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On March 19, I served as a witness to the execution of a man named Aaron Gunches, Arizona’s first since 2022. During his time on death row, he begged for death and was ultimately granted what is likely more appropriately described as an emotionless state-assisted suicide. This experience has profoundly impacted me, leading to deep reflection on the nature of death, humanity, and the role we play in our final moments.
When someone is in the end stages of life, we talk about hospice care, comfort, care, easing suffering and humane death. We strive for a “good death” — a peaceful transition. I’ve seen good ones, and I’ve seen bad, unplanned ones.
But what happens when that transition is forced into stark, lonely isolation? Is there anything truly humane about dying alone? The answer, I believe, is a resounding no.
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We prioritize pain management and physical comfort, but we often neglect the profound, undeniable and universal need for human, emotional and spiritual connection. To die alone, separated from others by sterile glass, or a cold, impersonal screen, is an act of profound cruelty. Even for those who have reached a point where death feels like a release, the absence of human touch, of a familiar voice, of a loving spiritual presence, strips away the last glimpse of dignity in death.
“But protocols!” they say. “Safety!” they shout. Yet, the risk of a gentle hand held, a whispered word of comfort or permission to let go, pales in comparison to the soul-crushing certainty of a solitary end. The fear of infection or injustice, however valid, should never outweigh the fundamental human need for connection in our final moments.
Imagine the sterile room, the beeping machines, the cold, hard bed or gurney. Imagine the fading breaths, the growing fear, the desperate, unspoken plea for someone, anyone, to be there. And then, imagine the silence. The absolute, deafening silence of a room emptied of empathetic life, witnessed only by machines or perhaps a stranger or unseen observer.
We are more than just physical bodies. We are beings of spirit, of emotion, of connection. To deny that spiritual presence, to treat death as a purely clinically physiological event, is to diminish the very essence of what it means to be human. Simply knowing that a loved one’s spirit departed this earth when they were alone is like knowing something precious and irreplaceable was torn away. It is a wound that festers and never fully heals, akin to having your soul torn apart, leaving a hollow shell, like Voldemort.
How can we justify robbing people of their last moments of connection, of dignity, of peace? The answer, I fear, is that we cannot. And the darkness of that realization should haunt us all. This is cruel punishment. The kind of cruel punishment prohibited by the United States Constitution.
I don’t know what it’s like to die alone. I pray I never will. But someone very close to me once did. They died in a room, empty of anyone that truly cared for them, as they faded away. The protocols, the rules, the rigid adherence to organizational procedures, all conspired to keep us apart. I know, with a gut-wrenching certainty that it will haunt me forever, that they died alone. No hand to hold, no voice to soothe, no loving gaze to meet theirs. Just the cold, clinical silence. The image of their final moments, devoid of human warmth, is a scar etched onto my soul. It is a constant, agonizing reminder of the inhumanity we inflict when we prioritize rules over compassion. It is a testament to the fact that a “humane” death, without human presence, is a contradiction in terms.
This leads me to the chilling, inescapable shadow of the death penalty. How can we, as a society, justify the deliberate, state-sanctioned taking of a life, especially when we often impoverish the human experience of that final act? Through rules and protocols we ourselves have written, we have stripped away the condemned’s humanity, confined them to a solitary cell for the night(s) before their execution, and, at least in the State of Arizona, denied them of even one in-person visit in the 10 days leading up to their execution. We deny them the comfort of human touch, the solace of familiar voices.
We orchestrate the death with clinical precision in a stark, white room with only prison guards present. When the time comes to finish the act, like a play, we open black curtains for unseen witnesses behind glass to watch, forbidding them from being a mere six feet closer. When the time of death is announced, the curtain immediately closes.
The witnesses to this play sit behind the glass on backless benches so close together they can reach out and touch. They are a mixture of victims, media, state officials and their guests, and those requested by the person being executed. Surely their opinions, thoughts and emotions differ widely, and yet they are forced to be in the same room, unable to freely express themselves as they watch. It is just observation with an unspoken expectation of silence.
While it troubles me to say this, we have come a long way from the nooses and electric chairs of our past that sit on display in the Pinal County Historical Museum just a mile down the road from where Arizona prisoners are executed. By simply paying a bit more for a licensed and trained phlebotomist, we have surpassed our barbaric ways of poking and prodding our way to death, which sometimes led to an execution taking hours, instead of minutes.
This is to the credit of the current administration of the Arizona Department of Corrections, Rehabilitation, and Reentry. They have shown a true desire for transparency and a more human-centric model of running our prisons. For this I have a great deal of respect, and I will be forever grateful. The department’s director asked me, a self-proclaimed anti-death penalty individual, to bear witness to an execution — a step toward transparency through ensuring a diverse representation was present to witness the state’s most grave action.
It is clear that the state has worked to make this death quick and painless, regardless of how willing Aaron was to die. Arizona recently commissioned a report on death penalty procedures, and while it was scrapped before it could be completed, the fact that the study was conducted indicates that government officials continue to search for humane ways to die — and this in a country where we are still debating whether convicted criminals deserve a humane death. From witnessing this execution, it seemed to me that the definition of success under the new administration was for the death to be “swift and without complication.” In the press conference after the execution, state officials proclaimed that the execution went as planned — it was a success.
However, for those of us in the witness room, the time could not go quickly enough. I myself watched and counted as the 32 minutes went by so slowly. I saw pain in Aaron’s eyes. In his face I saw breathing that seemed as though it was not a natural way to pass. While this certainly seems more “humane” than the stories of past executions, why an individual who practically led the charge in his own execution could not simply take a pill (like those used in physician-assisted suicide/dying) is beyond comprehension.
After witnessing the execution. I left the prison complex in Florence and traveled to a place I have considered sacred and safe for decades, St. Anthony’s Greek Orthodox Monastery just south on Highway 79. I stood in the Chapel of St. Nicholas, catching my breath and allowing my heart to slow down.
Of all the things I had experienced that morning, nothing came to mind more than how alone Aaron looked during his final moments. I wondered what harm could come from allowing him to have a loved one sitting by his side, holding his hand, and telling him it’s okay to let go. I have done this, been next to people I loved in their dying moments and told them it’s okay. In doing so, I willingly gave them a piece of my heart. But through witnessing the isolation of Aaron’s death, a piece of my heart was ripped from me. I can physically feel it.
Regardless of the egregiousness of crimes committed, how can we think we possess the moral authority to extinguish a human life while it lays alone in cold silence? Can we be forgiven for doing so? Can we truly think it’s OK?
To die alone, separated from others by sterile glass, or a cold, impersonal screen, is an act of profound cruelty. Even for those who have reached a point where death feels like a release, the absence of human touch, of a familiar voice, of a loving spiritual presence, strips away the last glimpse of dignity in death.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, the isolation and loneliness of death were almost universally condemned. “The darkness of our societal choices,” some called it. But is the death penalty, with its procedural isolation and finality, really any different? Whether it’s a pandemic protocol or a state-sanctioned execution, the fundamental question remains: how can we claim to be a humane society when we so readily inflict the cruelty of isolation in our final acts? How can we justify robbing people of their last moments of connection, of dignity, of peace?
The answer, I fear, is that we cannot. And the darkness of that realization should haunt us all. This is cruel punishment. The kind of cruel punishment prohibited by the United States Constitution.
I am against the death penalty, and if it was on my ballot tomorrow, I would vote to end it. But the current reality is that the death penalty is legal. And, so, should we not demand that our state laws and procedures be as true as possible to the intentions of the Constitution? Should we not strive to improve our protocols around the death penalty? To reduce the cruelty of isolation and continue to search for ways to make it more swift and less painful?
I am a career civil servant. I have worked my entire life to improve government policies, procedures, and operations. I believe in the government’s ability to critically assess itself, learn from mistakes, and take action to improve fidelity to laws and better serve the public. As a witness, I feel obligated to ensure we continue to find a more humane way of execution, one with dignity and human connection.
Let us remember that we are not just bodies, but souls. Should we have the chance to be with someone in their final moments, the most humane act we can offer is simply our presence, one soul to another.
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(Except for the headline, this story has not been edited by PostX News and is published from a syndicated feed.)
