Recently, while wandering through my local grocery, I turned the corner, heading up the cereal aisle. I had no more walked ten feet when I caught the attention of a stranger – a young man in his mid-twenties – walking toward me. Upon seeing me, his face lit up and a smile spread from ear to ear. I smiled in return, his pace quickened and he marched straight over to me and with a welcoming voice said, "Hello, how are you?" I stopped, we exchanged a few friendly words and then after a hardy “goodbye,” he moved on to greet the next person similarly.
Within a moment, an elderly couple followed, keeping an eye on the young man who, I quickly surmised was their son. The grinning mother said, "He's very friendly!" I laughed, that was an understatement! I stood there silent for a moment, my spirit energized by this unusual and yet most human of encounters.
This young man was very different from me as I don't normally greet the strangers I meet each day in such a friendly and familiar manner. His congenial nature was heartwarming and he seemed to have a sincere appreciation for other people simply because they were - well - people. This man was, simply stated, better than I. Oh, he was different; he had Down syndrome but as a human being, he was still better than I. He loved without reservation or condition; he did not judge others based on what they looked like or what they were wearing; he understood the gift of human touch and kindness and was ready to share this gift with everyone he could. He was not the least bit self-conscious much less self-absorbed. There was no guile in this man. He was far closer to innocence than those of us who are "normal."
What Is Normal? (Down's Syndrome)
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Lovelle Svart woke up Friday knowing it was the day she would die.
There was much to do. Her family and closest friends would be gathering at 11 a.m. in her mother's apartment in the Southwest Portland assisted-living center where they both lived.
She directed trips to the grocery store and even called AAA to jump-start the dead battery of her 2006 Scion. She double-checked delivery of food platters from Fred Meyer: turkey sandwiches, strawberries and grapes, pretzels, almonds and sparkling water. There would be pink roses on the dining table and a boombox in the corner to play music, including the polka tunes she loved.
Lovelle made one last trip to "the bridge," a wooden footbridge in a nearby park where she had found quiet sanctuary the past few weeks as painful cancerous tumors spread from her lungs through her chest and her throat.
The consummate planner, she had choreographed the day. She wanted to leave time -- five or so hours -- for storytelling, polka dancing and private goodbyes. And at 4 p.m., she intended to drink a fatal dose of medication, allowed by Oregon law, that would end her life.
She chose it all on the day she died (Euthanasia)
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