On the supposed “death with dignity” movement, and the value of a disabled life

Whenever assisted suicide comes up amongst my friends and family, they are very pro-assisted suicide. I get angry and quiet and don’t have the energy to explain explain explain, which is unusual for me, but this topic is so vast and exhausting and sometimes I think that no one with a disability is in any position to see the medical industrial complex from my point of view because they have never been treated the way I have in a doctor’s office.

This essay by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg about Amanda Baggs and the pressure the medical establishment is putting on her to turn down life-saving procedures and just die already gets at the heart of why I object to this. Please read it:

“I think that many people feel that they would rather die than to be treated as though they are worthless. And so they put forward legislation that will give them a way out. But they don’t realize that we can fight the idea that it’s better to be dead than ill or disabled — that we can react to it with outrage, and that we can create communities of support so that none of us ends up with our worst fears realized.”

http://www.disabilityandrepresentation.com/2013/04/06/amanda-baggs-the-pressure-to-die/

Advertisements

I made it I made it I passed the audition

And so did one of my besties!!!!

So, I am going to be in the show Listen to Your Mother, doing a live version of my last MPR commentary on my youngest son whose name isn’t Bob, who turned the tables on strangers who stare at his mom.

I am in quite fine company.

Ill-suited

I do not think I am overstating when I say that I have handled having an inexplicable, wildly fluctuating, baffling and mysterious disabling disorder with a fair bit of levelheaded calm. Panache, even. Style. (My wheels and my crutches are sa-WEET.)

This is not how I’m handling my concussion. Not at all.

I wonder. Is it because this is Just One More Thing? Is it because I am a big whiny baby? Is it the constant pain? I am unaccustomed to constant pain.

It is almost funny that this small thing — this temporary thing — has left me bowled over and terrified that I will lose my job, my friendships, my vocation; whereas MS is no big deal.

Or it would be funny if I did not find myself in tears of self pity when I see bicyclists on the road. Self-pity is not a good color on me. It does not suit.