By Bill Barth
I was just a kid but old enough to understand one of my favorite and most respected relatives was dying a death no one should endure.
Let me tell you about my Uncle Harley. He was a common man, a hard-working farmer who was up before dawn and worked cattle and crops as long as it took to finish the day. The only time he stepped back into the house was to tend to the needs of his invalid wife, my Aunt Glatis. I’ve always loved those old-time names.
About the only time he went to town was to get groceries or parts for machinery.
Life had handed him and Glatis a hard deal. They married young, as people did in those days, and by all family accounts they were a striking and happy couple. Within the first year or so, though, Glatis began to experience motor skill problems. That led to a crushing diagnosis. She had multiple sclerosis. She tried valiantly to maintain normality as long as she could, but in fairly short order the braces and crutches gave way to a wheelchair for the rest of her life.
Those were days without safe spaces and support animals. All they had was each other, and across the family no one could remember either of them complaining about their life, let alone throwing a tantrum at the unfairness.
Instead, we remembered family gatherings — usually at my grandparents — with Harley carrying Glatis like a baby into the house before settling her gently into her chair. Glatis always asked about what was going on in everybody else’s life. She and Harley were always cheerful and solicitous of others.
Like farm kids do, I worked alongside the men as soon as I was big enough. Often, that meant working with Harley. He could accurately be described as small but mighty. Put a shovel, pitchfork or tool of any kind in his hand and he would out-work the rest of us. Then he would go take care of his wife. If any of us stopped by to say hello, Glatis was always positive and thrilled to have company.
Then this good man got cancer.
His suffering defies words. He wasted away to nothing. The man who never complained or shirked a duty groaned, cried out and teared up in clearly excruciating pain. It went on and on and on, probably longer than it might have because of the physical strength he built up working his body hard nearly every day of his life.
When he died the family knew it was for the best. His suffering ended.
For me, it sparked rage. I admit, I cursed and threw things. My youthful emotions had nowhere to go.
I never got over it. I’m not raging anymore. I have learned — most of the time — to funnel my emotions into intellectual inquiry directed at seeking solutions.
And, yes, I know medical science has advanced since those dark days of suffering. Pain can be mitigated by strong drugs, allowing for a more peaceful death.
That’s not good enough, in my book.
After witnessing Uncle Harley’s ordeal I thought if one of the cattle had been suffering like that we would have shot it. In our so-called civilized society, though, people are supposed to grit their teeth and hang on until the bitter end.
Why? Well, for one thing, it has been the law.
Over the intervening years a few states have had the courage to give sick people options for medically assisted suicide, allowing them to make their own choice about checking out. Rules vary but no state makes it easy, for good reasons. Doctors must have a conscience exemption. A person must be terminally ill and able to demonstrate the sanity to make a sound judgment. That’s intended to guard against uninformed rash decisions and to make it harder for, say, greedy relatives to pack off granny to get her cash.
Illinois is the latest state, through a bill that recently passed the General Assembly. At this writing, Gov. JB Pritzker is still considering whether to sign it.
Call it my libertarian nature — or my lived experience — but I firmly believe every human being should have the option. Within closely prescribed rules, the decision belongs with the individual and no one else.
The pushback in Illinois, as elsewhere, comes largely from the religious community. No one but God should take a life is essentially the argument. People holding such beliefs deserve respect to make their own choices. They do not, however, deserve to make the decision for others.
Laws that impose religious dogma on people who don’t share the belief are, in my view, almost always indefensible in a freedom-loving country.
A reader might wonder about this writer: When it’s my time — there are only two kinds of people, those who are sick and those who will be — would I choose assisted suicide? Maybe. Maybe not. No one really knows how they’ll feel until they stare at the deathbed. But I do insist the decision should be mine alone.
Glatis lived a few years after her Harley passed. Never complained, to the end. If there’s a Heaven those two good people are there. She can walk again. He can hold her hand rather than carry her.
Bill Barth is the former Editor of the Beloit Daily News, and a member of the Wisconsin Newspaper Hall of Fame. Write to him at bbarth@beloitdailynews.com.
