Undignified

I support the whole idea of "death with dignity."  Who wouldn't?  What's the alternative?  "Death Accompanied by Hysterical Freaking Out"?  I am all for allowing people with terminal illness to choose, to a reasonable extent, the time, place, and means of their own demise.

Like-minded supporters of death with dignity, seeking to avoid the stigma associated with the term "assisted suicide," have adopted "aid in dying" as their preferred term of art.  Not completely sure this is an improvement: "Assisted suicide," while blunter than some would like, has the advantage of accuracy; "aid in dying" sounds troublingly euphemistic.  Jeffrey Dahmer provided plenty of "aid in dying."

More troubling, though, are people who push the limits of acceptable "assistance" in dying.  An article in today's Times tells the story of Robert Mitton, a 58-year-old with a terminal heart condition.  Although he would like to enlist assistance in his wish to end his own life before his health deteriorates to a point where he cannot take matters in his own hands, Mitton does not have that option: He lives in Colorado where, as in a majority of states, assisted suicide is illegal.

I am sympathetic to Mitton's plight, and I would not--do not--begrudge him his desire to avoid what by all accounts will be a lengthy and painful death.  Here's the thing, though: Mitton's condition is not, strictly speaking, terminal.  Unlike late-stage cancer patients or those slipping into irreversible dementia, Robert Mitton suffers from a heart condition that could be fixed through surgery: Indeed, he had a similar surgery in 1999 that successfully prolonged his life to this point--that's 15 years!

Now, in fairness, the surgery is extensive and painful.  I can understand this man's desire not to undergo it. If he would rather dies than face that surgery, that is his absolute right.  And, indeed, if he fears that the pain associated with his disease will become intolerable, he has the right to take matters into his own hands.  I do not think, however, he has a reasonable right to expect medical professionals--whose job it is, after all, to extend life whenever possible--to take an active role in helping him end a life that, by all accounts, does not need to end so imminently.

I worry that stories like that of Robert Mitton will provide ammunition for those who passionately oppose the assisted suicide movement.  Because what he seems to be asking for is not help in navigating the end stages of a terminal disease, but rather assistance in avoiding a potentially winnable battle to survive.  His search for "death with dignity" looks uncomfortably like a simple death wish.

Kiner's Korner

This week began with the shocking death of Philip Seymour Hoffman.  He was, of course, one of those folks frequently short-listed for the title "Greatest Actor of His Generation," and we will not soon see his like again.  The week ended, though, with another death, much less shocking and much less generally noticed, but sadder on a personal level: the passing of Ralph Kiner and. with him, of a distinctive part of my youth.

Kiner was a Hall-of-Fame baseball player, primarily with the Pittsburgh Pirates in the late 1940's and early 1950's.  Over a playing career abbreviated by persistent back injuries, Kiner was one of the most fearsome power hitters in the game.  But of course, he played his last game fifteen years before I was born.  So to me, and probably to a majority of baseball fans alive today, Ralph Kiner was not primarily a superstar slugger but was, instead, the television voice of the New York Mets.  From their almost satirical entry into the National League in 1962, through their miraculous 1969 season, and more than 40 more years of triumph and haplessness--OK, mostly haplessness--Ralph Kiner was the somewhat drab but always professional play-by-play man in the broadcast booth--and as such was someone with whom I spent an inordinate amount of time beginning in the mid-1980s.

Back in those days, my metabolism was such that I could polish off a pint of Haagen-Dazs peach ice cream virtually every night of the baseball season--from April to October--and still weigh about 140 pounds soaking wet come Halloween.  And the soundtrack to these ice cream binges, whenever the Mets were on channel nine (WOR Secaucus, NJ), was good ol' Ralph Kiner, ably complemented by the color commentary of Tim McCarver (not yet the official voice of Major League Baseball).  The results of those games were often nowhere near as sweet as the dessert, I'm sad to say.

Rest in peace, Ralph.  The games won't be the same without you.