Be me: a boyfriend who’s going blind, a mother with Huntington’s disease, and a friend with severe depression.

I’m going to try to keep this as concise as I can, but these three stories have become so intertwined that they’ve started to consume me.
My childhood friend and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We went to school together and stayed in touch over the years. In 2019, when his depression was at its worst, I tried to help him get professional treatment. I paid for his first three months of therapy, hoping his father would help him continue after that. I even spoke to his father myself.
It didn’t work.
His dad is a decent man, but he doesn’t believe his son has a mental illness. He sees his social isolation and inability to connect with people as nothing more than his personality.
Life eventually pulled us in different directions, and, as my friend once told me, his “loneliness became unbearable.”
We’ve recently gotten close again, and from everything he’s shared with me, this will most likely be his last year alive. He already has everything planned. I won’t go into the details.
Two years ago, I finally understood what love actually feels like.
For the first time in my life, I found someone I could trust with my happiness, my fears, my admiration, my anxiety—someone who made me feel safe enough to be vulnerable without ever making me feel weak for it.
Before him, I spent almost 30 years single because I genuinely believed I was “waiting for the right person.” Looking back, it was worth it. I finally feel at peace with both my heart and my values.
The man I fell in love with is beautiful, kind, and incredibly strong.
When he was 35, a neurological disease changed his life forever. In his case, it primarily attacked his optic nerve.
When we met, at age 43, he still had about 25% of the central vision in his left eye.
Two years later, that’s down to around 10%.
Complete blindness isn’t a possibility anymore—it’s just a matter of time.
My mother left her hometown for a big metropolis two years before I was born, together with my father and my older sister. She left behind her family, her friends, and everything she knew because there simply wasn’t a future for them there.
Because of that, my sister and I grew up in a favela, with very limited access to healthcare and almost no relationship with our extended family.
About ten years ago, my mother went back to her hometown to visit her father, her siblings, and the rest of the family. It was also the first time my sister and I really got to know them.
One of my uncles immediately caught my attention.
He walked like he was drunk, his speech was slurred, and he had constant involuntary movements.
Everyone said alcohol had done that to him.
Three years ago, while studying psychology, I heard a clinical case during supervision involving a patient with those exact same symptoms.
That’s when I first learned about Huntington’s disease.
From that moment on, my mother’s health became my biggest concern.
So here’s the part that’s been tearing me apart.
All three of these people have told me they want to end their own lives.
And all three have asked me to help them do it.
I understand why each of them feels that way.
My friend’s situation is different. I honestly believe there’s still hope for him because I know his life, his history, and everything that led him here.
The other two… I’m not so sure.
If I were in their position—and maybe one day I will be, since I still haven’t taken the genetic test to find out whether I inherited Huntington’s disease—I honestly think I’d want someone to help me too.
I don’t know what the right answer is anymore.
Has anyone here ever faced something like this?
Any advice would mean a lot.