A letter to the editor in today’s LA Times hits on a few points I’ve been thinking about.

What is the point of a 75-year-old taking cholesterol meds, restricting her diet, and taking more meds to counteract side effects and unintended consequences instead of enjoying whatever food she likes? What is the point of hooking up an 80-year-old patient to life support when he has suffered a massive stroke and has multiple organ failure? Isn’t it better to enjoy your days and to slide away in comfort and dignity?

If we return to the thinking of ancient man that still exists in much of the world — that death is a natural part of life — then end-of-life costs will plummet.

I agree with much of what this person is saying. We’ve developed this notion that life is priceless, and that creates innumerable moral and economic issues when forced up against the fact that in modern medical care everything has a price. Maybe we, as individuals and societies, ought to ask ourselves some hard questions. Is life really that great? And if we decide it’s not priceless, what price do we apply?

I find, as the years go by, and I deal with more and more of the bullshit life throws at you, I am less enamored of life. I’m not about to put a gun to my head, mind you, but I can certainly see getting to the age of 85 and saying, “That’s it, I’m out of here.” And I’d be quite happy to negotiate that into a health insurance contract where I would say something like, “I give you permission to stop throwing money at my medical issues after $1 million (adjusted for inflation) and consequently you, the insurance company, set my rates appropriately lower.”

But I’m not quite as starry eyed as this letter writer seems to be about death and nature. Dying naturally seldom involves comfortably sliding away with dignity. It’s more about screaming in pain and shitting your pants. I’ve long argued that man was quite right to try and escape the confines of nature, but that doesn’t mean we need to romanticize life into something it’s not. History has cruelly chosen not to name the great philosopher who once sagely noted, “Life’s a bitch. And then you die.”