Hope, or the Lack Thereof

Detail of The Death of Socrates. A disciple is handing Socrates a goblet of hemlock (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The following is pretty much a stream of consciousness about the whole issue of assisted suicide. So, please pardon the dust. I haven’t finished remodeling my brain on this issue.

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I’m thinking this morning about Brittany Maynard and how she doesn’t have very much longer before she’s going to die, if she really does go ahead and take her assisted suicide pill on 1 November.

One of the big provisions of assisted suicide measures is that the patient cannot be deemed depressed. I think that’s bullshit. If I find out I’m going to die in six months, I honestly think they might be the happiest six months of my life. It’s going to be over. I don’t have to live another twenty or more years (potentially) with my incurable, somewhat untreatable, biochemically-based brain dysfunction.

I think the pill for this is the most hopeless thing ever. I don’t get the option of taking that pill when things get extra shitty, so why does she? I’m constantly encouraged to be hopeful, why isn’t she? We never know what will happen, and even though it’s against the odds, there might at some point be a treatment option (or even a cure), that will alleviate my mental distress. No one seems to be telling her that.

I don’t get it.

She’s young, she’s beautiful, she’s intelligent, she found out she’s going to die in six months. I was young, beautiful, intelligent, and found out I have an incurable disease.

She gets to end her life with a gentle, government approved, let’s go to sleep now method. I don’t get to end my life without a violent, unpredictable, unsanctioned hope-this-works method.

What I don’t want to imply is that I think she should suffer. God, I don’t want anyone to suffer. That’s not my point at all. I just don’t understand why her suffering is unacceptable, but mine is.

She says she wants control over her situation, but I think that’s the height of arrogance. She, or any one of us, could die tomorrow in a traffic accident. Any one of us could be struck down by a stray bullet from a mass shooting. For all we know, the world will end tomorrow.

I know, I know… I’m not in her shoes. But every day, I have to go on. I don’t have a good prognosis.

But where is the hope? Just because miracles are rare doesn’t mean they don’t happen. Just because death can be painful doesn’t mean it always is.

Most of the time, I feel like I have just enough good days to keep me from ending it all. That keeps me going. But during those times when I was in the pit… I could easily have taken that pill several times. But I didn’t have that pill. I didn’t have that guarantee. I didn’t have anything.

Anything but faith. And hope.

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This is another perspective on this issue, and it’s far more eloquent than mine.

Dear Brittany: Why we don’t have to be so afraid of dying