A sound woke me from my sleep. I lay in my Pokémon pajamas on the top bunk of the twin-sized bed my brother and I shared, allowing my vision to slowly normalize. I could just make out the small patterns in the popcorn ceiling above my head. What was that sound? I wanted to go back to sleep and dream. I wanted to leave this world and enter the world of carefree nothingness, but that darn sound kept me awake. Could it be scratching? Another attempt by my brother to prank me? The sound began to anger me. My muscles around my shoulders tensed as I felt myself retreating further and further from the land of rest and relaxation. I was exhausted after a long day in Ms. Bell’s 4th grade class, and I just wanted to lay my head down on my pillow and sleep, but this sound prevented me from doing so.

I finally just gave up on falling asleep and looked for the source of all this frustration. I poked my head over the bed rail, expecting to discover a breeze moving something around or the sound of the house creaking, only to see a black blob of fur on the ground, completely motionless except for an occasional kick from the front legs that somehow synced up perfectly with the scratching. I had never realized that the duty of man’s best friend was to keep him up all night. My beloved dog, Bear, was lying on the floor kicking his legs for what I assumed to be another attempt at catching that imaginary bunny he would chase in his dreams. I noticed that something was out of the ordinary; his eyes were open. He was not envisioning a better life, free on an open range, chasing bunnies and squirrels for as long as his heart desired. He was stuck in this dark room, kicking his front legs in a futile attempt to move from this spot. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get up. The leukemia had already spread to his hind legs.

Bear was nine years old, same as me. In fact, we got him just a week after I was born. Apparently my parents thought having three kids wasn’t enough already and a dog would take no responsibility whatsoever. Growing up, I spent more time with that dog than anyone else. We would play for hours together just chasing after a ball or pulling on a rope. I spent so much time with him that my first word uttered on this earth was his name: “Bear”. I would say his name proudly and joyously because he was my one true friend, but now, he couldn’t chase after balls or pull on ropes. He was still my best friend, but this was not the dog that I had grown up with. The scratching increased and Bear let out a yelp. He wanted to move but couldn’t. The scratching got faster. Another yelp and my dad was in the room to see what the noise was all about. The scratching became constant now. This went on all night.

The next day, we said our goodbyes to Bear. My dad took him to the veterinarian's clinic on the corner of Sixteenth Street and Union Hills, and asked that Bear be injected with pentobarbital, a drug used in euthanasia.The veterinarians injected the solution into his IV, and he drifted into sleep. His breathing became slower and slower until, eventually, it stopped. Bear died peacefully. He died with dignity. He did not yelp or scratch on the floor, unable to move. He did not feel any pain. Of course, there is no way for me to tell what he thought during that time, but I like to believe he felt thankful in those final moments, knowing that his suffering would end.

I felt melancholy. I had lost my best friend. The one living being I always counted on being there for me was now gone. But then I realized that Bear had already been gone for a long time. The happy, energetic scamp that would fill my afternoons with laughter had been replaced by a sluggish creature with barely the ability to go up the stairs. Here, in this world, Bear could not chase after those bunnies he longed for. His mind was trapped in this broken shell that could no longer serve its primary purpose. I felt happy knowing that Bear could now move on. I knew that no matter where he was, he would be better off than being stuck here. It was the only way to make the scratching stop.

My experience with Bear makes me question our own health care’s policy on euthanasia. Why is it that we do not allow our citizens to die with the same dignity that we allow animals? I am not saying that a human life is worth the same as an animal life, but I do not understand why we grant animals more rights than we grant ourselves.
Euthanasia is only done in the case of patients that are terminally ill or, basically, have no hope for a cure and are being kept alive through highly artificial means. Euthanasia is illegal in the United States. In some countries it is legal under the patient’s orders, after being reviewed by a physician and lawyer, and can be carried out by a doctor or nurse. Euthanasia allows a person going through agonizing pain to end their suffering with dignity and on their own terms.

To understand why euthanasia is an appropriate alternative to dying naturally, one must understand what it’s like to have a terminal illness. It is impossible for me to describe this accurately since neither any of my loved ones nor I have ever gone through such a horrific process, but to me, knowing that you are going to die but being kept alive on life support is a lot like trying to fall back into that deep sleep after a long, hard day. All you feel is exhaustion. You want to relax and fall into that warm embrace of slumber. No more worrying about what tests you have tomorrow, what homework still needs to be done, who you talked to that day and who you still want to talk to, all the mistakes you made in the past, and all the decisions you regret not making. You only want to fall asleep as soon as possible. Just as you reach that point of no return between dreaming and waking, you hear it. A soft, barely audible sound that may not even exist. It could just be all in your head, but this hum is getting louder and more noticeable, not enough to cause you to get up and investigate, but enough to keep you from entering that wonderland you long for. The sound becomes annoying. No matter how much you try to ignore it, the sound resonates inside of you. Now, you’re angry. This sound is the only thing standing between you and peace, yet there’s nothing you can do about it. Depression hits you like a bag of sand pouring over your body, slowly engulfing you until you feel you can’t breathe. You’ve given up hope. This sound is now a part of your life and no matter what you do, no matter who you ask for help, it will not go away. This sound is like life support to the terminally ill patient that wants to die. It is the sound of the heart-rate monitor beeping. It is the sound of the iron lung, forcing oxygen into your system. It is the sound of the weeping of the ones you love refusing to let you move on. It is the sound of the nurses changing you because you have lost the ability to control even your most basic functions. It is the sound of the doctors giving you medicine that only postpones the inevitable as each day you limp closer and closer to that sweet release you long for.

Euthanasia allows us to silence that sound for those that don’t have the ability to do so themselves. It allows us to tuck them in, caress their head, and tell them “Hush now, everything is going to be alright”.

Many oppose euthanasia simply because of a stigma against just allowing a person to die. They argue that life is the most sacred gift, that we must do everything in our power to protect it because death should be avoided at all costs. I agree that a person should attempt every option to stay alive, but what if none of these work? What if their only option is to allow nature to take its course, forcing them to either live with the pain or be in a constant state of drug-induced confusion? It is then we must realize that death is a part of life and no matter what we do, we will all eventually die. People are afraid of what comes after death. Some find peace in the belief that there is an afterlife while others feel there is nothing waiting for us on the other side. The fact is we do not know. Nobody can tell us what is beyond our lives, if anything, and we will probably never know the answer to this great question. This lack of knowledge scares a lot of people, so they choose to keep grandma on life support against her will and scrimp to pay for her care because they fear what might come next for her. People should not worry about questions we will never have the answer to. At the end of life, we should not fear death, but embrace it as a welcomed destination after the long, extensive trek we take on this earth.

It is not right to allow people to suffer in life and not give them the option to end it in some way. As human beings, we have the moral obligation to lessen the pain of others if we have the ability to do so. Euthanasia has been around for millennia and is widely accepted by many cultures today. It’s time that Americans accept death as inevitable and allow our citizens to pass away with the respect and dignity they deserve. We already allow it for our pets, why not our loved ones?