Life teaches us what we need to know. Our exposure to the animal kingdom is reflective. Their passing can instruct us about death and sickness and saying goodbye. When Sydneybegan to show signs of illness, I was prepared for her to die. Having had many small and larger rodents over the years, I already knew that a short life expectancy came with each one when I bought it. I contacted the veterinarian when she began to sport irregular lumps around her genitalia. They grew quickly and became a greater concern. It was not my wish to see her suffer. The vet made it perfectly clear that they would only grow back if removed and this common occurrence was connected to inbreeding and the ovaries. There was nothing I could do to help her besides putting her down. I was assured that she could live with this invader for awhile and I would know when it was time to put her out of any misery. She adapted and for almost 6 months hobbled about the cage, relatively unaffected by the growths. I was petting her when the largest one broke open. She began to bleed out all over her cage. With no time to take her to a doctor, I was forced to drown her in the toilet, sparing her an agonizing death. I still regret not taking her in to the vet earlier. Not so much for her, rather, for me. It was an awful, horrible thing I had to do to something I loved as much as anything else. I still manifest great guilt over what happened. I question whether I did the right thing.  
            The rat that survived the death of Sydneyremained in the cage. Emily was always a friendly and loving critter. I was shocked but not surprised when the same formations found themselves growing on yet another rat. I prayed I would not have to repeat the same process that occurred with Sydneythe year before. I convinced myself that I should leave her be and let nature take its course. Anything short of the same injury would find me watching and waiting for her to die. She lasted quite happily for 4 months. The morning of her death found her reaching for me, begging me to place her in the upper cave she treasured so dearly. I could see my little friend in this tortured soul. I am convinced that if she had the choice to make, she would have decided to stay. I was right letting her die naturally. She pretty much told me what she wanted and so I picked her up and placed her within. She slipped away rather quickly after that and I am haunted once again. Did I do the right thing by letting her simply live her life or should I have placed her out of harm's way? Is letting something die naturally kindness or torture? One is damned if you do and damned if  you don't. There is no winning when it comes to issues of life and death. Nothing is ever for certain but the finish line.  

            Long before chemical cocktails and protozoa inhibitors, death from HIV infection was a nasty way to go. By the time I was 30, I had at least 25 experiences watching friends die from this devastating virus. Mercifully, science and medicine have turned a once terminal infection into a chronic and manageable diagnosis. This is reliant, of course, on the ability to pay for the drugs. A wealthy gay lawyer from San Francisco lives a long and healthy life while a child in Africa dies from the same medical situation. Long gone are the days of AZT and AIDS dementia. You rarely, if ever, hear of a new death at the hands of this monster. The AIDS quilt seems to have peaked in size and formation. Still, I can't help but hear the voices of all those who have gone before. Old friends linger in my mind, dancing with death until it takes you for good. I cannot imagine a more horrible way to exit this world.
            My late friend Robert was one of the first men in London, Ontario to die from AIDS. He was infected after his divorce and continued to parent his two teenage boys despite the heavy stigma such a diagnosis brought. He worked for a large brewery, as the Vice-President of Sales and Distribution. He was well off, successful and careless. AIDS did not discriminate, then or now. In the 1980s, HIV made one not only a social pariah but it was a surefire death sentence. Within the first year, Bob went from an attractive and fit specimen to a withered and weak morsel of who he once was. It only took a few more months and he was sentenced to a hospice bed, several stomach tubes dangling like plastic ivy from his guts. In a little over a year, he aged from 40 to looking 70. He was gray, and spotted, and you could see his veins through his translucent skin. Melanoma the size of quarters covered his torso and head. He almost looked like a concentration camp survivor on the day of liberation.
            Despite the rapid onslaught brought on by the virus, Robert lingered for much more time than he had been allotted. We all gathered when the doctor said it would be soon. My friend Maurice and I sat watching his family as they begged for more time and some mercy. On the way out of the hospital, Maurice surprised me with his cavalier statement. "They should put a pillow over his head and just put him out of his misery," flowed from his cakehole like a broken sewer pipe would. The funeral was small, private and seemed to carry great shame for his family. It was a different time, I suppose. A year later, I sat looking at Maurice's charred remains in a hospital bed not unlike Robert's. Falling asleep while smoking on a plastic-covered couch is never a good idea. For months, we all waited for him to wake up. No one talked about taking him off life support until his nose fell off. At least, unlike our friend Robert, he wasn't conscious through his destruction. He died surrounded by family and friends as they turned off the machines and he slipped away from us. It was mercy and I was grateful he did not have to suffer, not to any visible degree.


            The court, in fact, declared that "desperately suffering patients have a constitutional right to doctor-assisted suicide." They noted that such restrictions "had the effect of forcing some individuals to take their own lives prematurely, for fear that they would be incapable of doing so [later]." They concluded that the Canadian "Criminal Code’s absolute ban on assisted suicide goes too far." The Code may attempt to protect the "vulnerable" from abuse but it also interferes with people "making core decisions about how they live and die, and so breaches three of the most basic rights: to life, liberty and security of the person, all enshrined in Sec. 7 of the Charter, and is not justified in a free democratic society." The judges found that the previous "prohibition on physician assisted dying" conflicted "with the principles of fundamental justice.''

            I've watched an awful lot of animals die in my day. I have seen just as many mortal men and women fall to sleep forever. Some raged against their dying while others seemed to embrace a peace no one living can possibly know. I am not convinced that this constant exposure to death is only meant for me, although I would argue that only a few really pay attention. Death is my constant unwanted companion so I have spent much time pondering euthanasia and the right to die. With an aging father, it is only natural to consider what just might come. It is through my life experiences with death that I am sure of my position. The road has shown me much to think about. I am not a praying man but I ask that the same mercy I have given is one day given to my father and eventually to me. I am thankful that the ability to make these harsh decisions is no longer a criminal offence in Canada. I never understood how we can put our pets out of their misery but we cannot grant this same mercy to ourselves. Personally, I would prefer nature do the deed but at least another option exists now.


 












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