You tell someone they have power over life and death for long enough they start to believe it. Which explains arrogance among young doctors and facial syphilis in vets who keep dogs alive because they can. Facially-syphilitic medical cunts.”

Batty, it’s people like you that make me glad I fled to Oz. Fucking hell, I’d almost forgotten how very much the Irish hate doctors.

No doctor that I know thinks they “have the power over life and death”. Neither here nor back at home. The fact is that doctors are trained to recognise when resuscitation is going to fail, be futile eventually or keep the person alive but in such distress with such poor quality of life that it would not be medically appropriate to do so. It’s a hard decision. It’s hard on us too. How could you think it’s not?
Back in Ireland I have had to keep the tears from my eyes when explaining this to shocked families at times, and once or twice have gone off and had a good cry somewhere in the middle of my illegal 36 hour shift. You feel almost guilty sometimes-it’s like it’s your fault their loved one just had a massive brain haemorrhage due to a brain metastasis from their terminal cancer. You can’t help them. You most certainly DON’T have the power over life and death-in spite of the fact that it’s supposed to be your JOB to keep people alive, you have to tell them that their loved one is dying and it would be futile to resuscitate them in the event of a cardiac arrest. Later on, you’ll probably be called to certify the same person dead, and you’ll have to look that family in the eye again as you tell them how sorry you are. It’s like getting punched in the gut sometimes. You think of your own husband, mother, father in that bed instead of the patient, and it just kills you that these things happen at all and there’s nothing anyone can do.
But sure, we’re all just arrogant fucking assholes really. We don’t bust our asses working illegal hours at the most physically and emotionally demanding job we can think of. We just goof off, laugh maniacally in a swivel chair while stroking a bald cat as we randomly condemn people to death. And play golf.

I’m so glad I left Ireland.

It would be great if you could go to an Assisted Suicide Vending Machine, wouldn’t it?

Like in Futurama. I think in years to come people will look back on Futurama as prophetic. Go to work in your sky tube thing, off yourself in a suicide booth.

In goes a euro and a knife covered in Instant Anasthesia comes out and stabs you to death.

There’d be queues every Monday morning. Bound to be some twatnot try to dodge in at the top of the queue, though. And you could let them.

Instant problem, instant solution.