Dovie Eisner has died.
Dovie was a New Yorker whose last public writing act was to speak out against assisted suicide in a very personal practical way.
But the same weekend a piece he wrote was picked up by the New York Post’s print edition, he had a mishap with the contraptions — his ventilator, not for the first time — that helped keep him alive. He’s been in a coma since then — May 2025. He had been looking forward to being at the Becket Fund dinner later that week honoring Cardinal Dolan. He would have loved Dolan’s clever, convicting remarks. But knowing Dovie died last Friday made a whole lot make sense in my mind and heart: He must have been sticking with us until England’s Parliament rejected assisted suicide. His beloved New York was too suicidal to listen to his wisdom — his plea — but across the pond was smarter.
I think he would have been fascinated that he died on the 25th anniversary of September 11. He would have been still a child when it happened, but it happened in his city, of course. But history and politics — and religion — fascinated him.
Dovie was brilliant as his friendships with the likes of Princeton’s Robert P. George suggested. He seemed to collect intellectuals not just because of how smart he was, but because of his insatiable curiosity and goodness.
He also, as best I could tell, might have had insomnia, so he seemed to be available at all hours for conversation. Sometimes probing. Always interesting.
Late last night, his brother posted this to Facebook:
Hey, everyone. This is Moshe Eisner, Dovie’s brother.
Sadly, my brother Dovie passed away this past Friday, September 11th, after being in a coma since May of last year. I’m so sorry to have to break that news to you all.
At the very least, my family and I take comfort in knowing he is no longer suffering.
I’ve checked this page several times over the last few months, and I’ve appreciated seeing how many of you have been thinking of him. Despite over a year of not being able to speak with your friend Dovie, you’ve kept him alive in your hearts. That means a lot to me, and I know it would mean far more to my brother. . . .
Thank you all for what you meant to Dovie.
Here’s what I posted on social media:
Please pray for the repose of the soul of Dovie Eisner.
His brother has reported that he died on Friday, Sept. 11.
Please pray for the consolation of his family — especially his devoted parents who have been caring for him. He was in a coma since May 2025.
What a dear man.… pic.twitter.com/RPkKPPazqc— Kathryn Jean Lopez (@kathrynlopez) September 17, 2026
From the part you can’t see above:
What a dear man. Funny. Brilliant. Courageous. Humble. We miss him. We love him. Eternal rest, my friend. Thank you for all the suffering you endured for the salvation of souls.
I can’t emphasize enough the remarkable devotion of his parents. He came from a Jewish family, and their faith is something to be honored and revered. If you pray, I ask you to pray in a particular way for his mother and his father, one or both of whom seemed to always be at his hospital bedside all of these months. His father praying psalms by his side is the last memory I have of him. As much as I was hoping to see him at the next Becket dinner, I am grateful for his life and how he showed us love — in no small part by how he drew it out of us.
His May 2025 UnHerd piece was titled “New York’s euthanasia bill targets me.” And it was as honest as it gets:
Death with dignity is a real thing — many ancient cultures speak of it. In the Jewish religion in which I was raised, a good death is considered a kiss from God. Dying well is likewise an art in the Catholic faith I adopted as an adult. But a good, dignified death cannot come at the hands of doctors helping patients dispatch themselves. It cannot serve the cause of health insurers trying to save a buck. Still, any opponent of the legalization of physician-assisted suicide has to grapple with the fact that the demand for it is there for a reason. . . .
I don’t want to die, and God willing, I’ve got another couple of decades left, at the very least. Under the law as proposed, I wouldn’t be eligible, all things being equal. But all things aren’t always equal. Eighteen years ago, bedridden for a month after major back surgery, I wished more morphine than was necessary for pain relief had been available to me. Watching my late grandfather wasting away in his last six years in a hospital bed at around the same time, I could and still can empathize with those who favor medical aid in dying.
For others, such existential moments can tip into a yearning not to exist — to escape it all.
He went on to write about all the dangers of assisted suicide — and how it preys on vulnerable people, including people who, in other contexts, our best suicide-prevention programs would be talking off a ledge.
I link to another piece of his too, somewhat hesitantly, but because I believe he’d want me to. Hesitantly, because I revere the faith of his father and mother. In March before the accident, he wrote about his conversion to Christianity:
I began to go to an Episcopal church in Brooklyn that a close friend of mine had recommended to me. I’d visited churches before, to enjoy the music and community. But before 2019, becoming a parishioner, becoming a Christian, that was never going to happen.
Former Orthodox Jews don’t become Christians. That’s no knock on the People of the Book — Christ and the apostles were Jews, as were some great saints. But if a Jewish fellow today wants to be edgy, he becomes an atheist. If he wants to believe in something, he becomes a Buddhist. Christianity is, generally, off the cultural radar.
But who was I to say no? A vague belief in a higher power wasn’t the God I was beginning to know and love again in a new way. My time at the church, going to services every Sunday, started to burn faith into my soul like a cattle brand. After several months, I spoke with the rector, and we decided on an Easter baptism. Then, COVID-19 hit. . . .
I texted the pastor, and he agreed that on Sunday, March 22, 2020, I would be baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And so it was. At the appointed time, I wheeled into the small side chapel, and after an hour or so, came out a Christian. . . .
Two years later, I’d be confirmed as a Roman Catholic, and I’d truly be home. But that’s a story for another day.
I long for that story — I was looking forward to reading it. But instead I pray that he basks in the face of the same God, our Father, who united Dovie and his earthly father. And, again, I ask you to pray for his family, as we who were blessed to know him thank God for the gift that was Dovie’s presence in this world and our lives.
His brother also posted this:
If you’d like to do something in Dovie’s memory, please consider donating to Chai Lifeline. They’re an organization that has helped my family tremendously over the years, including Dovie, as well as countless other disabled people.
Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.