EUTHANASIA
By MEDICO
IT was the notice of his death in the daily paper one day last week that brought it all back to me. The notice was one of the usual brief, bald statements which give the date, name, place and age; his age was eighty-one years. Although apparently heartless there is often much more real feeling behind such a notice than there is when the whole affair is elaborated and an attempt seems to be made to solicit public sympathy. In his case, however, it was not so. He was an old man ; he had outlived those friends who really mattered. He had achieved no eminence, nor had he occupied one of those unfortunate public positions sufficient to render a personal reference in the paper of any general interest. He was a poor farmer, the owner of a poor farm in one of the poorer parts of the cauntry.
I was, I suppose, one of those most affected by his obituary notice. He came under my care seventeen years ago, when 1 was house-physician to the particular medical ward to which he had been admitted. He had paid many visits to the hospital ; each time it was the same story. He came in tired, yellow, weak and breathless. Rest in bed, good food and a transfusion of blood, and he would go home temporarily im- proved. The intervals, however, were getting shorter, the transfusions more frequent and the effect more transient. At that time we usually got a friend to volunteer to give his blood and at the beginning we had almost too many offers, but after a time the friends seemed to disappear—the novelty wore off and nothing seemed to be given in return. It is hard to keep one's sympathy always green.
This visit to hospital was only twelve days after his previous one. He was spending almost as much time with us as at home, and the precious blood we were giving him seemed to be wasted. It could not go on. Things came to a head one Sunday afternoon—it was visiting day—when I went to talk the matter over with his wife. I tried to be as kind as one can be in telling bad news—yes, he was going to die, the case was hopeless ; he was no longer making his own fresh blood and was only being kept alive by the blood of others ; this state of affairs was impossible. Yes, we would help in any way we could—it could happen either in hospital or at home ; since she came such a long way from the country it would be easier to move him home now, and much cheaper when the end really came. Yes, certainly I would allow him to go on Friday when a neighbour would be up who had kindly offered his motor-car. And so the incident closed, with arrangements made for him to return home on Friday, gradually to sink. I dreaded the few hopeless weeks that the old wife, some years his senior, would have to spend watching to the end a losing battle. The thought ran in my head: " Why not help to speed his end and save them both that useless struggle? "
The medical journal had just arrived. It contained the usual mixed budget of views and information ; some men writing to catch the public eye, others giving the results of years of painstaking research from their laboratories, which one day may help to fill in the missing links in some of those problems which nature has sent to keep the medical profession humble—such as the cure of cancer. In the journal in one corner was a notice regarding the treatment of pernicious anaemia with liver—raw liver in large quantities and entirely uncooked. It seemed absurd that liver should differ from meat in general ; it probably was absurd ; very likely the cases quoted had not been the real thing and certainly they could not have been as bad as my old man. It was probably no good, but we would give it a trial.
On Monday he started. The usual opposition prom kitchen, from ward sister, from nurses, was overcome- (not so much trouble from the nurses ; are they more human? or less hide- bound? Or do they feel that if Sister takes one side it is their duty to take the other?). He took this dose daily like a man; pounded, grated, squeezed, mixed, always horrible-looking and always raw. Even the red tumbler and the flavouring with H.P. sauce would not have deceived me. Friday came and he was somewhat better, his pulse was slower, his cheeks not so yellow ; we must carry on. The friend went home with his motor-car empty. So the days went by. The improvement was sustained, the atmosphere changed, even the Sister was almost convinced—that was the greatest -victory—and the house-physician had proved that the experiment had succeeded.
Six weeks later—he had been up daily and had been walking about the ward—he finally walked to the door after saying " good-bye " to us. It was sad to see him go. He was really our making, our success, and yet, six weeks before I would have written his death-certificate or even given him something to shorten those useless three weeks of necessary waiting. And when they talk of euthanasia I always remember my old man and I think what will be in tomorrow's medical journal.
We never saw him again—it was a good sign—but w would have liked to shake his hand. He was the sort of per who found it difficult to express his gratitude ; he did n make flowery speeches as so many do, which sometimes In little but give the makers the feeling that they have paid th. debt. If he had had a tail he would have wagged it. His oilf is long dead, and so is the friend with the motor-car. Y will understand now how that bald obituary notice took back to the incident of seventeen years ago, and you will r why I feel that I have lost &friend. a S1
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