T
TheVanishingPoint
Member
- May 20, 2025
- 10
My sister has lost everything.
She lost her home, her partner, her job.
She lost her beauty, the years of study, the career she had built.
She lost her health,
and with it, every shred of freedom.
But what she truly lost is the right to choose.
She has ALS.
And every single day,
something inside her shuts down,
but her mind stays on—sharp, aware, imprisoned.
She understands everything, remembers everything, feels everything.
And she can do nothing.
I look at her in that bed,
motionless, held hostage by a biology that refuses to die,
and every time, she asks me—with her eyes—
to help her go.
To shut off this lucid horror.
To give her back at least a fragment of dignity.
And I can't.
Because the law forbids it.
Because the system has decided it's more acceptable
to let someone rot, day after day,
than to allow them a death that is chosen, conscious, deliberate.
Here, compassion is a crime.
Autonomy is an empty word.
Freedom exists only in the form granted
by the dominant ideology.
And that ideology has ancient roots: religious, guilt-ridden, blind.
ALS is the perfect trap:
it doesn't kill you immediately,
it keeps you alive just long enough to suffer methodically.
It is legal torture, delivered in quiet, measured doses.
No one can save her.
No one can protect her.
No one is even allowed to give her what she asks for: an end.
And so I ask:
what is civilization,
if it doesn't allow someone to die
when life has become nothing but torment?
In the corridors of these clinics, pain drags itself like a wounded animal.
There are no tragedies—just aches,
minor anemias,
and the slow collapse of what used to be called a person.
We are nothing,
without imagination,
without the right to vanish.
She lost her home, her partner, her job.
She lost her beauty, the years of study, the career she had built.
She lost her health,
and with it, every shred of freedom.
But what she truly lost is the right to choose.
She has ALS.
And every single day,
something inside her shuts down,
but her mind stays on—sharp, aware, imprisoned.
She understands everything, remembers everything, feels everything.
And she can do nothing.
I look at her in that bed,
motionless, held hostage by a biology that refuses to die,
and every time, she asks me—with her eyes—
to help her go.
To shut off this lucid horror.
To give her back at least a fragment of dignity.
And I can't.
Because the law forbids it.
Because the system has decided it's more acceptable
to let someone rot, day after day,
than to allow them a death that is chosen, conscious, deliberate.
Here, compassion is a crime.
Autonomy is an empty word.
Freedom exists only in the form granted
by the dominant ideology.
And that ideology has ancient roots: religious, guilt-ridden, blind.
ALS is the perfect trap:
it doesn't kill you immediately,
it keeps you alive just long enough to suffer methodically.
It is legal torture, delivered in quiet, measured doses.
No one can save her.
No one can protect her.
No one is even allowed to give her what she asks for: an end.
And so I ask:
what is civilization,
if it doesn't allow someone to die
when life has become nothing but torment?
In the corridors of these clinics, pain drags itself like a wounded animal.
There are no tragedies—just aches,
minor anemias,
and the slow collapse of what used to be called a person.
We are nothing,
without imagination,
without the right to vanish.