Right To Die

Right to Die?

"If I ever get like that, I don't want to be kept alive. I want you to pull the plug."

My mother has told me that on more than one occasion, and by "like that" she was referring to the vegetative state much like that which Terri Schiavo--the brain-damaged Florida woman at the center of a legal brawl over whether she should be allowed to die, as her husband says she would have wanted, or whether she should be kept alive as her parents desire--currently suffers.

Actually, my mother was being a bit more expansive than that. The last few months she has been taking care of an old friend, Charlie, who is suffering from what seems to be an advanced state of Alzheimer's. When she came to his aid he was badly malnourished, unable to take care of himself, and living in a decrepit house brimming with trash and old newspapers. Now he totters about in a nursing home, diapered, happy but unaware of much, and certainly not able to remember what happened yesterday or even fifteen minutes ago. "Like that" includes Charlie's condition.

My mother, who is as active now as a senior as she has ever been, does not want to live as an invalid, helpless or brain-dead. She wants to die with her dignity, with people remembering her as she has been her whole life--vibrant, adventuresome, witty and brilliant--rather than as an empty shell that lies in bed or stares vacantly at television static.

"Okay, Mom," I replied to her, but I knew that assuring her that her wish will be followed is a much different thing from actually following through. This is the last responsibility I'd want to have, because I know that if this terrible event ever came to pass, I'd flinch. I'd look at her in the hospice bed, dead but for the machines that keep her going, or I'd look into her eyes that don't even remember that I am her son, and I'd think, "She could get better. There's always a chance. A year from now and she could be healthy as a mule, back to being herself. It can happen. We just have to wait."

Can you blame me? In my eyes she'll always be Mom, even when there's nothing left of her. She could be dead to the world yet I would still hold her hand, read to her, talk to her, and feel like she's listening. Somehow, she'll hear me, she'll know I'm there. Somehow, she'll get better. I'll believe this. I'll believe this because I won't want to let her go.

This is why I can't get mad at Terri's parents for fighting to keep her alive. They believe about Terri what I'd believe about my Mom. But the issue isn't about what we believe. It's about what Terri and my Mom want. Not wanting