Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill

Baroness Gerada Excerpts

Friday 24th April 2026 Lords Chamber

[Baroness Mattinson (Lab)]

I am speaking very briefly so, if the noble Baroness does not mind, I will continue. Many of those stories have been told very movingly here today.

The point is that 52% of us have cared for or witnessed a family member who was terminally ill and suffering at the end of their life. Unsurprisingly, experience of this rises with age, up to 66% in the 50 to 64 year-old age group, and higher as you get beyond that. Research—for example, England’s first ever citizens’ jury, so more qualitative and deliberative research—tells us that support for law change grows the more that people understand the issue and hear about it.

Meanwhile, the backdrop to this debate is that trust in our democracy has never been lower. Too often, the public do not feel listened to. Confidence in this unelected Chamber is at its lowest ever: a desultory one in five has confidence in the House of Lords to do its job. At the end of last year, YouGov found that just 2% had a lot of confidence in the House of Lords and only 17% had some confidence. Some noble Lords have quoted a poll that suggests that the public would like to see us doing better scrutiny. Yes, in abstract, they absolutely would, but, with reference to this particular Bill, a YouGov poll recently found that 58% disagreed with the way the Lords has dismissed the Bill while only 17% found it acceptable. Again, public opposition rises, as you would expect, with greater experience by age, consistent with the lived experience of the impact and pain of the alternative.

As this debate draws to its close, we should all be aware that the way the Bill has been treated by this Chamber risks having profound implications for the Chamber itself and its reputation, as well as the absolute tragedy of ignoring the passionately held public view for assisted dying.

[Baroness Gerada (CB)]

My Lords—

[Baroness Lawlor (Con)]

My Lords—

--- Later in debate ---

[Baroness Gerada (CB)]

My Lords, I remind the House that Harold Shipman was a murderer convicted of 15 life sentences plus four years. He did not provide an assisted death. I would like that to be on the record.

I stand here as a general practitioner with over 40 years’ experience and, as I have said many times, as president and chair of the Royal College of GPs. Over the decades, I have had the privilege, though not always an easy one, to care for patients at the end of their lives. For some, I have been present at the moment when life passes to death. It is an extraordinary moment—not, as it is often portrayed, bleak or clinical or purely tragic, but something far different. When death is well supported, when it is anticipated and when it is held by family and those who care, it can be a moment of stillness, connection and a sense of peace that feels unexpectedly profound. It is one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had as a doctor. In those moments, one thing is always clear: the patient is at the centre. Their wishes, relationships and dignity all shape how that final phase of care unfolds when it goes well.

However, that is not the whole truth. I have also cared for many patients whose deaths have not gone well: patients who have refused treatments or have starved themselves rather than endure what lies ahead; patients who, sadly, have ended their own lives, unable to bear the weight of their diagnosis; and patients whose illnesses have taken away from them the ability to make their own decisions, and whose deaths have been placed into the hands of others—families, clinicians and the systems acting in their place.

That brings me to the heart of this debate. The question is simply, though uncomfortably: whose death is it? For decades, medicine has placed patient autonomy at the centre, bounded by capacity, consent, clinical judgment and protection from coercion. We speak of choice, dignity and the individual’s right to determine what happens to their own bodies; we have built systems, laws, safeguards and languages all around that. Yet, at the moment when autonomy might matter most—the manner and timing of one’s own death— it is withdrawn. At that point where a patient is dying, we say, “Not here. Not you”. To my mind, that is not just a tension but an inconsistency that demands reflection, which is what I have been doing over the last few months.

I say with respect that much of what I have heard in this House has strongly focused on risk, even today, but risk is not unfamiliar territory in medicine. It is our daily working environment. We do not eliminate uncertainty; we manage it. We make complex decisions every day about treatment, capacity and withdrawal of care under conditions of imperfect knowledge, guided by safeguards, judgment and professional accountability.

Alongside this focus on risk, there has been a tendency, again as I have heard today, to imagine worst-case scenarios and to construct arguments at their point of failure rather than their point of function— the “what if?”—and to build in increasing complexity to cover every possible scenario that might come up to manage these hypothetical fears. We have even heard today about the 100 languages that are spoken. How do we manage learning disability? How do we manage people who are disabled? We do this every single day, a million times per day.

Even the Chief Medical Officer, Sir Chris Whitty, warned in his oral evidence that we are

“layering layer upon layer of complex bureaucracy on top of one another”,

and, in my mind, expecting the dying patient to jump through endless hoops, be that having to see their GP six times in six months, living at the same address for 12 months or having repeated assessments. We have heard powerful testimonies about relatives who have died. Can you imagine, at the moment of their death, asking them to do repeated serial sevens—that is, counting backwards from 100 in sevens—or to draw a clock face to assess capacity?

Let me take my own profession: general practice. Listening to some of the debates here, one might think that when a patient receives a terminal diagnosis general practice fades away—that we retreat or that care fragments. This is not my experience, nor that of many of my colleagues. When a patient enters their final phase of life, general practice leans in. We intensify care; we place patients on dedicated pathways; we ensure rapid access to benefits; and we maintain continuity with a named clinician, who is more likely than not a GP. We co-ordinate care with community teams, palliative care specialists and families and we ensure that we do our best to provide continuity in and out of hours. We organise ourselves around the patient. We do not move away. Instead, we gather more closely. Are there failures? Yes, of course—no system is without them—but end-of-life clinicians across disciplines try, often beyond expectation, as I have, to keep the patient at the centre and to get it right.