Should my Baby Live?

Abstract

It was 2.30 a.m. My baby son had been born exactly twenty-four hours earlier, and my wakefulness should have been for the purpose of feeding and caring for him. Instead, I lay exhausted, trying to come to terms with the awful reality that I was now the mother of a grossly handicapped child. Presently I must have slept, for I found myself walking alone into a conference room. In the centre was an oblong table, and seated along either side, were a number of people whom I recognised as eminent philosophers. I took a seat at one end, leaving the chair at the head of the table vacant. The doctor in charge of my son’s case was also present, and it was he who commenced the proceedings. Briefly, he explained to the assembled group, that my son had been born with a serious spinal lesion which would result in permanent physical and mental handicap, and that I, as his parent, was required to authorise medical treatment without which he would eventually die.