Dignity Act was first passed by Oregon voters through the initiative process in 1994. In 1997, after the Oregon Legislature overturned the people's decision, the Supreme Court refused to hear a different case opposing the measure and the Death With Dignity Act officially went into effect. "I can't tell you how thankful I am to live in a state that allows me to make this choice," Mason said. "I just wish that the people whose theocracy interferes with others peoples' civil liberties could see what a great law this great state has come up with." With the little time Mason has left, he is doing his part to spread this word. Last month he spoke before the California General Assembly, where that state is debating a similar measure. Vermont's general assembly is also considering a law permitting physician-assisted suicide. And, in 2002, a similar law was narrowly defeated in Hawaii. As of late, the issue has been as popular in the movies as it has been in the courthouse. "Million Dollar Baby," winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture, tells the story of one person's experience with physician-assisted suicide. All this additional attention on the issue has resulted in a media frenzy surrounding Mason's remaining days. He said he has been interviewed by major media outlets such as National Public Radio, the Christian Science Monitor and the Los Angeles Times. "I'm getting letters from inmates in Pennsylvania, for crying out loud," he said. But Mason is no stranger to a high profile. He is the poet laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, and has published three poetry books, including "Johnny's Song." All three deal with his experiences of war. His poem "The Wall Within" was read at the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall and it was also read into the Congressional Record in 1984. His poetry, he says, ensures that no matter what happens to his physical body in the coming months, he will always be around. "If I'm being read, how can anyone say I'm dead?" he said. Although his writing brought him fame, Mason's life has been defined by the Vietnam War. A decorated ex-Army captain, Mason says he was an eager soldier when he first arrived in Vietnam. But what he experienced there transformed him into a peace activist later in life. He declined to discuss many of the horrific experiences that led to his post traumatic stress disorder upon his return from war. "I wrote myself off as dead in Vietnam," he said. "So every day was a bonus." Mason, who says he has smoked Pall Malls for longer than he can remember, said he harbors no ill-feelings toward God for his cancer. But, he says, "I'm pissed at Dow (Chemical) for Agent Orange. They knew what this would do to people." Mason, who said he found Ashland by accident 20 years ago, said the best moments involved neither writing nor Vietnam. He says his children have been the biggest joy in his life. "My kids call me an old Jewish grandmother on steroids," he said, laughing. "To me, being a mother has nothing to do with gender." He says he has no regrets about the time he was given here. "I've lived a very full life," he said. "I made love to life." In fact, he says, this most recent stage of his life has been one of the most fulfilling. "I'm living the two-minute drill," he said. "I don't know why people wait until the last two minutes before they start to really play." He says he has no expectations of death. He plans to be cremated and then laid to rest at the base of an ancient redwood tree. With his typical dark humor, he acknowledges that this final resting place will be in defiance of state law and says, "What are they going to do, give me a speeding ticket?" He doesn't know if he will write another poem before he dies but he says he has no plans "to 'Sylvia Plath' a suicide note." Plath, a poet from the 1950s, also took her own life. As for his next adventure, he says, "I don't know what happens from here but I have my thoughts. I'm not supposed to know, yet. "Life just unfolds and tomorrow is promised to no man or woman. We come from oblivion and go to infinity." Staff writer Robert Plain can be reached at 482-3456 x 3040 or [email protected]. 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