Just looking into my crystal ball here. Sooner or later, the Marxists of the Obama administration are going to have to address the “Death Panel” aspect of ObamaCare. We already see the body of the beast, in the 15-member Independent Panel Advisory Board (IPAB), which is supposed to rule on which medications and treatments are cost-effective for various patient conditions. Unseen so far is the spirit, the animating argument that the IPAB will have to make in order to push granny off the wagon.
As they are shoehorning their baby-killing habit into every nook and cranny of our society under the rubric of “fairness”, I predict that the much-discussed “end of life counseling” talking point will morph into a supposedly grass-roots “death with dignity”, Kevorkian style of argument.
Personally, I’m not opposed to the idea on its own merits, as a matter of liberty, under certain circumstances. I am aware that many people desire such a thing, and someday, I might be one of them. So you could say I’m keeping my options open. But context is everything, and death with dignity in the context of government decisions about the cost-effectiveness of medical care is terrifying. Watch for the term or something an awful lot like it. I can picture Nancy Pelosi’s horrific smiling face as she sickeningly coos to us that we should respect the rights of those who are in pain, alone, untreatable in any practical ($) sense, and who just want to have some say in the ultimate decision–and the government will help.
What could possibly go wrong?
What indeed? Fifty-five, the age to lay down your life responsibly in-favor of making your fellow American’s lives better. We had this discussion the other day. While the death panels will judge whose life is best-suited to receive cancer treatment, the junkie will get priority because they could not help falling prey to drugs. Once you’ve read the monstrosity they call the health care bill, you’re too sick at your stomach to see a doctor for fear it might be fatal. Let’s just institute Logan’s Run and be done with it. Age 30, you’re a dead man or woman walking, and we never thought that would be art imitating life. Silly us!