My patient ended her life at Dignitas to avoid a slow, undignified death

Some years ago, while working as a district nurse at a GP practice, one of the receptionists came to tell me she had just taken a phone call from the son of a patient to say he had returned from the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland. His mother, who had recently been diagnosed with a neurological condition that would kill her slowly, and with loss of dignity and independence, had taken her life there.

The reception staff were shocked. I was shocked. My team was shocked. I was dismayed that this lady, who I had known for a number of years, had to go to another country to receive the care she wanted and to die earlier than she should have.

The following day her GP asked me what Lily* had been up to over the past few days. You can tell from this perhaps that Lily was a lady who made demands on the surgery team. The GP was upset when I told her what had happened, and contacted Lily’s son.

I had known this lady for a number of years and looked after her husband when he returned from hospital after surgery. Lily would turn up at the surgery immaculately dressed and would not leave until she obtained what she thought would help him. I would sometimes receive a phone call from the surgery asking me to come back from my house calls to see her. I was not the only person at the surgery with whom she could be quite insistent. Yet even as she frustrated us all, I found it noble the way she fought for what she thought was best for her husband.

After he died I saw her only occasionally. A few years later her health deterioriated and I became involved in her care. Occasionally I found it frustrating when, in the middle of a clinic or housecall, I would be contacted to say Lily wanted to see or speak to me. Many a day on my way home I would have to call into her house to reassure her or deal with a problem.

After her diagnosis she was matter of fact as we discussed plans for her care and how to deal with her condition. She was living on her own and had no intention of “burdening” her children. Despite the fact that she could be difficult, I found her likeable with a very dry sense of humour and fun.

I found out later that before she died she had bought a new outfit to travel in, and been to a favourite view she and her husband used to visit and to a favourite restaurant.

The point of telling this story is that I gained great insight into the courage and tenacity it takes to go to Dignitas and that there should be a way of assisting someone who is of firm mind to take their own life in these circumstances. Perhaps if she had felt she would have had control of the situation in this country Lily would not have found it necessary to take her own life at all; certainly she would have had a longer life. I feel privileged to have known a very brave woman, even if she could drive me to distraction.

• Name has been changed

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My patient ended her life at Dignitas to avoid a slow, undignified death

Experience: my attempt to go 21 days without a whinge ended up taking six months | Michael Dawson

Sunday 24 July 8.43am. In the midst of the US presidential election, news breaks that WikiLeaks plans to release 20,000 hacked Democratic Party emails that will likely damage Hillary Clinton’s chances, and enhance Donald Trump’s. I read the relevant passage aloud to my wife, before adding my own searing commentary: “I would’ve thought Assange and Co would have the intelligence to realise …” I suddenly pause.

A ripple of panic pulses through me. Am I complaining?

Over the past five months that question is one that has developed the ability to paralyse me. Why? Because I’m in the throes of what has turned out to be an epic challenge. I am trying to go 21 days without complaining. A self-imposed abstinence from grumbling of any kind: no slander of public figures, no whining about the weather. Nothing.

It’s an exercise that I first heard of while listening to a podcast by Tim Ferriss, the productivity expert and quasi self-help guru. Ferriss in turn discovered it after it was popularised by a new age pastor from Kansas City by the name of Will Bowen. And while I identify neither as a member of the self-help set nor the god squad, I was instantly fascinated by the mission.

The rules are ostensibly simple: put an elastic band on one wrist. Every time you complain, switch it over to the other wrist. Repeat, until the band has remained on one wrist for three weeks.

The simplicity is compelling, but the moment you start it becomes awfully complex. It turns out that “Am I complaining?” can be a very hard question to answer, because what is a complaint? There’s obviously the dictionary definition: an expression of discontent about a person or state of affairs, something like that. But in practise it gets murky. Consider the following three phrases.

1. “It’s cold.”


2. “Damn it’s cold.”


3. “Damn this cold.”

I think we could all agree that (1) is probably not a complaint. Assuming the weather is actually cold, it’s just a statement of fact. And we could reach a similar consensus that (3) definitely is a complaint. But what about (2)? What about (1) said in a slightly whiny tone of voice? What if someone else says (3) and you agree with them?

Or how about this: “I would’ve thought Assange and Co would have the intelligence to realise that a Trump government will not be good for people like him.” Is that a complaint, a pointed observation, or merely the expression of a dashed expectation?

On that particular Sunday morning, I decide it is not a complaint. I turn the page and leave the worn-out hair elastic clinging to my left wrist.

Monday 25 July 11.19am. The following day I meet my wife for coffee. As we approach the cafe, I spot a former colleague waiting at the counter. Let’s call him Gary. I’m not a fan of Gary’s. I mean, I wish him no specific harm. He’s not a bad person – he just has an awful sense of humour. Dad jokes and cries of “Taxi!” when a glass breaks are the cornerstones of his comedic oeuvre. Now I’ll have to endure some of it and, worse, my sweet wife will be subjected to it. For a moment I forget myself. As I spot The Gazmeister I let out a big sigh and two words slither out after it: “This idiot.”

That sentence isn’t even a sentence. It doesn’t have a verb. But the moment I utter it, I know the truth. It’s a complaint. I change the elastic band over and brace myself for some punny pleasantries. It stings, because at that point I was into my fourth consecutive day without complaint. And in five long months of trying, the longest I have gone is six days.

Not complaining is really, really hard. Until you try to stop, you’ve no idea how often you do it. It’s not a question of whether you’re an inherently positive person or a negative one. Complaint is a pivotal part of all conversation – it can be used for good as well as evil. A lot of the time, we complain as a way to connect. A shared moan is a time-honoured technique for relating to a co-worker, fellow traveller or life partner. Who hasn’t felt the warm rush of catharsis that occurs when you discover that someone else hates that thing you hate? Bellyaching is bonding.

So it’s wrong to say that complaints are wholly negative. In fact, some can be extremely positive. In a certain light, you could even view the whole of human progress as the result of complaints. Complaints about slow horses, or polio. Complaints about apartheid, or gender inequality.

We need complaints, and we need negativity. But for me at least, this challenge is not about disputing that fact. Nor is it about worshipping at the altar of positivity. The reality is you can perform some verbal gymnastics that allow you to express negative sentiments without complaining. “This traffic sucks” can become “I would love it if this traffic would clear.”

But in order to do that you’ll need to pause and really think about your choice of words. This is where the challenge becomes fascinating, because you start to realise how little thought we give to what comes out of our gob. The words just tumble out, like goods being looted from a supermarket. By focusing the mind on complaints, you employ someone to work the checkout. And why is that of any benefit? Well, it becomes a sprawling and highly effective exercise in mindfulness.

Mindfulness, in case you missed it, is approaching the status of full-blown fad – pretty impressive for something that is a few millennia old. One description is that it’s the practice of being present in any given moment. If that smells a bit too much like smouldering sandalwood for your liking, try “being aware of what you’re doing and what’s happening around you”.

Buddhists long ago observed what they call the “monkey mind”, the idea that the mind is inherently a bit restless and fidgety. If you don’t give it a clear task, it will either keep a running commentary, or wander off on tangents. Your head becomes filled with an endless, meandering chatter – a din that has been blamed for everything from anxiety to insomnia. The solution, say the Buddhists, is to give the monkey a job. It could be watching your breath come and go (meditation), or it could be keeping a keen eye on what you’re doing (mindfulness).

The claimed benefits are as varied as they are numerous: improved focus, anger management, treatment of depression, lower blood pressure, stress relief, general wellbeing. It’s a laundry list of advantages that has seen mindfulness teachings adopted by everyone from captains of industry to captains of football teams. All sorts are trying to experience the benefits of silencing their simian. There are countless ways to do it, but I’ve found one of the best ways to shut him up is to have him monitor your moaning.

27 July. Mid-morning a colleague and I travel to a meeting in his 2006 Toyota, a vehicle he calls Sonia Kluger, after the Australian media personality. I ask him how he feels now that his people mover has become associated with calls to ban Muslim immigration. He says there’s not much he can do about it. But our conversation has taken a turn, and we make some very pointed observations about Isis and the state of the world. I come dangerously close to complaining, but stop just short.

It’s not until later that evening that things fall apart. Over dinner a family member tells us she’s recently discovered that her former boss underpaid her entitlements. The business is no longer trading, so she’s unlikely to see the money owed. I simply can’t participate in the conversation without making negative comments about the person in question. It occurs to me that if I have any chance of making it to 21 days, I’ll need to recognise these situations immediately, and turn mute.

It’s that recognition that is the hard part though. That’s what makes it so different from other abstinences. When someone breaks their commitment to Dry July, they do so consciously. I’d imagine very few people get halfway through a beer and suddenly remember that they’re meant to be off the sauce. But that is exactly how it is with complaints. By the time you realise a gripe is in the vicinity, it’s usually too late.

5 August. Seven days and counting, a new record. I call the bank about two errors it has made, and manage to correct both without complaining. Instead, I simply state that I “can’t understand” why these things occurred when I was led to believe they would not occur. Sure I sound like a robot, but who cares? I’ve completed a task with a high degree of difficulty. If not complaining were figure skating, the bank call would be equivalent to a triple axel. I might not have shown much grace through the air, but I stuck the landing.

12 August. It’s at this point that I could veer off on a tangent about the general level of whingeing in the world. I could note that social media has amplified gripes about everything from overpriced avocados to sluggish Wi-Fi. I could write about how millennials are profuse whingers, surpassed only by non-millennials when you get them on to the topic of those wretched millennials. I could do all that, but I won’t. That would be a meta-whinge, and I’m 14 days without complaint. I’m into the home stretch and I’m not about to slip up now.

19 August. I took on whining, and I won. Were there some 50/50 calls that went in my favour? You bet there were. But when it’s all said (or weirdly bottled up) and done, I achieved my objective. Thrust into all manner of less-than-stellar scenarios, I summoned the strength to stifle my disapproval. I came, I saw, I concurred. Not only that, I did it at a time when the Pokémon GO frenzy was at its peak.

So how do I feel? Well, unsurprisingly, there’s not some powerful benefit that is unlocked on the 21st day. Rather there is an accumulation. I definitely think my focus has improved, along with general calmness. But perhaps the most noticeable benefit is a greater sense of control. You might think your level of control is just fine as it is – I certainly did – but it can be much better. If you try to stop complaining you’ll see what I mean.

Turning off autopilot is hard to do, and you’ll find those muscles that steer the plane have atrophied. But if you pump them up for a few weeks, the flight becomes more interesting and engaging.

How do I feel? Can’t complain.

Experience: my attempt to go 21 days without a whinge ended up taking six months | Michael Dawson

Male circumcision: the issue that ended my marriage

I was in my kitchen getting my children ready for the school run when my phone pinged. I glanced at my friend’s message: “Maybe of interest…!” I paused on seeing the news report she’d sent – a High Court ruling against a Muslim father’s wish that his two young sons be circumcised. The children in the case were to decide for themselves when they were old enough to do so. I felt stunned. Like the mother in the case, I’m from the UK, with a background in which male circumcision is no longer routine. Like the father, my ex-partner is Muslim and wished to have our sons circumcised according to his cultural and religious beliefs. The boys in the High Court case were a similar age to our sons, too – mine are now seven and five. The court’s decision felt extremely close to home.

I took the children to school. On returning home, I sat down to re-read the all-too-brief news report. I cried tears of sadness, relief and remaining fears. While our family has managed to avoid taking our conflict over circumcision to court, the issue has been a major factor in the break-up of our marriage. It also remains alive for us as we negotiate the upbringing of our children. It is something I never imagined would affect me – I’m not Jewish or Muslim and think most parents in the UK don’t for a moment consider circumcising their sons. When you know it is not medically necessary, that it is painful and that there is no other reason to, why would you?

The idea of being cut had stuck in my son’s mind

I was living in Istanbul when my husband and I learned I was pregnant with a boy. I had already become aware of male circumcision being routine in Turkey, grounded both in religious tradition and the widespread belief that it is more hygienic and protects against sexually transmitted diseases. And I knew that my husband believed circumcision to be healthy and the “right thing to do”. On holiday back in the UK and in conversation with my husband, he was adamant our son should be circumcised. I disagreed, arguing it would hurt our child. I asked whether washing was not better than cutting off part of the body to be clean and whether it could be dangerous to believe oneself safer from STDs. As the argument became more polarised, I played for time. I knew my husband to be open-minded, and while his religious belief was strong, he did not follow all the basic Islamic prescripts. I believed he would rethink, and I wanted to trust that both of our opinions and the rights of our child would be important in the decision. I wanted our family to stay intact, as well as my son’s body. We finally agreed on a compromise that our son would, at an age when he could be aware of all the issues, decide for himself.

For my husband this was a compromise of timing on one level – sünnet is usually performed at around six or seven years of age in Turkey. It was also about him losing the role to choose this for his son, and in consequence facing the reactions of his immediate and extended family, his home community, work colleagues and many of his friends. We shared with each other our mutual thought that no one would be likely to freely decide to be circumcised. But he insisted he was glad about our decision. Respecting my husband’s beliefs and intention – that he wanted what was best for our son – meant a huge compromise for me because in the future I would have to discuss circumcision as an option with our son. But I believed that in this compromise our child had at least been given his right to choose.

Our lives continued. Work dominated my husband’s waking hours, as our son’s needs filled mine, and our home was close to his work to make our lives together more practical. During his breaks from work, we would meet and walk around the centre of Istanbul. We learned each other’s languages, met friends, tried out street foods and local cafés. The old city is beautiful, containing the vast structures of the sixth-century Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque and Topkapi Palace. It has the open space and green parks lacking in many other areas of the sprawling yet condensed and concreted megacity.

Under the knife: a boy being circumcised in Istanbul. Photograph: Bradley Secker

One day we were walking by the seafront of the Bosphorus, with the edge of Asia and the Princes Islands in sight over the bright blue water. Holding our son’s hands to support him as he began standing on his feet, my husband brought up the topic of circumcision, and his eyes flashed in anger. He claimed my stand against it was because I was dissatisfied with him. I wanted to keep the decision about our son separate, not argue in front of our child, and not complicate the issue. I said it was a decision about our son’s body, health and autonomy, not his. As our argument over the possible effects of the operation deepened, he finally thrust our son into my arms saying: “There. Go. Take your baby.”

My head was spinning. I thought about leaving for the UK. I could pick up our passports and take a plane and be out of the situation for good. I didn’t want the fighting or the insecurities, but I also didn’t want to leave so suddenly in such a sad way. I wanted to believe that, in time, our relationship could heal. Again, the difficulty of the moment seemed to pass. I visited family and friends in the UK a few months later, taking our son for his first birthday. I returned to Turkey and not long after became pregnant with our second son.

In the sweltering heat of Istanbul, our son would often toddle naked around our home. I overheard my husband joking with him one day about his future circumcision. “Let’s cut it, won’t that be fun!” Disturbed, and seeing our son disturbed, too, I immediately objected. I also realised children must be psychologically prepared by their adult carers to undergo circumcision. I would often see sünnet celebration parties on the streets of Istanbul. Boys may be nervous, but they also become objects of pride. They are fêted by their families, dressed up in shiny white, fur-trimmed costumes and given gifts of money and gold. Circumcision is seen as a rite of passage towards becoming a man.

Through tears my husband said how important it was

Attempting to prepare our son for circumcision felt like a betrayal of our compromise that our son would be free to choose for himself. When he started to wake up crying, talking of nightmares of being cut, I objected more strongly to any discussion of the matter until he was older. I told my husband of our son’s nightmares and obvious confusion and fear. I sought to reassure my child that no one would hurt him, that his baba had only been joking and would stop.

The idea of being cut, however, had stuck in my son’s mind. He asked questions and my husband wanted to answer. When my husband asked me to research male circumcision to understand the benefits, I agreed. At one level, wishing the tensions within our family might be resolved, I was open to finding out whether the claims of benefits might be true. But turning to the internet, what I found was an overwhelming amount of information supporting remaining intact.

That was when I knew I had to try to persuade him we couldn’t circumcise our son. I began by bringing up the most obvious negative argument of resulting harm. My husband maintained it was far safer in medical clinics than the rural homestead in which he had been circumcised. (I had seen a sepia-faded photograph, a large crowd of men surrounding him on what looked like a hot and dusty day to witness his circumcision as a young child.) I suggested he read a Muslim site which contained some of the most extensive and detailed medical research I had found together with Islamic religious argument against circumcision. He flatly refused. After some time, I tried to share more of the information I’d found. But I felt I was talking to a wall – he simply did not want to discuss it further. And circumcision, he said, was going to happen.

Our marriage suffered increasingly and circumcision seemed to have cracked its foundations. I told my husband that I wanted us to move as a family to the UK, believing we could all be happier there. I wanted our sons to start school there, and my father was in growing need of home care. The nearing threat of circumcision had become a pushing factor, too, though one I felt I could no longer safely voice.

It was late summer 2011. We had been walking through the Egyptian bazaar and had picked up some spiced salad wraps to eat in Gülhane Park. Our eldest son was sleeping in his pushchair, while I carried my youngest, just a couple of months old, in a sling. We were discussing a trip to my husband’s village to visit his family. Through rarely seen tears he began to explain how important circumcision was, that it was about belonging, and that, in effect, if his sons were not circumcised, they simply would not be his. I replied there was so much more to being a father that created a sense of belonging. And that in a way he was right – our children’s bodies and lives were not “his” to make such a decision over.

I was disturbed by his emotions and the extremity of his statement, recalling the time he told me to take the baby and go. I refused to accept responsibility for his feelings about whether he felt his children were his or not. It seemed his family’s views and his social status in connection with them were more important than our relationship or our children.

It sounds perhaps obvious that I should have left earlier. On the other hand many people, I know, would think I should have stayed and consented to my sons’ circumcision for the sake of my marriage, the vows I took, social harmony, community and family belonging. But I never agreed to it, and never expressed a wish to become Muslim. Even if I had, I would argue that I had the right to change my mind, and that Islam has space for pro-intact arguments on health and religious grounds. I wanted to create a good relationship with my husband, I wanted our children to have both of us bringing them up. But with each argument and the intensity of them stacking up, together with refusal on his part to read the evidence against circumcision and for staying intact, I found it increasingly impossible to trust him. I began to worry he might just take them and have the operation done. I had to balance my growing fears with a mix of reasoning that he hadn’t yet done this, he wouldn’t want to damage our relationship further, that he would want the ceremony around the occasion were it to happen, that it was too early, that I did 99.9% of the physical caring for our children, that there was little practical opportunity for him to take them.

The aftermath: a check-up before the party starts. Photograph: Bradley Secker

Our lives grew more separate on an everyday basis. He stayed overnight at work, and we met to do food shopping, or I would take the children to meet him for breakfast or lunch. I had my date set for leaving Turkey for the UK and was open about keeping to it. We arranged a visa to the UK for my husband. I hoped he might join us after we had settled there – once he had visited a few times and could see opportunity for work or creating a business. In private, I counted down the days, growing desperate to leave and be safely back home.

In the end, my husband remained in Istanbul. We’ve since separated and though we work to keep our relationship positive for our sons’ sake it has been hard to do.

I began to fear I might not see my boys again

As soon as we were in the UK, my husband tried repeatedly and angrily to persuade me to visit. Without him expressing a wish to join us to live in the UK and with his angry outbursts over circumcision, I saw this as threatening. I needed to retreat from direct contact and continued to let the children talk with him on Skype, supervising from a distance. He visited and, as it became more difficult, with his demands that I take them to Istanbul or put them on a plane or take them to London so that he could take them, I made it clear this would not happen until they were older. It wasn’t only about circumcision by that point, though that was enough reason. I also began to fear that were they to go to Turkey I might never see them again.

The mirror situation was not lost on me – it is difficult and expensive for many Turks to travel to the UK and his family is large. They are missing seeing our sons grow up.

Time passed and anger again cooled. Now my sons’ father visits the UK two to three times a year to spend time with them. In between visits they talk and laugh on Skype, exchange voice, emoticon and text messages. We each value their happiness and wellbeing, and want them to grow aware of their Turkish heritage and family. But I do not feel free to build trust on behalf of my children that they would not be circumcised given some opportunity for it to be done, in the UK or elsewhere.

In Turkey, I would not have a legal say either way. Over the phone, I also explained I felt unsafe going to Istanbul, where my consent or presence was not required for our sons to be circumcised. He said “of course mothers attend the operation and you would be there”. As much as I could not accept it would happen, he still seemed to think it unimaginable it would not, that I simply needed reassuring that I would be there to care for my children. My husband agreed to read some of the research on circumcision that explained its negative impacts and why staying intact was healthier. He re-agreed on our original compromise, saying he did not want to hurt us. But trust is hard and slow to rebuild.

The High Court ruling, upholding the rights of two children to choose upon maturity, and the rights of both parents to be heard, offers some reassurance. It also throws up a lot of questions. Were the dissenting parent also Muslim it is not at all clear which way the law would fall. The UK also allows pretty much anyone to circumcise boys pretty much anywhere – it’s almost completely unregulated despite well-known medical risks. How could the law be effective in preventing someone determined to have their child circumcised? And how can I ever feel that my sons will be safe?

Male circumcision: the issue that ended my marriage

I can"t adapt to modern day instances, explained instructor who ended lifestyle at Dignitas

She told doctors at the Swiss clinic that “my lack of strength and power and declining well being is a lifestyle with no enviable future” and said she feared her existence “full of adventures and remarkable independence” would end in a nursing house.

Anne explained that she had turn out to be annoyed with the trappings of modern existence, like fast meals, consumerism and the sum of time individuals commit viewing television.

Just before her death final month she told The Sunday Instances: “People are getting to be more and a lot more remote  … We are turning out to be robots. It is this lack of humanity.”

She additional: “I find myself swimming against the existing, and you can not do that. If you can’t join them, get off.”

She described the modern day age as “cutting corners” and said she could not adapt to it, as she felt all the standard ways of undertaking items had disappeared. “They say ‘adapt or die’,” she explained, days prior to taking a lethal dose of barbiturates. “At my age, I truly feel that I can’t adapt, due to the fact the new age is not an age that I grew up to recognize.

“I see everything as cutting corners. All the outdated-fashioned ways of doing items have gone.”

She was accompanied to the Zurich clinic by her niece Linda, 54, who was by her side when she died. Her niece mentioned: “Unless you die in your rest, beside the person you really like, or in their arms, I can’t believe of a greater death.”

She said both she and her aunt supported calls to make assisted suicide legal in Britain.

Assisted suicide is illegal in the Uk, but the Crown Prosecution Service has repeatedly ruled that it would not be in the public interest to prosecute personal situations, and about 200 Britons have ended their lives at Dignitas considering that it was founded in 1998.

The Government has agreed to a cost-free vote in Parliament on regardless of whether to alter the law. The Assisted Dying Bill, put forward by Lord Falconer, the former lord chancellor, proposes shifting legislation so that two medical doctors could prescribe a lethal dose of drugs to someone who has fewer than six months to reside.

This would not have utilized in the case of Anne, but has reignited the debate about assisted dying.

Dr Peter Saunders, of the Christian Health-related Fellowship, explained that the case raised worries that any this kind of law could finish up getting extended, so that it did not just cover the terminally unwell.

He mentioned: “Desperate individuals will push the boundaries, and as a outcome legal protection for vulnerable folks will be weakened.”

Michael Irwin, a retired medical doctor who helped Anne with her application to Dignitas, stated that her major regret was that she had to travel abroad to end her existence.

I can"t adapt to modern day instances, explained instructor who ended lifestyle at Dignitas

How One City Ended Continual Veteran Homelessness

Final month Phoenix completed some thing no community has ever carried out before: it brought the amount of chronically homeless veterans down to zero.

The city’s work was the topic of a White Property blog post and is featured these days in The New York Times.

The accomplishment, according to the Times, is the end result of an strategy recognized as Housing Initial. This evidence-primarily based practice focuses on supplying steady housing to the homeless not as a reward for recovery from addiction, for example, but as basic commencing point. Then further solutions are provided to address the variables that drive persistent homelessness, such as psychological or physical illness.

Related Story: VA Awards $ 60 Million To Aid Homeless Vets

In Phoenix, the place rents are more reasonably priced and there is a lot more area to create, placing veterans in housing or constructing new developments is an less difficult process than in a denser cities.

In 2011, in accordance to the Times, there were 222 chronically homeless veterans in Phoenix, “a vulnerable, difficult-to-reach population of primarily middle-age males, nearly all battling some kind of physical or mental ailment along with substance abuse.” Now people veterans are living in temporary or long term housing.

It is a victory for a system coordinated by the Departments of Housing and Urban Growth and Veterans Affairs, which aims to finish veteran homelessness by 2015. Since 2010, the Times notes, far more than $ 900 million housing vouchers have been awarded to veterans.

Lest this look like a short-term victory, the Instances factors out that 94 percent of veterans surveyed in the city remained in everlasting housing soon after one 12 months compared to a nationwide average of 85 %.

That’s a excellent signal, and perhaps it implies that cities are presently adapting lessons realized in Phoenix.

In the meantime, the city’s efforts seem to be to be creating a huge variation in the lives of veterans. “If I had to do this on my own,” mentioned a single veteran, “I’d never ever have created it here.”

Foremost the Subsequent Industrial Revolution | March 26-28, 2014 | J.W. Marriott | Chicago, Illinois

Forbes will be hosting a Reinventing America Summit March 26-28, 2014, which will carry together 300 prime industrial executives, entrepreneurs, academics and elected officials who are major the country’s next Industrial Revolution.

Please join us (more data is right here).

How One City Ended Continual Veteran Homelessness