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I like to think of myself as a relatively unselfish person. Even though that’s completely untrue, I still like attempting to delude myself every now and then. This hypothetical version of me would never hesitate to make his decisions based on what was best for everyone, not just himself. Also, he would be able to fly and shoot laser beams out of his eyes.

Thomas Debaggio had to make one of those tough choices in his book Losing My Mind. This book is his first-person account of living with Alzheimer’s, a crippling disease that erases your memories and transforms your loved ones into complete strangers. When he is first diagnosed with the condition, he has two choices: get treatment with the current, slightly effective course of medication or agree to be a test subject in a trial of new drugs designed to be much more effective at combating the disease.

The catch, of course, is that in drug trials, there are always two groups: the test group and the control group. The test group receives the experimental drug while the control group receives placebos and no, you don’t get to pick which group you’re in. Unless the new drug had horrific side effects (e.g. death), I’m pretty sure everyone desperate for relief from their respective conditions would sign up for the test group.

Here’s where the hypothetical version of myself would step up and bravely volunteer to participate in the drug trial. After all, it would be for the good of science and all mankind. Even if the new pills/serum/patch/rectal implant didn’t work as effectively as they thought it would, at least the imaginary-me could be secure in the knowledge that he had helped further the limits of human knowledge and, in the process, offer hope to some other poor soul who might suffer from the same ailment in the future.

But what if I was in that control group? What if I got the sugar pills instead of the real thing and, in effect, not receive any treatment at all? In this case, participating in the trial would be the same as hearing my doctor say “You have Alzheimer’s,” nodding my head and promptly walking out the door, ignoring the diagnosis completely. What if by subjecting myself to the standard treatment instead of offering myself up to science, I managed to retain my memory and higher brain functions by a month? Six months? A year? Would that extra time spent with loved ones in a coherent state make up for the fact that you passed up the chance to help other people? Or is it better to have as much time as possible to spend with your friends and family instead of helping some complete stranger who will never, ever be able to comprehend the depth of your sacrifice anyway?

I hope I’ll never be in the position to have to make this decision. I’m not sure who would win - the hypothetical, unselfish, flying me or the regular, off-putting me.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 24th, 2008 at 5:45 pm and is filed under everything else. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.