In my last year of junior high school I had to take a woodworking class.  It was one of those elective classes that EVERYONE has to take.  Or so I seem to remember it that way.  What I remember is that my counselor pointed at me, and asked me what elective class I wanted to take.  I choked, and he put me in a woodworking class.

Next thing I know I'm in this class where I feel like I'm going to cut my finger off any minute.  The machines, like the jigsaw, made me scared.  I had this crazy feeling that my hand would slip, and I would cut one of my fingers off.  I constantly had those thoughts going through my mind.  I didn't even get near the jigsaw.  Only problem was that I HAD to use the jigsaw at least once in order to finish the project I was working on.

The teacher made a different kid the tool monitor of the week.  One week it was my turn to make sure that all the tools where in their place.  That was the week that I decided I would cut my piece with one of the small hand saws.  This saw was tiny, with an equally tiny blade.  The teacher even warned us that using this saw would take too long, and would cause the saw to heat up and fall off the handle, and probably break.  Well, I went about sawing this project anyway, because there was no way I was getting near that jigsaw.

It took me nearly the whole class period to cut a little section of my project, but at the end I was happy to just get that part out of the way.  Yet, from all the cutting that I did, the blade did get super hot, and it did break off the handle.  I was so afraid that the teacher would beat me up, or something, that I just put the broken saw in a drawer, and hoped for the best.  I figured that even if I had to pay the 10 cents for a replacement blade that it would be OK, since I was the one that broke it.  I simply didn't want the teacher to know it was me.

(the following was written 3.21.05)

The case of Terri Schiavo is split among the same lines that so many of our arguments are... a difference of opinion.  But, these differences of opinion represent closely held ideas about life and death, and when we being and end.  When we appear, and when we disappear.  When is it, no one can really say.  Run up to someone on the street, and ask them when life begins.  They will most likely have a definite answer, that they will likely defend if you tell them they're dead wrong.  It's because we have no idea when life begins that we have such problems with abortion.

The flip side of the coin is that death is no longer something so well defined as it used to be.  With machines that can replace nearly everything in the human body, the line has been stepped over and obliterated.  And we end up with terms like half-dead, vegetable, or brain dead.  Which all represent something that we fear, but never directly look at with calculation.  We never ask ourselves, "What if I end up a vegetable?  Unable to do anything for myself, and perhaps not even knowing that I'm around."  What if is a big thing, because it makes us face things that are uncomfortable with, specifically death.

So a woman sits in a hospital with a feeding tube sending nutrients coursing through her somewhat lifeless body, and we ask ourselves, "What would I do."  This is why the plight of Terri Schiavo is so personal, even though we don't know her.  I know that I would leave behind something saying that I rather not be in her state until this Godless universe wore my body down, and I died.  But, that isn't always possible.  I can say that right here, but it's meaningless unless I specifically say these things to someone, and leave them written somewhere.  My wishes follow my line of thinking, that no artificial means are going to keep me from dying.  Because I'm already dead.

Cogito ergo sum, I think therefore I am.  This is where I have drawn the line between life and death.  If I don't have a thought in my head, then I'm dead.  That covers brain dead, but it doesn't cover the Schiavo case.  She might have thoughts running through her mind, but is unable to relate them to anyone.   Her mind might be trapped inside a body that no longer responds to her conscious.  For me that state might be one worse than death.  I would have the mountain of frustration, but without the ability to express the frustration.  It would represent a personal hell, and I would welcome the escape of death.