Some social, moral and theological issues are clear to me.
Women have the right to choose whether to end a pregnancy; homosexuality is not a lifestyle choice, but is predetermined by one’s genetic code; God created the world, but didn’t do it in six calendar days. Those are my views, for better or worse.
Assisted suicide? Oh, brother. Someone pass the Pepto.
Brittany Maynard took her own life over the weekend in Oregon, my home state, which also allows for assisted suicide. She had suffered from terminal brain cancer. Doctors said she had no hope of surviving. She was left with two choices: die a slow, agonizing death and subject her loved ones to untold misery or take her life peacefully, quickly and clinically.
She’s now gone.
The debate rages on.
I’ve long struggled with whether human beings should be entrusted to do God’s work, to determine whether someone should live or die. The issue confuses and confounds me.
I get Brittany’s struggle. I understand fully her desire to spare her family such untold agony. I also try to understand the family’s desire to spare her the pain and agony that surely awaited her.
Then I ask myself: Would I want (a) to end my life or (b) allow a member of my family to make that decision?
The answer is “no” to both parts of that question.
But then I come back to what Brittany Maynard and her family wanted. Is it up to me or anyone else to make that decision for them? No. It’s their call exclusively.
Come to think of it, I might have persuaded myself that assisted suicide is one of those issues that only can be decided by those affected directly by it. The rest of us have no business determining someone’s fate.
The issue, however, still upsets my stomach.