My patient is dying (again), and I can’t do anything to stop him.

That’s such a horrible feeling. I can’t help him. I can’t stop the disease, I can’t change anything anymore. It’s too late.

At that point, the thought arises, if I can’t cure him, at least maybe I could make this quicker, easier for him and his family.

I never thought I’d understand (dare I say sympathize with) that idea.

I understood today, finally, how doctors, whose purpose is to heal, can end up wanting to kill (because that’s what euthanasia is, in the final analysis). I wanted to do something, anything, for this man; and if I couldn’t fix him, that left only one thing.

The problem is that I’m not God. There’s a very old joke about the difference between God and the surgeons; and I think death is his way of reminding us humans of our place in the world. Death is not under our control. It’s not a thing that we can order around, or organize, or turn off and on at our whim.

Life and death belong to God. He gives life, and he controls its end. The time of death does not belong to us. That’s our human arrogance talking, to think we can control every aspect of our lives, right down to death itself.

So I had to let go. That man was God’s creation. God let me care for him for a while; but ultimately I and my colleagues were never the ones in control. As the psalmist says, “Man returns to dust, and his spirit returns to his Maker.”

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