For the past several weeks, I have been following the story of Brittany Maynard. For those of you that are unfamiliar with her story in January 2014, at twenty-nine years old and married for just one year, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor and told she had three to five years to live. Two months after she underwent surgery to remove part of the tumor it had grown back with such intensity that her prognosis was revised. She was then diagnosed with a glioblastoma and told she had six months to live.

Brittany’s story has become newsworthy because she has publically chosen to end her life before the brain tumor does. She, and her family, moved in June to Oregon, one of five states that have passed a right-to-die law. In Oregon, Brittany can freely request from her physician a prescription for medication that she can self-ingest if her dying process becomes unbearable. By going public with her story, Brittany has esentially become the face of the Right to Die movement.

My initial interest in Brittany’s story was sparked because my husband’s first wife died of a glioblastoma. In numerous conversations with my husband I learned from his first hand accounts what a horrible way it is to die. And, as a result, I understand why Brittany may choose to take her own life.

As I contemplated this blog, however, I recalled a recent conversation with my brother wherein he told me that he had put his cat to sleep because the cat had cancer. He told me he was okay with his decision as he did not want his cat to suffer. And, so, I was stuck with the following thought, we routinely make right to die choices for animals, why are we not permitted to make the same choice for ourselves?