Nov 15 | Beautiful Broken World, Part 3 (Letters from the Coast)

This is the final entry in a three-part series about my feelings on medical assistance in dying. For Part 1, click here. For Part 2, click here.

 

PART III: EMBRACING OUR WOUNDS

I think again of Mary, who has already endured so much hardship in her life and is now watching older and sicker people die around her and feels nothing but envy.

Her tears are heartbreaking, and yet I would love to tell her that life is still worth living in a wheelchair, still worth living when you can’t speak, still worth living even when you need help to do the things you once did with ease.

I can’t do that. I can’t name her experience, can’t push her to accept something that for me is entirely theoretical, rather than lived. I can’t know her pain because I’ve never experienced it.

My life belongs to God, but I choose that. And yet how do I know I would be able to still hold onto that choice when I have never experienced that kind of significant illness, when I’ve never even broken a damn bone?

 

And then again I think of indigenous gatherings I’ve attended where it is simply expected, without question, that the young and able-bodied should step back to allow the elders to sit, should allow them to come closer so they can see what’s going on, should move them to the front of lines, should listen to the things they say even if it takes a long time to get the words out.

I think of cultures where offering a person with grey hair a seat on the bus never causes a flicker of irritation to pass across their faces. I think of cultures where the word “elder” is not a dirty word, where you can refer to someone as an elder and not have them take it personally, like white people (and especially white women) almost invariably do, because Western culture despises the old and the old know it – again, especially women, who become invisible when they are old.

 

Dignity is different for everyone, and yet I think too often we allow the narrative to be driven by those who are always in charge of the narrative.

Ultimately only the ill and the disabled should be leading this conversation.

For me, a temporarily (it’s always only temporary) able-bodied young person, the conversation is far too murky. There are too many things about which I am ignorant.

 

Oddly enough, I found the passing of the legislation to be a blessing.

The conversation is closed. It’s legal, and it’s unlikely to be rolled back. I’m under no illusions that the church in Canada (and particularly in BC) will be able to change the government’s mind.

Frankly, even if I was certain that I thought it was a sin, I’d still think allowing people to choose their time of death under a set of strict guidelines would be one of the lesser sins we allow as a country.

My job is now only to walk alongside those who may choose the option. Colleagues have already shared with me that they’ve not only been asked to discuss it with parishioners, but asked to be present when death occurs.

In my heart, I dread that possibility, because while I feel deeply uncomfortable with the whole thing, I don’t know that I would be able to refuse such a request.

Maybe that tells me all I need to know about where my heart lies.

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