Musk, Robots, And The Care Of The Dying

I guess because dying is messy and sometimes smelly and often emotionally painful, care of those at the end of life should be punted to the local robot, rather than draining energy from us superior beings.

“Optimus will take on the duties usually performed by various health personnel for end-of-life care.”

Now, “Optimus” is a robot being designed by the ever-present, ever-powerful Elon Musk. According to the person who made this statement, someone clearly infatuated with Musk’s godlike abilities, Optimus will be able to mimic all the complexities of human hand movements, read the facial expressions of people at the end of their life, such as when they need, for example, extra pain meds, and will have the ability to change the diapers, bathe them, etc.

My response? A robust “bull****,” a comment that abruptly shut down that conversation. I’m certainly not alone in the assessment, but, hey, take a look and see what you think:

Now, besides the ridiculous notion that a robot can perform those sensitive tasks—according to this acolyte with whom I was in conversation, Musk is going to TEACH the robot human emotions—this idea denies the dignity of the dying process.

I guess because dying is messy and sometimes smelly and often emotionally painful, care of those at the end of life should be punted to the local robot, rather than draining energy from us superior beings.

So let’s explore the idea that robots should take over the messy, smelly, often unrewarding parts of life. Hmmmm . . . maybe we should turn over all newborns to the household robot—after all, babies are messy, smelly, screamy little things, disrupting sleep and distracting people from the more important things in life, such as working 100 hours a week for Mr. Musk, to invent even more robots, more ways to replace the challenges of human interaction.

Of course, denying babies human touch will result in their death, but, hey, a robot can take care of that as well.

Let’s face it: humans are a pretty uncontrollable and unpredictable bunch. And sick and dying ones are especially problematic. They are useless in Musk-world, likely seen as non-productive detritus, best hidden away and denied human touch, loving emotions, sorrow, memories, and even laughter.

And parents taking care of babies—good heavens, shouldn’t they be working, producing, toiling away writing code somewhere rather than walking the floor for hours with a colicky, squirming mass of mucus and poo?

I admit I write at the moment from a place of pain and loss. My sister died earlier this week. Yes, the death itself was a relief to all—her suffering was nightmarish, the deep sleep of frequent morphine administration the only relief. And she was tended 24/7 by human beings who washed her, watched her, and worried about her.

She had no children and was widowed. The oversight of her care landed some on me, but mainly on the broad shoulders of one of my sons, a man of immense character and endless sense of responsibility to those around him. Fortunately, adequate financial planning enabled the hiring of professional caregivers. These human beings offered both skill and powerful awareness of what she needed, long after her ability to communicate those needs had ceased.

All of us understood that the act of dying was a holy process, one to be respected and welcomed in its time.

I’ve recently reached back into the memories of years so long ago, when I was privileged to give birth and care for my three sons. I am unable to write about it without mentioning my unending spiritual journey to love God with all my heart, soul, mind, and body.

It had been pounded into me for years that I MUST HAVE a daily “quiet time,” at least an hour, preferably before anyone else was stirring, of prayer and Bible reading. Without it, I risked the health of my eternal soul.

And then I had three kids in five years. I was so exhausted much of the time that I was barely functioning. But I do remember one decisive moment of clarity when I realized this: The act of changing a diaper was a holy act, equivalent to and often surpassing the “quiet time” of reading and prayer.

That act, again often smelly and messy, offered health and life to another, to a helpless being entrusted to me. It is the same when being alongside the ill and dying—recognizing the holiness of those messy and smelly tasks ushers us into the very presence of God.

Yes, it is a mystery, one none of us can fathom or even begin to comprehend. It is so much easier to want a mechanistic universe, run by Musk-like robots, always clean and predictable, never tiring or getting irritated, always seeking to please.

I find myself there in interactions with the never-weary ChatGPT, as I dig deeper and deeper into my own complex health issues, longing for the kind of clarity it appears to provide to become an actual reality for me.

But I am a human, and I am messy and smelly and I am surrounded, thanks be to God, by other humans, all of them messy and smelly and yet… the warmth, the love, the interactions, even the painful ones, are necessary for continued growth toward the holy end.

Yeah, life is messy. And I am starting to feel the crushing reality of my sister’s death. I’m emotionally drained. I’m just glad she didn’t have to endure robots at the end.