Ecclesiastes 3 and no less an authority than the Byrds remind us that, "To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven — a time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant, a time to reap … ." I think of this Bible verse and pop song every fall when I prepare to rip out my garden. The task is satisfying in a way that is hard to describe.
In spring there's a real joy in gently placing small and fragile tomato and pepper plants in the freshly cultivated soil, but there is also an odd pleasure and feeling of god-power in ripping out their desiccated and brown stems after a summer of harvest. Once I tidy things up and spread some compost that's been "cooking" all summer, I refer to the whole affair as "putting my garden to bed," as I know that it will figuratively sleep under the blankets of snow until next spring's gentle awakening.
Working through this garden task I can't help but see a parallel to my own mortality. At 70-plus, I am long past blossoming and producing fruit, and my increasingly frequent visits to a range of doctors are reminders of my own slow desiccation and journey toward season's end.
Regardless, I am still grateful and joyful to be on this side of the grass. Had I been born in 1900, my life expectancy could have been as low as 46.6 years, according to the National Vital Statistics Reports. As it is, I was born in 1945, putting my expected life span at 64.4 years, so I am in a bonus state and getting to play some extra innings. That's mainly because of the amazing advances in medicine, especially in the battle against infectious and parasitic diseases.
At least for now, I don't have to worry about plague boils or drinking dicey water. What I do have to fear are the noncommunicable and chronic diseases like cancer, diabetes, stroke, heart disease, and Alzheimer's. One of these will no doubt eventually claim me, though we are now blessed with some near-miracle medical procedures and drug protocols that should, if I'm lucky, extend my life into my 80s and perhaps beyond.
But what then? What happens when it becomes certain that the end is near and all that separates me from my last breath is an ocean of pain and suffering that I'm expected to bravely navigate? I believe that this big question will soon nudge abortion aside to become the No. 1 moral dilemma of our time.
In April, the Maryland legislature opted to postpone introduction of a "death with dignity" bill until this coming January. Lawmakers wanted more time to study a measure that would permit doctors to prescribe medication to end the lives of mentally competent but terminally ill patients. The law would mirror legislation already passed by Vermont, Oregon, Washington state and California. Currently, 27 states plus the District of Columbia are considering death with dignity-related legislation.
Predictably, religious groups joined those who advocate for the mentally ill and disabled in lining up against the bill, while families of the terminally ill and recently deceased argued for a better way to avoid prolonged suffering and needlessly expensive care, especially in the case of neuromuscular diseases that lead to paralysis.
In many ancient civilizations, taking one's life was an honorable way to exit this mortal coil. However, Judeo-Christian culture has long proscribed suicide as immoral and damning. That's because only God can give and take life. But religion also dictates that we must be good stewards of creation. That logically has to include our own bodies, and as custodians of these fragile envelopes of flesh, bones and blood, it could be argued that we each have the right to decide when to extinguish them.
Physician-assisted death should be a profound decision and might only be sanctioned as a last resort when we've lost all quality of life or when the pain is too great to manage without massive amounts of opiates. Besides, if you find yourself "knockin' on heaven's door," where's the sin in turning the knob and easing right in? I am not there yet in my thinking but know there will be a season for everything. Perhaps the answer lies in the Byrd's continuing refrain, "Turn, turn, turn."
Frank Batavick writes from Westminster. His column appears Fridays. Email him at fjbatavick@gmail.com.
