DEATH

An exile in London, by 1939 Freud was gravely ill. The ulcerated wound in his mouth smelled so fetid that his beloved chow Jo-Fi would cringe from him and refuse to come near its master. Tortured by constant pain, exhausted, and barely able to eat, Freud suffered greatly in these last days. The nights were especially hard, and ever needing to remain in control, he refused sedation. But he could still read. How fitting that his last book would be a metaphor for his shrinking time and his withering skin - Balzac’s mysterious tale of the magical shrinking skin, La Peau de Chagrin. Freud spent the last days in his study downstairs looking out at the garden.
On September 21, Freud could endure no more. As Max Schur, Freud’s personal physician from 1928 to 1939, sat by his bedside, Freud took his hand and said to him, “Schur, you remember our ‘contract’ not to leave me in the lurch when the time had come. Now it is nothing but torture and makes no sense.” Holding Freud’s hand, Schur nodded. Freud sighed with relief and, holding Schur’s hand, said, “I thank you.” He hesitated slightly, then added, “Talk it over with Anna, and if she thinks it’s right, then make an end of it.” His daughter, Anna, wanted to wait, but Schur convinced her that it was time.
On September 21, Schur injected Freud with enough morphine for Freud to sink into a peaceful sleep. The next day, he administered the final injection. Freud lapsed into a coma and died at three in the morning, September 23, 1939, weeks after the onset of World War II.

(c) Heller, S. (2005) "Freud: A to Z", Wiley & Sons, pp. 66-67