Thursday, January 7, 2010

Euthanasia

The patient's family gathers around his bedside. He is a healthy-looking man in his forties, but he is quiet and pale. His doctor has just told him that he has metastatic lung cancer. “I want to die,” he says, and his family murmurs in dismay. “There's nothing they can do for me except keep me alive to suffer.”

“That's not true,” says his wife, putting a reassuring hand on his. “Miracles happen all the time.” The doctor, standing in the doorway, shakes his head. He's seen this before, and he knows what will happen. The patient will waste away, racked by palliative chemotherapy and radiation, destroyed by pain, slowly suffocating until at last he is mercifully taken by a coma, and then death. Every step of the way, he will beg the doctor and his family to help end his suffering. This is what will and does happen, and the doctor and I watch in despair and anger. This patient, you see, was my uncle.

What my uncle wanted can be described in many different ways – a mercy killing or assisted suicide, among other terms. However, the scientific community usually refers to it as euthanasia. Euthanasia is illegal in all areas of the world except Belgium, the Netherlands, and Oregon. Denying a mentally competent, terminally ill patient the right to choose how and when he or she will die is a violation of the ethical principles of innate human dignity and personal choice. Allowing someone to suffer is not, contrary to the belief of some, dignified or holy. It is needless agony that affects not only the patient, but also his or her loved ones and caregivers. We allow people to make the choice to smoke, to abort their pregnancies, to marry whomever they choose and live in whatever way they want. Doctors can save people from death. Is it so wrong to deny them this most personal of all choices and to save them from life when life is no longer worth living?

As someone who is interested in a medical career, and as someone who has worked and lived with the severely ill and the dying, I can well appreciate their courage. As much as I admire their faith and perseverance in the face of certain defeat, I can't help but think that some of them must want a way out. Plenty of people consider suicide; what makes this group of people special is that their problem is not only depression. Their problem is that they must make a very clear decision: to die naturally, or to die by euthanasia. Unfortunately, this is usually a decision with only one answer. A mentally competent, adult patient should not have to suffer needlessly with no escape. To me, it signifies more respect for human life to assist that life's end if the patient makes that choice, than to refuse his or her plea for assistance.

In the end, it all boils down to the patient's view on euthanasia. Various religious and other groups have argued that there are ways to alleviate someone's pain and improve their quality of life. A patient's loved ones may cling to these resources, such as narcotics and comforting hospice care. This argument fails to recognize that there are drawbacks to such alternatives. By the time my uncle died, he was on such a large amount of narcotics that he existed in a stupor twenty-four hours a day. He did not experience an improvement in his quality of life, as all of his personal needs had to be handled by others. He could not eat anymore, and was nourished by an IV. He could still interact with us, one benefit, but it was hard for us to see him reduced to such a state.

As I have said before, if we claim to value human life so highly, why do we not value humans' opinions as highly? Perhaps there is fear that euthanasia will be abused. Critics point to instances in Oregon where physicians have offered dying patients death-dealing pills, but not proper treatment for their condition, because the pills were cheaper. All laws can be abused; this is one of the drawbacks of living in a democratic society. If proper restraints were put on euthanasia, such as requiring the doctor to have a permit and having the patient go through a strict physical and psychological examination to determine if there are any factors that might cloud his or her judgment, euthanasia would be much less likely to be abused.

Since I do not have any power in the medical field, I plan to go to my acquaintances at the hospital where I work and ask them for their opinion on euthanasia. To those who support it, I would ask for reasons why. Then, we could spread awareness in the community by talking to community doctors and lawyers, sending letters to local newspapers, and publishing articles in medical newsletters arguing the case for euthanasia. The Internet, a great tool for spreading information, could also be used. In the debate over euthanasia, many people have forgotten about those whom it affects directly – the patients. They do not understand that not all people would be forced to be euthanized, as that also interferes with free choice. This is one aspect of the issue that I would like to focus on, so that maybe in 100 years when people look back and think, “How could they not have allowed euthanasia?” they can also think, “At least we have it now.”

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Blue people. They're everywhere. I had a heated conversation with one of my friends about which blue person was cooler, a Na'vi or Dr. Manhattan. We agreed they are tied, because they are both hippies, even though the Na'vi are at least reasonable enough to wear clothes most of the time. And don't tell me that Dr. Manhattan's little black diaper-thingy counts as clothes. Please.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Home

When I turned down that road
it was by accident, but somehow
I knew it was right.
It was like an answer
blurted out in the drop of a moment,
unexpectedly containing truth.
"Stop," he said, "we should have
gone the other way,"
but I couldn't stop,
not with destiny breathing down my neck
on the hairpin turns,
not with every jolt of the dirt road
scattering sparks along my spine.
He clung to the other side of the car,
almost wretched,
afraid of my search's intensity.
Still, I pushed on
past tall cliffs and the barren desert,
seeing only glimpses of hidden life
behind a rising smear of dust.
The sun was no lower when I stopped,
transfixed by its golden dance
in a dry riverbed.
"I'll drive us back," he said,
pushing my hands off the steering wheel.
"Don't you worry," he said.
"I'll drive us home."
I met his gaze, both of us
locked in the harsh half-light,
and I saw a thin flutter of confusion
spread across his face.
So, I touched his shoulder
as the distance grew between us,
and without words climbed out.
In the very act of trudging
through the forgotten dust
I raised my head and knowledge struck
through me,
knowledge as clean as the distant sky:
One day I'd come back to this place
where dead trees met in a perfect arch
over a one-lane road.
One day I'd come back, alone.
One day
I'd come back home.

Paint (Unfinished)

The one paintbrush I have
is old, with ragged fibers
and teethmarks from mouths long grown up
and gone away
sunk deep into its yellow handle.
When I see it,
I am reminded of that day
you picked it up and, laughing,
held it between your face and the light.
You let the watery yellow-orange
drip from its squared-off end
onto the clearness of your skin,
running down your cheek like a tear
from the source of all happiness,
and I thought you could have let it
stay there forever,
there where it gathered
with other tiny droplets
under the roundness of your chin.
But I guess it wasn't yours to keep,
because it fell from you,
burying itself and all its brightness.

Meeting

Never before have I met anyone
as cold and silent as this,
so still that the tips of her fingers
are tinged with frost.
I want to ask her
what she's waiting for,
but I don't think she will
hear me.
She will not choose to listen.
Instead she stands,
bending before me and the world
in a long mocking bow,
waiting for the first sounds of warmth,
waiting for the clear echoes
inside her chrysalis.
Somehow I know,
in the swift darkness of my blinking eyelids,
only then will she fly.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Absence

Things are not always built by adding,
but sometimes by cutting away the unnecessary,
leaving only the slim, the clean, the essential.
Today, there echoes the absence
of voices no longer heard,
realities no longer visited.
It's a curious balance struck between
opposites or things almost similar
when negative space is as noticed
as what is there
and when the world's defined
by lack of definition.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Rise

Sometimes she feels as if she's alone in her determination.
She wonders if anyone else even knows
the true meaning of the word
like she does,
or if they would tell her
to get up and keep going
if they knew how much
that defense was costing her.
Each day fills her with the heaviness of years,
and each day she is left alone
to fall and rise, fall and rise,
measuring progress only in
obstacles overcome.
She barely half-understands
the unconquerable force
that pushes her and only her along,
tumbling her down a road
filled with rocks and thorny weeds,
for a reason so faint and worn-down
it might as well be nonexistent
except for the imperious rattle and pull of it
deep within the darkness of her chest.