Death With Dignity[1]

It happened again today. While I was giving a lecture on symbolism in Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown,” I could not recall the name of Goodman Brown’s wife. I stood in front of my class and stumbled through the dark corridors of my mind trying to recall a fact that I had discussed hundreds of times. These episodes of memory loss are becoming increasingly frequent, and they affect more than just my ability to teach. My family has felt the brunt of the frustration I feel when I cannot recall simple everyday facts. Despite constant urging from friends and family I have refused to seek medical attention; however, after my experience today, I know I must seek medical advice, so tomorrow I have an appointment with a neurologist.

The results from the various medical tests showed conclusively that I am suffering from a neurological disorder that causes short and long term memory loss, and unpredictable mood swings. The prognosis is not good. Currently, there are no known medical treatments to reverse the effects of the disease ravaging my mind. The doctor offered two courses of treatment, both of which have advantages and disadvantages. The first option is a newly approved experimental serum that would halt the progress of the disease for one to three years, after which I would decline into debilitating dementia in short order. The second options is to undergo a procedure that would upload an exact copy of my brain into a robot, but in the process the brain in my human body would be destroyed. Before deciding which course of treatment is best for me and my family, I have embarked on a research project of epic proportions. I have researched and considered issues, such as will my personal identity survive, how important is my physical body to me, and perhaps most importantly how will my decision effect my family. As a result of my research, I have decided to undergo the destructive upload procedure because it will allow me to die with dignity and subject my family to the least amount of grief.

At first glance, I was against the destructive upload procedure because it would extend my life indefinitely, and that is not what I want. However, in his book Intelligence Unbound, Russell Blackford states that it is possible that “taking part in the uploading procedure would not be a way of obtaining extended life, but actually a high-tech way of committing suicide” ( n.p.). I do not want to continue living in my degraded mental state, and I do not want to burden my family with the responsibility of taking care of me after the effects of the experimental serum wear off. The ideal situation would be to find a method to end my life while providing some consolation to my friends and family. Because it is not acceptable to me to live with these symptoms, the destructive upload procedure provides just such an opportunity. I will be dead, but a version of me will live on in the robot and will assuage my family’s grief to some extent. But, if the robot resembles me in physical appearance and has a brain that is an exact replica of my organic brain, then how is the robot not me? What part of me dies in the upload procedure?

My personal identity is inextricably connected to the physical organic body I occupy. In the uploading process, my organic brain is destroyed; as a result, my organic body dies. Raymond Kurzweil, an acclaimed inventor and futurist, explains this concept by first examining a scenario where an exact copy of a person is created while the person is still alive. In that scenario, even if one assumes that all of person A's memories and thought processes are transferred to person B, one would not assert that they are the same person. Building on this scenario, Kurzweil explains that “if we copy me and then destroy the original, that’s the end of me” (384). Additionally, an integral component of my personal identity is being human. Humans are mortal; they get old and die. They get diseases and die. They are involved in accidents that result in death. They have physical and mental limitations. The robot will not be subject to any of these human limitations. In most respects, the robot will be better than me. It will be stronger, smarter, and potentially immortal. Because the robot would not be susceptible to human limitations, it would not encompass an essential part of my personal identity. However, my family may find solace in the fact that some part of me lives on. The robot could provide my family with new experiences, comfort, and companionship. Because the robot will be stronger, smarter, and immune from human diseases, it will be able to provide economic security, protection, and companionship to my family after my death. Because the robot will not be human, and because being human is a vital component of being me, the robot will not encapsulate enough of my personal identity to be me. While my physical body is a key component of my personal identity, my personality is also a fundamental part of who I am.

            As described above, the upload procedure will strip away a vital component of my personal identity, but if my personality survives and is embodied in the robot, doesn’t that mean that I am still alive just in another body? Kurzweil provides an important insight into the question when he states “We should point out that a person’s personality and skills do not reside only in the brain” (200). The robot will contain an exact copy of my brain, but it will not consist of a precise copy of the rest of my body. As Kurzweil observes “Our nervous system extends throughout the body, and the endocrine (hormonal system has an influence, as well” (200), an exact replica of the brain will not produce the same person because the robot will not contain true versions of my original internal systems. The nervous and hormonal systems throughout my body control how I respond to situations. With that component of my personality missing, the robot will be composed of nothing more than a collection of my memories and experiences, which is not enough of me to claim that I would survive the upload procedure. Just as my human body is a vital part of who I am, my personality is also key to being me. Not only will I lose the physical component of my personal identity, but also I will lose the very essence of self in the destructive upload procedure because my personality will be extinguished. The result will be a facsimile of me, but it will not be me because it will not be composed of any of the important aspects that make me unique. In the upload procedure, my identity will die, but it will be seamless thereby allowing me to cease to exist in the least torturous manner possible while allowing me to experience the final moments of my life without worrying about my family’s future. As with anything in life, assuming the upload procedure will kill me is a gamble. Perhaps, the robot will contain just enough of me that I will survive the upload procedure. I would be trapped in a body that is not mine with an altered personality.

            There is an argument to be made that it is possible that the copy of my brain installed in the computer will create the same mind that is in my human body. However, according to Patrick D. Hopkins in his article “Why Uploading Will Not Work,” personal identity is not a substance that can be moved around. We can not hold personal identity in our hands, and we can not point to a specific place in the brain that my personal identity occupies. Hopkins uses the example of copying a page out of a book. One would not claim that the copy is the same thing as the original, even if it has all the molecular properties of the original. To sum up his argument, Hopkins states “If the criticisms presented here are correct however, uploading may be technically possible but will not accomplish what we want it to accomplish. It will create new minds exactly similar to other minds, but will not save anyone's life” (1-14). Given all the research on the subject, I am confident that I will not survive the destructive uploading process, but instead I will die in a peaceful manner that will leave my family with a reasonable duplicate of me that will meet many of their needs.

            In the end, the question of which course of treatment to undergo was a fairly simple one. Given the life I lead as an educator, it is unacceptable to me to live with the current symptoms. Furthermore, I place a high value on the comfort and well-being of my family. They do not deserve to be subjected to my continued frustration, nor do they deserve to be forced to care for me once the disease progresses. During the destructive upload procedure, everything that is me will die. A new better version of me will be created that will be able to assist my family, and it will allow them to feel that a part of me lives on.

             

Works Cited

Blackford, Russell, and Damien Broderick. Intelligence Unbound: The Future of Uploaded and     Machine Minds. New York: John Wiley & Sons, 2014. Web Accessed. 21 Apr. 2014.

Hopkins, Patrick D. “Why Uploading Will Not Work, Or, The Ghosts Haunting Transhumanists.” International Journal of Machine Consciousness 4.1 (2012): 1-14. Web. 21 Apr. 2015.

Kurzweil, Raymond. The Singularity is Near: When Humans Transcend Biology. New York:         Penguin Books, 2005. Print.

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[1] Thanks to Clint Carpenter, Taylor Faulkenberry, Regina King, and Adrianna for help with this paper.

The Virtues of Being Alone

I am alone. For most people, when they have an issue, they turn to friends and family for advice, reassurance, and/or assistance. I don't have anyone to turn to; instead, I face each day, each issue alone. And I face some of the most serious issues one can imagine. Truth is, I've never had anyone I could turn to for help. At first glance, this may seem depressing. Being alone in the big bad world can be frightening. However, I have begun to realize that being alone affords me a degree of freedom that would not otherwise be possible. My feelings are my own. I do not have to justify them to anyone. My failures are my own. I can't blame anyone. My successes (admittedly few and far between, but at this point I'm counting the ability to form a semi-coherent thought as a success) are mine and mine alone. Realizing all of this is important because it allows me to confront my imminent death from a unique perspective. I suffer in solitude, and the suffering is mine too. The pain is mine. The fear is mine. The anger is mine. The disappointment is mine. I don't have to share any of it with anyone. I am alone.

 A winter's day

In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
But I've heard the words before;
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

The Power of a Pen

I have routines. Following these routines gets me through the day. They are my islands of normalcy in days filled with chaos. The chaos in my head. What does the chaos in my head sound/feel like? Try watching your favorite television show (with the volume as loud as possible) while listening to the radio (full blast) with someone whispering in your ear. Now, imagine a loud speaker blasting static somewhere in the background. That is kind of what it sounds like in my head...all the time. But, the noises I hear are not as innocuous as a television show, or a radio program, or static. And, the images I see in my minds-eye are not puppy dogs and flowers. My noises, my images, revolve around my obsession: death. That is what I spend 80 percent of my day thinking about. It is my constant companion. It brings me joy, as in "at least I'll be dead soon and all this will end." It brings me anxiety, as in "when the fuck is this going to happen." It gives me motivation, as in "You better hurry up and do that shit because you will be dead soon." It also provides me with an excuse when I do not want to do something, as in "who cares you will be dead soon." It is the only constant, consistent, undeniable, for-sure thing in my life. I like constant and consistent. I like things that stay the same. I wake up, I smoke a cigarette, I make coffee, I watch MSNBC, I smoke a cigarette with my coffee, I put my night shirt and shorts in the same place when I take a shower, I fold my boxers before I put them in the laundry basket, I put on body spray, then boxers, then deodorant. I put my headphones, key, and PEN in my right pocket; cigarettes and lighter go in the left pocket. I smoke a cigarette in my undershirt, then put on my top shirt. I leave the house at 15 after the hour. I come to school and sit at the same computer. I look at the same websites. I live a quotidian existence. It is the only way to fight back against the pandemonium taking place in my mind. What does any of this have to do with "The Power of a Pen?" I lost my pen this morning. I hate losing a pen. Especially, when you have a pen you like, and I like pens. Not some ballpoint pen from the bank, not some big clicky pen with that gold plated clip on it. I like a pen when the ink comes out thick, and the paper absorbs it. It makes solid, bold lines. A pen has to have just the right weight, and the weight has to be evenly distributed. I had a pen like that yesterday. I do not have a pen like that today. Probably, the cats got it in the middle of the night, or it slipped out of my pocket. Today, I had a pen from Best Western. It made me feel unprepared and a little dirty. I threw the pen in the trash with disgust and a little flourish. Anyone watching me throw that pen in the garbage would have thought: He really doesn't like that pen. It's not that I didn't like the pen: I hated that fucking pen.