I disappeared fromthe guest-blogging on Friday. At first, the reason was work. Then in the middle of the day, I got a call from my wife. My wife’s aunt (and God-mother) had a massive aneurism. She’s in a hospital far away.
She’s on a respirator. Her body will not regulate fluids, her blood pressure is all over the place — and the doctors are doing all they can to keep the heart beating. Medical science is so advanced that this balancing act could work indefinately, preserving life, under only the broadest definition, for a woman who will never again be a mother to her children, a friend to her friends, hold an opinion or see a movie. It remains unclear what the husband will do. It is all too clear that the neurologist is interested in the professional challenge of treating a brain this badly damaged, and will give an honest assessment of the patient’s chance of meaningful recovery when cornered (the answer apparently is no chance — she has a 50-50 chance of “living,” but this woman will likely never regain consciousness, and will be vegetative if she does).
I’ve been annoyed for a long time at the fetishization of the mere fact of biological life. I’ve buried several relatives after long, grueling terminal illnesses, not least my mother. These events merely remind me, again, how angry it makes me that we attach some importance to the bodily processes of those that have, in every meaningful way, left us.