The origin of the word euthanasia comes from the Greeks. In the early 17th century (in the sense ‘easy death’): from Greek, from eu ‘well’ + thanatos ‘death’. Easy death. There seems to be nothing “easy” about death. Easy only in the sense that the one being euthanized is not in control, so most likely not fighting the on-coming end of their life. Or is it just easy in the way we would say to a horse who is going too fast-“Easy, boy. Slow down.”
One thought that comes to me is that we may have lost a comma in the many years since a Greek said Well Death. Or Easy Death. Maybe the original intention was “Well, pause, death.” As in “ahem, Mr. Death. Oh, it’s YOU again. J’accuse death!
But the Greeks being natural philosophers could also have meant “Well, death”, with the accent on Well. Well drawn out like Larry David. Well, it’s you, Death. Oh-oh, death again. Here comes death, being all death-like, doing the death thing.
The reason I looked up euthanasia was two-pronged. And you know, two prongs don’t make a right, but it’s a good start on a fork. Consider euthanasia as a fork in the road. I know some people like to live their lives looking in the rear view mirror. If I had only….fill in the blank. It’s about regret and the opportunity or the curse of second chances. Sometimes a second chance becomes an opportunity to make the same wrong decision all over again. These wrong decisions can then become a pattern. And the patterns become a life. Well, death. On the other hand, death. It’s a choice. The ultimate in binary thinking. Well, death. To paraphrase the great Billie Eillish, “Duh!”
Life is all about decisions. Funny, autocorrect just changed the word decisions to devil. As in “Life is all about Devil.” Or “The Devil”. And we are right back to the nub of the binary. Devil or Angel, which one am I?
Maisy is our dog, and Maisy is getting old. She is past 16, which in dog years is like 90. She wobbles. She falls down. She paces like there is no tomorrow. And I mean that idiom word for word. Like there is no tomorrow. Because when you get to a certain age, it really is a question of living day to day, or no tomorrow.
A few weeks back, Maisy was progressively getting worse. Her back legs would splay, and she would try to move forward using only her front legs. She got caught under a chair. Somehow, she was tangled in the legs of the chair and could not move forward. I woke to the sound of her figuratively spinning her wheels, as her front legs were desperately pawing on the floor, trying to extricate herself from the tyranny of the chair.
Oh, chair. Why must you be so cruel? I released her from her chair prison, and the pacing began again in earnest. But like I said, it was a progressive downward spiral. Michelle and I were in bed and we looked at each other, tears forming in our eyes as we contemplated Maisy and her diminishing quality of life. Would this be the weekend when we had to make the tough decision to put her down? Call the vet, she said. But we both knew what that would entail, as we’ve been there before.
The “Quality of Life” talk. We could run tests. So many tests. So many very expensive tests, and to what purpose? To tell us that our dog is very old? That her best years are behind her? That we just need to love her and take her home, and love her some more, until either she naturally dies, or we make the Decision. Well, death.
Easy death. Well, Mr. Greek, there is nothing easy about death or the decision to end a life. No second chances or do overs allowed. Once you make the decision, it is a final sale. No returns.
The next day Maisy bounced back. Slight improvements. More pacing. We dodged a bullet. But what if we had gone to the vet and had her put down, and had put her to sleep? All those euphemisms for easy death.
Would Maisy be thinking,” Please don’t kill me. I’m just having a bad day.”
We were talking in the last post about Medical Assistance in Dying. MAID. Euthanasia for humans. An acronym for a euphemism. Sort of like calling the pig, pork. Or the cow, beef. We come up with new words to distinguish between the living and the dead. Between hearts beating and meat. Call the ambulance, here comes the meat wagon.
These are distancing devices. To help remove us from the enormity of death which is all around us. Happens every day. Genocide, actual genocide is going on, and yet we go on with our lives on this side of the world, as if nothing was happening. We go to work. Watch the Floor on tv. Where’s the beef? Well, death.
To vegans, meat eaters are all ignorant accomplices in the every day massacre of animals. One of the first things an oppressor does to justify their killing another being is to call them “animals”.
Because if they are animals, then they are not human. And if they are not human, then it’s easier to kill them. Well, death. Easy death. You see how easy genocide can be when you compartmentalize. Like lambs to the slaughter, lambs on the altar. Or should we just say mutton? Well, death.
Easy.
Easy death. Slow down.
Euthanasia. There is no youth in euthanasia.
It’s an act of mercy. Putting them out of their misery. A service really. Easy peasy lemon squeezie. done like dinner.
Winner, winner chicken dinner.
I’ll show myself out.
Three stories, actually, but one at a time. Three cats, all having typical cat endings to their lives.
1) Papi (Papillon - for her head marking). A big-boned girl who left life doing something she liked doing - is that the same as on her own terms? - maybe. We lived in East Van, which means "My cat is NOT an indoor cat", and "My dog shits free." are acceptable philosophies to some pet folks, despite the number of birds cats kill, and the negative effects of dog poop in the lives of plants and community members.
So Papi (and her ally, Alley - more on him in story 2) were usually let out at night to roam the neighbourhood and they nearly always were at the back door in the morning anxious to come in and eat (unless it was sunny, then they sometimes dallied). So when Papi did not come in one morning, not a big deal. But the day moved on, then the night and then the next morning and still no Papi.
Lost Cat notices went up, searches, door-knocking, calls to the pound, all to no avail. After a few weeks a neighbourhood person contacted us. They lived about a block and a half away. "I just saw your notice. There was a cat that kind of looked like yours that I found dead in our front yard a couple weeks ago. It looked like it had been hit by a car and crawled under our porch and sort of half-buried itself. I called the pound and they took it." I called the pound and learned it had been incinerated.
So did Papi go out on her own terms there? I don't know.
During this time our 16-yeard old daughter was in the last weeks of a 6-month trip though areas of south central Africa - Zimbabwe, Rwanda, Mozambique - and about to return home. Her mother had taken her to meet some of her relatives in Zim, stayed with her for two months, then left her with relatives for the remaining time, though our daughter also spent considerable time traveling on her own.
Anyone might ask, what is the connection?
The night before our daughter was scheduled to return from her journey I had a dream. In it, our cat Papi appeared to me as a kitten - cute, but one that could speak, "I was the price for your daughter returning safely."
They say you will know when it's time. I don't know what is worse waiting and wondering if today is the day, or the day itself. When the day came it was the worst day ever, no mistaking it. Then I wondered if I had waited to long out of cowardice. The final act is... well it's like fight club, no one talks about it. It's your cross to bear. The price of loving and being loved so unconditionally.