A Quick Fix For Death

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Published on: September 29, 2011

A Trip to the Euthanasia Clinic


Henry Barnes

The cult of death (the Left) considers abortion and euthanasia forms of compassion.
― Book of Common Misery

On his seventy-fourth birthday, John Burlington’s euthanasia kit arrived by special courier. There is a birthday party going on when the front doorbell rings. The party stops.
Mary, John’s daughter, walks slowly toward the door as the messenger rings the bell again. She remembers the day, five years ago, when her mother was summoned to the euthanasia clinic on her seventy-fourth birthday. Hope against hope she has prayed that some government snafu would keep this from happening to her father.
The messenger hands her a small box and asks for her signature on the release form. Tears run down her cheeks as she signs. She hesitates, hoping one last time that the box is something else. That it doesn’t contain the purgatives to clean her father’s intestines so that he’ll be clean for the procedure and the small plastic liner for the box so that the government can ship her father’s ashes to her. But the official Czar of Euthanasia logo printed on the box lets her know that she has signed her father’s death warrant. She laughs in a whispered, nervous tone at the slogan printed beneath the logo: a few sacrifice so others may live.
Mary’s long face tells everyone that what they were afraid of is true. The women and a few of the men cry and all offer condolences to John.
“When?” he asks, his face resolved to the destiny he knew was coming. He remembered when he had to take Grace, his wife of fifty-three years, to the clinic. How the EOLCs (End of Life Counselors) refused to let him go into the Care Room with her. Forced to stay in the ultra-white waiting area, the Delivery Room, with four other families, he could only guess what was happening to his wife, the love of his life. He had spent their life savings, sold their home, even borrowed money he couldn’t possibly pay back, hiring lawyers to fight for Grace.
“Tomorrow at nine a.m.”
“The clinic on Morris Avenue.”
“That one has a bad reputation. They cut corners and push people into the crematoriums alive. I don’t want to go there, but know there is no choice.”
Mary breaks down, sobbing hysterically. John comforts her as do all the guests but there is no solace in knowing that the time of death has been given. Dostoevsky wrote in his diary that knowing you will be executed in the morning makes the mind focus wonderfully. But his execution was a mockery and at the last minute the czar set him free. “The Euthanasia Czar will not be so kind to me,” John thinks.
“Don’t cry, I’ve had a good seventy-four years.”
“I always thought it would be for people who were infirm. You’re as healthy as a forty year old. You’ve always taken good care of yourself. It’s not fair. This is America.”
* * *
The ELOCs, in their white uniforms with the euthanasia logo on their sleeves, have a wheelchair for John. The Burlingtons are here with three other families in a cramped austere white waiting area, the Delivery Room. They have thirty minutes in which to say good-bye to their loved ones. At the end of this time the ELOCs wheel the ‘patients,’ euthanasia kit box in their laps, through a white door at the far end of the room with the words CARE ROOM printed in black letters above it. Families must wait in the Delivery Room until the procedure is over. They are given release forms and the ‘patient’s’ ashes will be shipped to them within five days; although it usually takes four weeks.
John is stripped, the last indignity, strapped to a cold metal slab that bears the burn marks of much usage. He is side by side with three other ‘patients.’ At their feet are the open doors of four crematoria the yellow gas flames licking at the interiors. All four ‘patients’ are given lethal injections. As with all government run entities, there is corruption and at many of the clinics the EOLCs steal the lethal injection liquid and sell it on the black market.
Mary, and everyone else, hears the screams as the ‘patients’ are fed into the ovens. The government assures all those who complain that burning people alive is nothing more than an urban legend.


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