Imagine with me for a moment.
Imagine you’ve wanted a dog your whole life. Imagine the time is finally right. Imagine your excitement, your enthusiasm, your JOY when you finally get your pet. You go to the shelter or the breeder or the neighbor down the street and you choose your dog. In doing so, you take on a responsibility, right?
You’ve declared that you are responsible for this life. You promise to care for the dog to the best of your ability. You’ll feed it and walk it and nurture it and provide medical care. You will love this pet. Your whole family will love this pet.
And then, imagine a tragedy. Maybe it’s a brain tumor. Maybe paralysis. Maybe your beloved pet can no longer eat, or walk, or breathe on its own. You love your pet, so of course, you seek medical advice. You get a first opinion, and a second, and a third. They all explain, to some degree, that your beloved pet’s quality of life will not improve.
You grieve. You make peace with this sad reality. You prepare to say goodbye. Your heart is broken and your burden is heavy. But you make a choice. You decide it is time to let go of your beloved pet.
And then. You share your decision with your veterinarian, who explains that it’s not really your choice.
Because the law upholds the sanctity of the life that you’ve claimed responsibility for. The law says that it’s not actually your decision. According to the law, you need to strap that dog to your chest and carry it around with you… physically carry it on your person… until or unless your own life is at risk.
Would you simply accept that? Would you fight back? What would your arguments be?
You might say that your beloved pet is, of course, alive and valuable… but it doesn’t hold as much, or more, value than your own life.
You might argue that you can’t work with a dog strapped to your body. It will place an unbearable financial burden on you and your family.
You might argue that your own health is at risk. The physical burden of carrying another being will damage your back and your knees and render you incapable of going about your daily life.
You might argue the emotional toll of carrying around a body incapable of supporting itself. You might point out the heartbreak of a constant reminder of your dying pet.
You might explain that you can’t care for your family in this condition. Your children and your spouse will suffer the burden of your incapacity.
You might argue that the government doesn’t have the right to infringe upon your autonomy. You might say that politicians can’t tell you what to do with your own body.
You would probably ask at what point the quality of your OWN life gets factored into the equation.
And the politicians would answer, “Letting go only becomes a legal option if and when your own life is at risk.”
How would you feel?
Violated? Dismissed? Infantilized?
Frustrated? Angry? Hopeless?
Heartbroken? Simply broken?
In this scenario, I imagine my husband adamantly declaring his rights. I imagine him fighting this legislation and advocating for his autonomy and passionately arguing that the government can’t tell him how to live his life. I imagine his outrage at the legislative over-reach.
Maybe the story is a stretch. And you likely have your own opinions about the sanctity of life and the accuracy of medical predictions and the level to which you would sacrifice your own happiness and freedom for someone else.
My compassionate, conservative, caring husband and I recently entered a debate about late-term abortions. And I kept trying to think of an analogy that might help him understand the perspective of a woman faced with a heartbreaking choice.
I would ask: How often does a woman carry a baby into the third trimester intending to abort? My husband would argue that some people are irresponsible or unscrupulous or just plain stupid. But in the next breath, he would argue that those same irresponsible, unscrupulous, stupid people have the right to carry a gun.
He will argue for smaller government and less legislation and yet support this supposedly ‘moral’ reason for legislating people’s bodies.
I have to conclude that this type of thinking only persists because, as a society, we continue to regard women as emotional and irrational and in need of protection; protection from our own uninformed or weak or hysterical selves.
If you believe that women are just as rational, intelligent, and capable as men, the whole thing becomes a moot point. Women are capable of making choices. For themselves, and for their families. Women are strong and rational and compassionate and brave. To legislate women’s health is to adamantly declare that you believe women incapable of informed consent.
And so my husband and I re-enter the debate. With love. And patience. Because we are all products of our own environment and experience. Because, despite our different viewpoints, we believe in each other. We believe in the power of listening to each others’ perspectives and stories and experiences.
This ongoing push and pull in our relationship has caused discomfort and anger. At times, we have questioned our compatibility. These conflicts have pushed us both to evaluate our views and check our sources and remember to listen when we debate. And they have helped us both to grow into better people. We cannot afford to dismiss the ‘other’ point of view, because we cannot afford to dismiss each other.
So we speak in analogies. We present hypotheticals. We share stories. And we listen. Because there is strength in compassion and growth in the hard places. Because we trust each other, we can enter into the difficult conversations and become better people. We can lean on each other and take care of our family, our friends, and even our pets, knowing that we are supported and valued and heard.
Note: I asked my husband to read this before I post it. The debate continues. We discuss morality. We debate the role of government. We play out worst-case scenarios and pray that we won’t ever have to make these difficult choices. We listen and argue, and in the end, we lean on each other. In love.