The Perspective of Life

At 75, I have come to understand that the way we see life—and death—is shaped by more than just our experiences. It is shaped by our culture, our losses, our fears, and our love. I have lived long enough to hold many lives in my arms—especially the four-legged kind. Loyal companions who gave everything and asked for nothing. And when the time came, I made the painful decision to let them go, trusting the words of the vet and believing I was doing what was best.

I have often sat in that sterile room, feeling the weight of the decision in my chest. They trusted me in life—and I felt it was my duty to be there at the end. To give them peace before pain took over. Here in North America, we call it “the humane thing to do.” We ease suffering. We do not prolong it. But lately, I have begun to wonder—who decides what is humane?

My son lives in Thailand, a world away from the values I was raised with. He tells me that in Thai culture, pets live out their full lives, no matter how ill or frail they become. They are cared for until the end, naturally. The idea of euthanasia is seen as interference. A soul, they believe, should not be rushed. Death, when it comes, comes in its own time. 

To them, we are the ones making the inhumane choice.

It is jarring to hear. It shakes the foundation of what I have believed to be kindness. But it also opens the door to reflection. Are we, in the West, so afraid of suffering that we leap to end it too soon? Are we too quick to draw a line and say, “enough”? And more than that—do we, as a culture, throw away life too easily?

We live in a society that values youth, health, and convenience. We do not always have the time or patience to care for the vulnerable. We warehouse the elderly. We see aging as something to resist or deny. In that context, maybe our decisions around life and death are not just about compassion, but also about discomfort—ours, not theirs.

I do not know what the right answer is. I am still wrestling with it. Maybe there is not one. Maybe it is not about being right, but about recognizing that life—real life—is complicated. Messy. Painful. Beautiful. Maybe the way we let go says more about us than it does about those we are letting go of.

At 75, I have lived a lot. But I am still learning how to see. And sometimes, it takes another culture, another perspective, or even a conversation with my son halfway around the world to make me look at my own choices differently.
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What is humane? Perhaps the real answer lies in how willing we are to ask the question.

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