A lesson in shameful insensitivity

You’d have to be permanently attached to an intravenous drip of ice water not to have been moved by that heartbreaking story out of St. Anthony last week, in which a woman claimed a doctor had suggested that one medical option she should consider for her critically ill daughter was an assisted suicide.

Sheila Elson’s description of the conversation she had last fall with the doctor was enough to prompt understandable reactions of shock and anger throughout the province; his cold and mean-spirited argument that she would be “selfish” if she didn’t give consideration to such a choice for her 25-yearold daughter, Candice Lewis, was almost beyond comprehension.

But what was startling altogether was Elson’s revelation that her daughter, who suffers from a variety of serious illnesses, including spina bifida and cerebral palsy, was in the hospital room at the time, listening to every word being spoken about the possibility that her life would be ended.

A dog in a vet’s office, its owner being told that euthanasia was probably the ultimate answer to the pet’s medical troubles: that’s what it sounded like. (Having been forced myself to have that sort of emotionally draining discussion on too many occasions, most recently in April, I would suggest Elson’s doctor could probably use a few lessons in compassion from the vets I’ve dealt with over the years).

But this was a human being, a young woman, not dog or a cat; this was someone capable of thinking for herself, who could understand that it was her death being contemplated, the doctor oblivious to her feelings, to her views, the most important views (to say the least) in the room.

To say he lacked a decent bedside manner is a monumental understatement; what he lacked was a heart.

We’ve only heard one side of this story, the Labradorgrenfell Health Board having cited privacy factors for its refusal to comment, always a strange argument from medical management types embroiled in controversy, especially when the patient or the patient’s family have gone public and obviously have no concerns about privacy.

But until the doctor or his bosses speak up, we have to take Elson’s version of what happened at face value, to accept that she is telling the truth.

And if what she says is absolutely accurate, the doctor at the centre of this grotesque incident should receive the Newfoundland Medical Board’s version of being tarred and feathered: he should be forced to respond to these serious allegations of decidedly inappropriate behaviour.

At least the publicity has sent a message (one would think, and hope) to other doctors in the province about the wrong way and the right way to handle critically or terminally ill patients, about the right way and the wrong way to deal with any discussion of assisted suicide.

Now, lest anyone in readership land think my disgust with the Elson story reflects a personal and philosophical disagreement with the laws that permit assisted suicides in Canada, I would hasten to point out that those laws, put in place a year ago, were long overdue, and provide more evidence of Canada’s reputation as a decent and humane nation.

I’m sure those opposed to doctor-assisted suicide will jump all over the Elson case, especially the right-to-lifers with no concept of the separation of church and state, who believe the laws of the land should reflect the dogma of some abstract, invisible but infallible God.

But any attempts they make to manipulate and exploit the St. Anthony incident to further their own pious ideas about assisted suicide should be ignored.

Yes, it was an awful matter, as I’ve tried to point out, but it doesn’t take away from the value, the benefit, of the lawful practice of giving terminally ill patients, or those suffering from debilitating, insufferable pain, the right to ask a doctor to end their lives.

I’m reluctant to once again dredge up my personal medical history here, but I will, only to make a point that I’ve had to think about this issue, and not in some sort of theoretical, detached way.

Back in 2003-2004, when I was dealing with colon cancer that spread to my liver, I was told at one point by my doctors that I was terminally ill, that my care was considered “palliative,” that “pain management” personnel would be brought into my case, that the heaviest dose of chemotherapy would be initiated to give me some additional time, the chemo to last “forever,” as the oncologist told me in response to a direct question.

There was no middle ground; I was dying.

I won’t go into detail here about the trauma endured during the subsequent months by my wife, my family and me, but, for the sake of this column, I would note that I did think about dying with dignity, that it would be my decision when and how my life would end. I knew I would fight with all I had in me to survive as long as I could, but that the final call would be mine, not some right wing, holier-than-thou politician. Not some Bible-thumping loon. Mine.

Fortunately, the decision did not have to be made. I survived.

But this isn’t about me; this is about Shelia Elson and her daughter Candice.

They deserve justice, they deserve an apology.

At the very least.

To say he lacked a decent bedside manner is a monumental understatement; what he lacked was a heart.