Credit, Bas
Important: This report contains details that may be disturbing to some readers.
One early morning in June 2024, Bas pulled up next to his parents' motorhome, parked in a sunny marina in the north of the Netherlands.
His parents, Jan and Els, spent most of their married life on the water. Now, in their 70s, they could no longer manage a houseboat. His motorhome, parked near 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 he would take his parents somewhere. For Jan and Els, this trip—to the local nursing home—would be their last.
At 10:30 that morning, doctors would administer the lethal medication to them and the doctors would take them to death together, in a procedure known in the Netherlands as double euthanasia.
It's cool and rare, but every year more Dutch people choose to end their lives this way.
Three days before the fatal appointment at the palliative care center, Jan and Els gave an interview to the BBC in their van.
Jan lived with constant pain, the after-effects of years of transporting cargo along the inland waterways of the Netherlands. Els had been diagnosed with dementia. Their story was reported and talked about around the world.
Now, more than two years later, the couple's only son describes trying to persuade his mother and father to delay their deaths, while supporting their decision to end their lives.
He reveals the emotional toll that his parents' decision placed on him and the profound loneliness that followed.
The journey
Bas had planned a scenic route to the asylum, passing through Frisian meadows and canals.
“I still remember the whole trip,” he says. His mother was in the backseat and his father was next to him. At first, they talked. Els seemed resolute about her decision to opt for euthanasia.
"My mother was convinced, she was sure she should do it," says Bas. "But my dad was a little emotional."
Jan asked her son if they were doing the right thing. Bas was surprised—he thought it would be his mother who would have doubts.
“My mother always really enjoyed life,” he says. "I remember her saying to me, 'I would love to be 80 or maybe even 90.'
But his father had been talking about euthanasia for over a decade because of all the years of suffering.
In the car, Bas reassured his father. Once Jan calmed down, they drove in silence, listening to music and watching the scenery pass by.
In the months leading up to the family's trip, Bas tried to persuade his parents to delay their deaths.
"I tried to convince them to stay a little longer — why not wait until winter, or until next year?"
Bas was conflicted. Although he thought his parents' decision to request euthanasia was the right one, he didn't want them to leave.
"My dad was in this situation for 10 to 15 years, so he probably could have extended it for a few more years. But I think waiting another year would have gotten my mom in trouble..."
If Els delayed requesting euthanasia, she ran the risk of worsening Alzheimer's, which could mean she would not be considered capable of making the decision to end her own life.
At the palliative care center
Bas found a parking space.
"My dad 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 shoes, taking that trip and that walk. It's surreal."
Over the next two hours, family and friends of the couple came and went. They remembered stories and listened to music. At one point, it crossed Bas's mind to interrupt the ceremony.
"I had a feeling, 'OK, let's go... Let's get in the car and go,'" he says. "But I didn't want to touch anything that would make them feel insecure — I had supported the whole [euthanasia] process."
"It's best to keep everyone calm and take the moment to say goodbye."
Just before 10:30 am, doctors arrived to inject Jan and Els with the lethal medication that would kill them. The couple were lying side by side in hospital beds. And in those final moments, before they lost consciousness, Bas witnessed his parents' closeness.
"I've seen them maybe three or four times in my entire life walking hand in hand," he says. "But now they were lying there, holding hands. And it gave me a really good feeling — they're actually doing this together."
Bas describes the first half hour after his parents stopped breathing as "a fait accompli" — they were no longer alive.
"Then you realize what the situation is — it's an unimaginable feeling."
At the palliative care center, Bas was overcome with sadness. He began to feel a deep loneliness.
"Grief is a very, very deep thing to experience," he says, "and I don't have any brothers or sisters — I really felt alone."
If we were raised by a mother and father, when one of them dies, we can share our memories and sadness with the other as part of the grieving process. But Jan and Els had already passed away.
“It was like my legs had been cut off,” Bas recalls.
His suffering was also physical—he felt ill for four or five weeks. His body hurt.
"I wouldn't really recommend this to other people, and maybe that's a difficult conclusion," he says. "Maybe it was the best option for them [my parents], but losing them at the same time was very, very impactful."
Did Jan and Els leave too soon?
Among people planning to request euthanasia in the Netherlands, especially those with dementia like Els, choosing the right time to end one's life can be tricky.
Source: Regional Euthanasia Review Committees (RTE)
In addition to demonstrating that they are suffering unbearably, patients must be evaluated by doctors and deemed capable of deciding for themselves whether they wish to die.
This can cause immense suffering in dementia patients who consider euthanasia, explains Dr. Rozemarijn van Bruchem, a geriatrician and ethicist at the Erasmus Medical Center in Rotterdam.
"They think... I have this power now, but now it's too early. But maybe next month it will be too late. So how do I decide at what point do I need to start this process to see if I meet the criteria, to see if I can get euthanasia? And if I wait too long, I may have missed the opportunity?"
Dr. van Bruchem says it is because euthanasia is legal in the Netherlands that her patients experience this anxiety. And they know that permission for assisted death in cases of advanced dementia is rare.
In countries where euthanasia is prohibited, such as the United Kingdom and Brazil, people with dementia can face many challenges, but they rarely have to weigh these life-and-death options — as Els had to do.
In 2024, she told the BBC that she and her husband could not wait as there was a possibility that her Alzheimer's could 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 fully — his life was complete.
'Everything has been said'
Jan and Els were very aware of the burden their end-of-life decisions placed on their son. Bas attended all of the parents' meetings with their respective doctors during the euthanasia process. There were open family conversations.
We often regret it when a loved one dies—especially for things we may not have said. That didn't happen with Bas. Two days before Jan and Els' appointment at the palliative care center, on Monday, June 3, he wrote them a letter.
“It was about eight pages long,” says Bas. "I went to the motorhome late on Saturday night. I read the whole letter to them. It talked about our lives and thanked them for what they had done."
Jan and Els were deeply moved. And just as they rarely showed affection for each other in public, they also weren't very affectionate with their son.
"You feel like they love you, but it shows through actions, not necessarily words or hugs," says Bas. "My mom hugged me more when she had dementia, but my dad never hugged me — I never got a hug."
That changed in the motorhome that last Saturday night. Jan hugged Bas.
"He did it after that letter. Maybe it was one of the best moments."
"Everything has been said."
*If you are or know someone who is showing warning signs related to suicide, or if you have lost a loved one to suicide, check out some places to ask for help:
- The Life Valorization Center (CVV), via telephone 188, offers free service 24 hours a day; there is also the option to chat, email and search for service stations around Brazil;
- For young people aged 13 to 24, Unicef also offers the Pode Falar chat;
- In cases of emergency, another recommendation from experts is to call the Fire Department (phone 193) or the Military Police (phone 190);
- Another option is to call SAMU, by calling 192;
- In the local public network, it is also possible to seek help at the Psychosocial Care Centers (CAPS), in Basic Health Units (UBS) and 24-hour Emergency Care Units (UPA);
- Also check out the Mental Health Map, which helps you find free mental health care throughout Brazil.
- For those who have lost someone to suicide, the Brazilian Association of Survivors Bereaved by Suicide (Abrases) offers assistance and support groups.
Discover more
Watch
End of Watch
