Life and Death

Musings

Life

From the overwrought and breathless coverage I’ve seen, it appears that the supreme court in one of our fifty states has followed its and other courts’ precedents by extending the concept of personhood to fertilized eggs. In this case, the fertilized eggs in question are not housed within the friendly confines of a human female, but are housed in whatever artifice the marvels of modern “In-Vitro Fertilization (IVF)” provide for. The ruling—which proceeds logically from precedent (as already stated)—created a firestorm of disapproval from all the usual suspects who claim that 21st century conservatism is leading to Sharia law, and that we are just around the corner from The Handmaid’s Tale. This is rubbish.

The court in Alabama did its job. It rightly pointed out the distinction made between the cozy confines of a womb and the cryogenic freezer from the perspective of the unborn life contained in the fertilized egg is false. What exists is human life—irrespective of its physical location. A human life entitled to protection.

That prospect that IVF doctors could be prosecuted for all manner of crimes due to mishandling or purposeful destruction of said life was indeed raised by this decision. The decision did not CREATE this possibility, it extended this already existing concept to the laboratory. If this were the end of the story, then—in my judgment—a tremendous disservice would have been committed, and one of the great modern miracles of our age would be jeopardized.

But the ruling did not have that authority. It had only the impact of raising the possibility. And as the link above demonstrated, the Alabama legislature—where the good people of that State vest their collective voices in democratic action—has voted to recognize that while those fertilized eggs are indeed human life and worthy of great respect, they are NOT the same as the eggs that cling to uterine walls.

This is what we used to call a “win-win”—in that the principle of the sacredness of human life is maintained even as the the law adapts to technology and attitudes.

If the Alabama legislature had not moved in the direction it had, in all likelihood, this procedure would disappear from the State. This would be unfortunate. But it would NOT be the imposition of Sharia or theocracy, or The Handmaid’s Tale. It would be representative democracy in action, one in which the collective voice of the people determined that in spite of the societal benefits of IVF, the downside—destruction of human life—was not worth it. Alabama residents would then be forced into the inconvenient decision to seek this procedure elsewhere. Again—not great—but certainly not the slide into chattel slavery our media would have us believe.

Death

There is in our modern, internet-driven society, a common understanding that celebrity deaths come in groups of three. I have never really known what to think of this meme, save to be interested in it when it seems to apply, usually with a little chuckle and a “yep, there it is.”

We have had a bit of death around here, and some near-death, and there are no accompanying chuckles. In the space of a week or so, I said auf wiedersehen to my Father, was informed of the tragic death of the adult child of a dear friend/mentor, and had to watch my sweet Catherine put down our pony Dawson, seventh birthday present to our just as sweet daughter Hannah who is now 22. Perhaps as a means of reinforcing the notion of “three’s”, our beloved nearly 13 year old Labrador Baloo—with a fast growing soft tissue cancer on his chest and shoulder—had an awful day this week where we had pretty much decided on his assisted passing, but he woke up Wednesday morning his old self and has been doing fine. We are blessed to have these additional days with him.

The author (58) in repose, with Baloo (12.75) in the left foreground, and Bagheera the Cat (19) in the basket to the right. Catherine sent this to the girls with “The Old Men on the Porch” as the caption.

It is cliche to write about death as one ages. To be honest, I don’t think about death qua death very often at all. I think more about what I’ll do with the years that remain, be they numbered as they may. As I described in my piece about my Dad’s death two weeks ago, I had no unfinished business with him when he died, our ledgers were balanced. His death was sad, not tragic. I’d like to think that my own demise would elicit the same emotions from those around me. I am pretty straightforward when I blather on about having had “…a good run”, not that I’m trying to tempt fate, but just as a means of qualifying the immense gratitude I have to God for what has already gone past. I am INCREDIBLY excited about what could be in store in the time ahead. Honest labor. Grandchildren (no pressure, girls). Travel. Friends. My community.

But I’ve indulged in enough pop-psychology/faux-Buddhist reading to know that what REALLY, REALLY matters is what I am doing RIGHT NOW…this moment. And this essay is an opportunity to luxuriate in the RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. To that point, I am incredibly grateful that IN THIS MOMENT, here are 2987 people who have decided (by providing subscribing to this Substack) that they are interested enough in my blathering and meanderings to receive this essay in their Monday morning emails, and that some undetermined number of others will read it upon being forwarded it or seeing my flaking of it on social media.

I am also grateful that it is March 1st (as I write this), that I am respiring on yet another day, that there is a carpet of crocuses in the backyard that stands in beautiful testimony to Catherine’s approach to lawn management, and that when I took the dogs out this morning, I was treated to the birdsong of the White-throated Sparrow and the Cedar Waxwing. I am grateful that I ate kangaroo at dinner last night, and that I received an invitation to shoot sporting clays next weekend.

Life contends with death, and thus it has ever been.

Etc.

Keen-eyed readers may notice that I’ve added another Substack to my “recommended” list, and it is that of Sophie Osborn—wildlife biologist and award-winning author. It is called “Words for Birds”, and it is designed as an accompaniment to her book due out in the first week of May entitled “Feather Trails: A Journey of Discovery Among Endangered Birds”. Sophie is Catherine’s dear friend of long-standing, and every time I read even a paragraph of her writing, I find myself—quite selfishly, of course—wishing that she might also turn her unbelievable eye for detail to the everyday world around her, a la E.B. White. Until then, we have her incomparable nature writing.