When have we earned the right to choose artificial death? The
right to say,
”
This much I can take
– I can’t take no more!
”
?
Is it when we’re no longer a productive member of society? When
pain escalates? When medical costs bankrupt? When dignity
shatters?
When have we earned the right to choose artificial death? The right to say, “This much I can take – I can’t take no more!”?
Is it when we’re no longer a productive member of society? When pain escalates? When medical costs bankrupt? When dignity shatters?
Or, is it when dying would be easier than living?
I know that living life until its natural end can be a huge, heartbreaking challenge. It’s often the toughest task that life asks a human being to face.
Difficult yes, impossible, no.
In 1991, I lost seven friends in less than nine months. Rhoda and Patti, were the first to die – both of them in March.
Patti had cancer. She fought the disease for years with conventional and some not-so-conventional medicine but nothing stopped the tumors from growing.
Finally, the doctors told her there were no more treatments, chemotherapies, injections, radiations, surgeries – nothing else they could do. We turned the corner with her as she switched to hospice care.
I remember telling her, “I don’t know how to be a friend to someone who’s dying.”
She answered, “And, I don’t know how to die, or how to let people help me.” Then she added, “I guess we’ll learn how to do this thing together.”
And, so we did. I made a lot of faux pas with Patti and, by accident, did some things right. We’d had fun while she was healthy – but, it was our relationship during her dying days that changed me, my career, educational goals and volunteer work forever.
Rhoda began losing her balance and falling after the birth of her first child. It took doctors almost two years to diagnose ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) because they didn’t expect to find it in a 32-year-old woman.
The disease progressed rapidly. Every month Rhoda lost more primary abilities. She grieved each loss but never stayed there long. Almost as soon as she came to grips with her body’s latest betrayal, she’d have a plan in place to overcome the challenge.
Surrounded by a small brigade of family, friends and church volunteers, she was able to maintain a household until she went into respiratory failure at the age of 38.
Rhoda’s army of love gave her many gifts. Gifts of time and tender care. The ability to stay at home. In her own bed and wearing her own clothes. Living with her two little boys and her husband.
And, because Rhoda was who she was, she gave us gifts, too. She swallowed her independence and pride and let us stand close enough to help. She let people learn how to help someone with massive needs. She let people come close enough to see the fear, hear the prayers and share her faith.
Rhoda was always more than her disease. I was amazed by her ability to recognize when she needed help, her ability to articulate what she needed and her humble acceptance of the help that was offered.
Her final gift was 10 pages of funeral instructions with personal thank you notes to all who stood by her. Mind you, by that time, she “talked” by holding a small stick between her teeth and pointing to an alphabet chart. Someone would write down each word as she tediously spelled out the letters.
Their deaths didn’t affect me just because they were young or their kids were young or their diseases topped the suffering chart. Their deaths affected me because they both made a compassionate choice to live courageously to their natural end. In so doing, they blessed us and gave us a chance to bless them.
I could cite many more examples of individuals who were fully alive and learning and making a difference in their worlds until their last breath. I can picture each face and finger the marks they’ve left on my heart and in my memories.
I don’t want our generation to leave the kind of legacy that says, “When the going gets tough, quit. When you lose control, walk out. When you can’t see your purpose, leave.”
I want us to show and tell our children that life matters – no matter how fractured or disabled or broken or silent it may become. Because, “Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” ~ William Yeats
Bonnie Evans has lived in Gilroy with her husband Mike for 21 years. They have two grown children and a black lab named Pepper. Her volunteer work centers around end-of-life issues. To support her volunteer efforts, she teaches for Gilroy Unified. You can reach her at bo******@***il.com.
