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When my grandmother found out she had cancer in her bladder, she was offered two choices. She could undergo aggressive chemotherapy, which, for a woman her age, had almost a 0% rate of survival. Or she could have her bladder removed entirely she would almost certainly survive—but she would have to live with the indignity of carrying an external bag for urine with her all the time. Being who she was, my grandmother chose the chemotherapy and a year later, she died. It was difficult for all the members of her family and, in particular, my grandfather who was her primary caretaker while she slowly starved to death in her own living room. None of us would have minded, I think, if she had a bag for urine. Her absence in our lives is frequently noticed. The questions that arose in my mind went something like this: what was her obligation to us when she made her decision?
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