Assisted suicide for jumpers.

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Life Ends Six Meters Above The Ground

Meet Sascha Vongehr: scientist, philosopher, physicist, mathematician, a nano-quantum-blackhole-obsessive-compulsive thinker.  His credentials speak highly of, for, about him; an impressive list of kudos suggesting a profound ken and a dense intensely convoluted brain mass, maybe too dense, too convoluted.

Sascha harnessed his power of perception and calculation to prove this: when jumpers commit suicide they’re in luck, no pain felt, they officially go dead 6-meters above ground before impact. Good news, right? Sascha  got the math to back it up.

 Sascha comforts jumpers-to-be on their way to the edge:

 “The greatest hurdle before committing suicide is the fear of dying and death as well as the fear of hurting people we care about. In order to assist suicide, Suicidal Philosophy alleviates these fears rather than stoking them like traditional Philosophy of Suicide does. Suicidal Philosophy is much more science than philosophy, as the following outtake of a long article aimed at helping people in distress exemplifies. It explains why it is that if you jump out of a 20 story building, your life already ends peacefully more than six meters before impact with the ground.”

Sascha addresses the supposed misgivings a potential jumper might have about jumping — fear, death, pain. His intent, a rational, gentle push over the edge, an assisted suicide by premise, coaxing her or him closer to the edge …“ your life already ends peacefully more than six meters before impact with the ground.”    

To further alleviate any misgivings a jumper might harbor Sascha cites: “The fear of dying involves fearing pain and plainly fearing fear. Anybody who has ever endured a panic attack or so called horror trip will fear this ‘fear of fear’.” Alleviate the fear of fear and you’re that much closer to the edge.

To begin with: 1. Fear of fear is a misnomer. When I felt a sudden rush of blood to my face and head after over indulging on the fleshy steak-like chunks of the delicious shelf fungus ‘Chicken of the Woods’ I had a panic attack — not because of my fear of fear — I thought I poisoned myself. “Fear of” is about fear of something causing fear. 2. Jumpers don’t have a fear issue.

Fear is not part of the equation, especially with jumpers. 

Those who choose jumping from heights to end their life aren’t about to consult Wikipedia on the Philosophy of suicide. Jumpers know no fear. They could care less about Sascha’s 6-meter cushion or his Suicidal Philosophy. All they’re interested in is ease, speed and the certainty of death.

Refer to the following selection from the NY Times:

What makes looking at jumping suicides potentially instructive is that it is a method associated with a very high degree of impulsivity, and its victims often display few of the classic warning signs associated with suicidal behavior. In fact, jumpers have a lower history of prior suicide attempts, diagnosed mental illness (with the exception of schizophrenia) or drug and alcohol abuse than is found among those who die by less lethal methods, like taking pills or poison. Instead, many who choose this method seem to be drawn by a set of environmental cues that, together, offer three crucial ingredients: ease, speed and the certainty of death.

The Urge to End It All  ·  By Scott Anderson
Published: July 6, 2008 NYT

Six meters above ground is moot.  Either way, at 6-meters or at “thud” the jumper will experience an immediate drop in transmission  — no pain to the brain — brain death — a no brainer. Thanks anyway Sascha, those jumpers out there just don’t need the assist. But I have to admit, 6-meters is in some uncomfortable way comforting to know.

 Here’s Sascha’s reasoning & “the math.”

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A signal travels about 20 milliseconds (ms = a thousands of one second) from a receptor to the brain. If the nerve wiring is used to pre-process data, like this occurs in the eye’s retina for example, the time goes up to 50 to 100 ms. Hardwired reflexes or trained responses like fast table tennis returns can be unconsciously dealt with in 200 to 300 ms. Taking into account how slow nerves transmit and how much calculation is involved to complete high level functions like conscious thought, a delay of 500 ms is an unexpectedly short and entirely necessary holdup.

 Nevertheless, it is long enough to be of some comfort to anyone committing suicide by jumping from an elevated structure. Selecting a 20th floor of a building ensures at least 60 meters height – a safe estimate employing only 3 meters per floor although office buildings have mostly around 3.5 meters per story. Falling down a height of sixty meters onto the deserted asphalt below gives one’s body a velocity of about 34 meters per second after 3.5 seconds [one hits the ground with v = (2 *60 m * 9.8 m/s2)1/2].

 Falls from a mere ten meters onto unyielding ground have already often deadly consequences, but 34 m/s, that are 76.2 mph or 122.4 km/h, are enough to immediately switch off and destroy one’s brain regardless of the body’s orientation at impact.

 Assume a cautiously conservative estimate employing a neural delay of only dt = 200 ms. Approaching the ground to about six meters above of it, then having a velocity of 32 m/s, one falls more than six meters (32 m/s * 0.2 s) during the time dt between the eyes receiving the light and the occurrence of the neural correlates of consciousness (NCC) [6] of the seen situation.

 Resultantly, the conscious perception is that of a fast approaching ground, but this movie stops playing when the ground is still more than six meters away! One does never even come close to experiencing the impact, let alone having any pain because of it.

For the complete post click here.

 Cosmic and planetary suicide

Sascha is a member of an organization called the lifeboat foundation / safeguarding humanity, where he and others take on cosmic and planetary suicide, existential risks and snafus, among other endeavors. They’re a heady group, a likely place for the likes of Sascha. I recommend a look-see. Membership is huge, members brainy with lofty existential concepts.

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Sascha Vongehr

Below is Sascha’s Curricula Vitae / Resume. It’s impressive. 12-point type doesn’t do it justice. I was compelled to feature it in headline text where I, you can take it in, enjoy big blocks at a time.

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Serial killer dream

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Several years later the dream divulged my crime. With the same hazy figure floating behind me I had this awful epiphany. I committed the worst, the unforgivable and immutable. I killed someone. Who? Never saw the victim. Never knew in what manner I killed but there was no escaping the verdict of murderer and the fear, anxiety and guilt experienced in the dream and upon awaking. Judgment day will come. I will pay the price. Murderer.

About the 11th year the dream offered up a self-synopsis of the killing. It occurred to me within the dream that my crime was a familiar one, a crime of killing that I had committed in the past, had repeated again and again and will repeat in the future. The dream expressed a history of its self; included its passage of time, predicted its future and reflected its status quo. I will spend eternity as a serial killer dreamer in limbo, never apprehended except by my own guilt. I will go on killing ad infinitum until I go numb with guilt.

Time came when my serial-killer dream surfaced not during sleep but mid-day when I was overwhelmed with grief, during my daughter’s funeral service, it leaped out of the blue, slapped me breathless, the blood in my veins came to a halt. I knew then I would never have the serial-killer dream again. I got the message. I understood, finally, but way-way too late. I was too late, too late to intervene, too late to find the courage, strength, will to extract myself from myself, to be there for Robin, my daughter, the shadowy figure besides me, the victim in the dream. No more serial killer dreams. The victim was laid to rest.  I blew it big time.  Judgment time now holds its enduring prosecution. The future holds no daughter. No more serial killer dreams.

Robin Blume, 21 years old, on Jan 31, 1988, at 1 o’clock in the morning got out of bed, walked downstairs to the back door, walked across the yard to the garage adjoining the alley, entered the garage and meticulously covered the garage windows with duct tape so no light could escape to the outside.  With the garage lights turned on she meticulously taped every single breathing opening to the outside. She taped along the interface where the bottom of the garage door sits on the cement floor. The back door to the entrance to the yard she taped as well. Sitting in the front seat of the car she placed along side her a favorite doll from her childhood, Lou Lou, a letter addressed to her family and a letter to Randy her brother. She had with her 2 cassettes, one Pink Floyd and one Roxy Music. No note for dad.

You’d think Robin’s psychiatrist, Dr. Kreche would have alerted Robin’s mother and stepfather to the tell-tail signs of a child prepping for suicide.  Gail, her mothers berates herself for not picking up on those signs which seemed so obvious in hindsight: Robin began giving away stuff, to her friends her jewelry and books, to Randy her stuffed animals.  The  week before she took her life she joined her family for dinner every night, not like her, she usually ate in her room behind closed door. She was attentive with everyone, even talkative, not her usual behavior. Gail and Bob thought that her appointment at Mayo Clinic might be responsible for her mood change.

I met with Dr. Kreche 3 months after Robin’s death, my question to him was after 3 years of treating Robin why hadn’t he had some indication that Robin was suicidal. I’m sure they had to discuss it. How did it get by him? Why hadn’t he cued the family in on what indicators of suicidal behavior to be on the alert for? I don’t recall his answers. He was stunned by her suicide, never expected it.  A year later he left Chicago for California, the reason he uprooted his abode and practice rumor said was because of his failure to intervene.

Talk about failure to intervene. What about my colossal failure as a parent? How many nails did I drive into her coffin?  More than one given I was and wasn’t a father from the day she was born.

Would it have made a difference if I understood the dream’s message early on, when Robin was 2 or 3 years old — when I really could have made a difference? Would she still be alive today? Would I have heeded the dream’s message? I’m not sure, don’t think so, I’d need backup, firm guidance, a lobotomy, my parental skills sucked, my priorities loveless.

“The essence of being human is being connected with other humans and the schisms we have setup have kept us from realizing that vision when awake, a vision that has never been lost while we are asleep.  Dreams never give up on us. They are with us every night urging us to face issues that restrict and discourage us, that limit our inventiveness. They remind us of the responsibility we all have to free up our emotional life. They are in their way, our personal spokesmen for a saner living.”   Dr. Montague Ullman

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I will always come back to life.

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Dec 2 1941: most every Jew from Brno Czechoslovakia including Franta Bass and family were deported to the Terrizen ghetto; called by the Germans Theresienstad. The Jews shouldered as much of their material life as they could carry, packed it in sacks, luggage, pockets; most of their life left behind for the blue-eyed vultures to pick over.

The Franta Bass family had no idea what was in store for them; they were forced to live in a German Nazi sponsored ghetto. The concept of a ghetto is historically understood by Jews: “What could be that bad, it’s only a ghetto.”

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That same day, December 2, 1941, on the transport arrival to Theresienstadt along with the Bass family and other Jews was Jacob Edelstein, appointed by Otto Adolf Eichmann, SS-Obersturmbannführer (lieutenant colonel), to chairperson the Council of Jewish Elders, responsible for the “self-administration” of the Theresienstadt ghetto-camp. Edelstein along with fellow appointees dealt with municipal services, housing, water, sanitation and policing.  They also saw to educational activities, cultural events and religious celebrations. This all feels and looks like a Ghetto. “What could be so awful?”

This: Council of Elders had to ration a meager food supply to those who could work, leaving the elderly and disabled more vulnerable to disease and starvation. (The Nazis had to build an unplanned for crematorium on the grounds of Theresienstadt to dispose of those who died from starvation and disease, 200 a day.)

“What could be so awful?” This: the Council Members had to choose who would be deported to the gas chambers or labor camps and who would remain — who might live and who might die. Not a great job, not easy to live with, a no win situation.  None of the council survived. If they did, in the days to come, living with oneself could be a chore.

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The Council of Elders allotted several large houses to accommodate children. Attention was given to the welfare and education of the children. The idea was to keep the children separate from the adults to reduce their vulnerability to depression and despair. Overall the children were housed and fed better than the adults.

The children learn from some of the most sophisticated teachers in German-speaking Central Europe, who were among the prominent Jews to arrive in Theresienstadt. That was one of the defining features of the Theresienstad ghetto-camp; the best artist, musicians, composers, authors, thinkers were in the mix.

All that special attention given the children. And look what Theresienstad ends up with. Out of 15,000 children who spent time at Theresienstad 100 survived. Still, in no way in vain; see and hear what the children gave to themselves and what they left to us: “Children’s Exhibit” at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. Collection of the children’s art and poetry from Terezin in the book titled “I never saw another butterfly.”

Franta Bass under the guidance of teacher found an outlet for coping with the awful, frightful, depressing conditions he lived with day-to-day by writing poetry. His poetry gave him the courage to face his imminent death. It gives me, us, us Jews the will, strength, determination, focus to string-up evil by its throat, strangle it, look it in the eye and say, “Never, never again, in the name of Franta Bass and his poetry, never again.”

As Franta wrote in his poem, “I am a Jew.” … “I will always come back to life.”

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