Artist bravely candid in interview about nearing end of life

May 3—If you read my story "Finishing touches" about an exhibition showcasing Santa Fe artist Al Kittel's work, you might be surprised to learn about the circumstances surrounding her upcoming death.

I certainly was. Jared Weiss, the program head of drawing and painting at Santa Fe Community College's School of Arts and Design, emailed me in March about Cocoon, an exhibition featuring Al's work that opens Thursday, May 9, at the college's Visual Arts Gallery. Weiss noted that Al has Friedreich's ataxia and "doesn't think she has much time left."

I looked at Al's work on her Instagram page, and her talent was evident. It wasn't until we chatted on the phone that I learned of Al's plan to end her life; she meets New Mexico's requirements to receive medical assistance to do so. I'd never before written a story about someone planning that method of departure, and I suspect most of us haven't read many such pieces.

Partly for that reason, I asked Al — short for Allison — if it was OK for me to ask some in-depth questions about what it's like to plan one's exit from this life. Both she and her father, Joe, were stunningly, wonderfully candid in our interviews.

I want to write very honestly about Al's planned passing, as I think a lot of us struggle with death — not just the pain it causes, but the very concept. I was 18 when my mother died, and I recall how clueless most adults were about how to respond when her death came up. It was usually "I'm sorry," followed by embarrassed silence.

In some ways, writing the story about Al was my way of not saying "I'm sorry" and looking away, and instead seeking to understand and help others do the same. I look forward to meeting Al at her exhibition's opening reception, for the first and perhaps final time.

I'm pleased to use the term "perhaps," because originally, Al planned to depart before her exhibition ends June 5. She has been on a creative streak this year, and while I support her right to leave when she wants to, I'll acknowledge that I'm selfishly glad she'll be around longer.

Writing about Al reminded me of a story I wrote in 1996 in Tampa, Florida. An 18-year-old woman had gone skiing with her family during her senior year of high school. Something went terribly wrong, and she was left paralyzed from the neck down. She would spend the rest of her life under the care of her parents. I wonder sometimes if she's still alive and suspect I wouldn't like the answer.

That woman's health downturn was sudden, but she was around the same age as Al was when Al began experiencing symptoms of Friedreich's ataxia at 16. The story about the paralyzed woman was a powerful lesson for me as a journalist: the notion "everything happens for a reason" is a fallacy. I've since written and edited stories about so many good people who have lost everything they own in fires, been evicted from roach-filled apartments, watched addictions tear their families apart, fallen victim to scams, lived on the streets, or grappled with complex post-traumatic stress disorder from childhood. These things didn't happen for a reason. Frustratingly, life's cruelty is random in whom and how severely it hits.

I've asked Al's father, Joe Kittel, to let me know when Al passes, in case it happens before she plans it. There are two reasons: I will let you know, and I will look at birds differently, hoping each one I see is Al reincarnated, transported from her power wheelchair to freedom in New Mexico's gentle skies.